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The Season of 1766 has indeed been an eventful one, and it seems the theme this year has been, surprisingly and remarkably, love.
Charlotte is, among other things, a woman in love, and so the swirlings of actual, genuine affection that filled the ballrooms and churches this year have also left a softness upon her heart. She must admit, even if only to herself, that she is sad to see the end of the Season.
This is perhaps why she decides to accept the wedding invitation to the final marriage of the Season, between some small-name Gentleman and his paramour. They are certainly not the rank of personage Charlotte would typically grace with her Queenly presence, but she has watched this couple throughout the year. They are a young couple most ardently in love with one another, and she has enjoyed watching their hesitant–and then passionate–courtship.
Of course, she receives an invitation to every wedding of the Season. It is just that she does not typically go.
Brimsley tried to advise against this one, in his steadfast way, but the arguments he posed were not strong enough to sway her–George cannot attend, but there is nothing that says Charlotte must do everything with him at her side.
So she marches into the church to a rush of whispers and astonishment–it seems her positive RSVP was not sufficient in proving she would actually come– and takes the reserved seat in the front row, Brimsley hovering at her shoulder.
“Sit with me, Brimsley,” Charlotte says, as he hesitates and shifts his feet. “You shall block the view if you stand there.”
“Your Majesty, I could not–”
Charlotte sighs.
Of course he cannot. Brimsley is never anything other than extremely proper. He knows all the rules, and aside from the occasional grin at a piece of terrible gossip, he has proven extremely difficult to crack.
So far.
“Very well. Go and stand at the side, then,” she tells him.
Brimsley bobs a bow, and does as he is bid this time, walking past her and placing himself along the wall of the church, his posture impeccable.
Charlotte keeps her eyes on him a moment longer. She wonders if his back ever tires. It is hard to imagine him as anything other than completely composed.
For a moment, she tries to imagine him relaxed, but even within the image she conjures of him sleeping, he is wearing his burgundy coat and breeches.
She settles her hands upon her extended stomach where hers and George’s fourth child grows larger. After three boys, and a secure line, she does wonder if this time they will be blessed with a daughter.
She finds that she hopes so. That one day she will sit upon a pew and watch her daughter walk down the aisle towards a man with love in his eyes.
For that is, indeed, what today’s groom is filled with. Even with the Queen in attendance, once the music starts, he has eyes for nobody but the young woman dressed in white, smiling with a force that makes Charlotte’s face ache.
Oh, but it does warm the heart. The young pair recite their vows with trembling sincerity, and Charlotte thinks upon her own wedding–the look in George’s eye had been a promise, and she had felt entirely beautiful within its spell.
Afterwards had turned a bit messy, but Charlotte knows now that even that had been born from love.
That knowledge is armour for her now. On the days that George cannot be with her, when his mind is distant and lost, she strengthens herself with it. She is loved, always, even when he does not remember so.
She sees that same force of love in the couple at the altar, and she wishes George were with her to see this same beauty. The strength that fills this marriage and will, she is sure, protect this couple for many long years to come.
Without George to turn to, Charlotte finds herself seeking out the most familiar face in the room. Brimsley stands by the wall–and for once, he is not watching her. For once, the composure that usually hides his expression has fallen, and he is staring at the young couple at the altar with the softest smile upon his face and his heart in his eyes, and a strength of affection she did not even know he possessed.
Charlotte finds her lips parting in surprise.
To discover that her secretary is indeed human is a pleasure indeed. To discover he is a romantic? Well, she knew he cared for her own marriage and the love between her and George, but that is his job. He is paid to care, and he is far too professional to do anything else.
This is not that.
Charlotte turns back to the wedding, but her thoughts are no longer upon the young couple at the altar. Instead, it is her secretary who occupies her imagination. It is her secretary’s heart that she wonders upon.
It is true, she realises with a coil of guilt, that Brimsley is with her every hour of her waking life. He is always at her shoulder, only excepting when she is alone with George, or when she is bathing, or with her dressers–but even then he stands just outside the room.
Even in the birthing suite, he is with her, facing the wall.
Charlotte stares at the altar without seeing it. Her heart aches with realisations that are five years late.
If Brimsley wishes to find love, his options are limited indeed. He has already pledged his life to another, and that other is Charlotte. If he wishes to wed, he will need to find a patient woman. One who understands the demands of his role and supports him within it.
Of course, Charlotte knows Brimsley is worth all of that. She looks over at him again, and the composure is back, but she has seen the longing upon his face. She knows.
And with a thump of alarm, she realises that Brimsley is the person she trusts most in this world. Even George is occasionally lost to her, and she understands by necessity that Agatha must have her own motives within their friendship.
Brimsley lives only for Charlotte.
If he is to be happy, to receive the love and the life he absolutely deserves, then it must certainly be up to Charlotte to provide it. He would not even think to ask for it himself.
The first step is observation.
It is remarkable just how little Charlotte knows about the man who is always with her. She has somehow managed to spend five years with Brimsley as her shadow, and she has not even learned his forename.
He must have come from somewhere–does he have a family he writes to, or connections who work within the palace? Does he have friends? It is past time Charlotte began to pay attention to those questions, if she plans to see him achieve his happiness.
And so she watches.
Throughout the evening, whenever she can throw a subtle look his way, she finds herself paying attention to her secretary, and what she sees is… well, a man. Brimsley is more guarded than most, and extremely professional, but there are moments when his true emotions shine through, if one watches for them.
Within the ballroom, his eyes follow the steps of the dancers, and Charlotte wonders if he has ever danced–she has certainly not seen him do so. When he thinks he is unobserved, his lips pull into a secret smile, and when she follows his gaze, it is upon the parents of the bride, the elder couple spinning about beneath the glittering chandelier as if they are the only two in the whole world.
What is he thinking of, Charlotte wonders, as he blinks and his eyes take up a faraway sheen. Is there someone who prays upon his thoughts?
Does he dream of growing old with someone beloved at his side?
Brimsley does not eat or drink anything throughout the evening; he maintains his post, following Charlotte past the refreshment table, even as his eyes flick to the cakes. He must be hungry, or at the very least thirsty.
As Charlotte considers this, she realises that she has never actually seen him eat anything.
Ever.
Does he only take his refreshment when he is off-duty? Before Charlotte rises from her bed, and after she is at rest? Does he steal away for odd meals when she sends him on errands, or does he remain on task at all times?
It is ridiculous, now that she considers it.
“Try the tart,” she says to him the next time they approach the table. “I wish to hear your opinions on the flavour.”
He is already reaching for it when his hesitation hits. “I should not–”
“Brimsley,” Charlotte says, short and sharp. “Eat the tart.”
Brimsley holds still a moment longer, his attention upon her, a faint furrow to his brow. Then, “Yes, Your Majesty,” he says.
He eats it with a delicate care, with occasional glances in her direction, as if it is to be taken away from him.
Charlotte has never seen a tart savoured so.
“The curd is very rich,” he says, once it is gone. “But it pairs very well with the lightness of the sponge.”
“Yes, I thought so,” Charlotte agrees. “The pastry was a little dry, but it held its shape well.”
Brimsley smiles. “As Your Majesty says,” he agrees.
He has a nice smile, Charlotte thinks. It looks very genuine, and it conveys with it a lightness that steadies her. She smiles back, and realises that she always smiles back when he smiles at her. She had not truly realised its power until now.
There are many things she had not realised.
Uncovering them proves to be remarkable indeed.
For the length of a week, she pays him attention. He has always just been there, but now she realises just how solid he is. He is present when she wakes, and he remains until she goes to sleep. Her every order is carried out with remarkable efficiency–often before she asks for it–and she never once sees him sit down.
She was right that he does not eat in her presence, either.
But it is within the nursery that the most of himself is revealed to her. Around the children, there is a wall in him that comes down–it seems he cannot be anything other than human when Georgie and Freddie are determined to fight over who gets to play with him. The two boys are a maelstrom of chaos that it seems only their favourite nanny, Miss Williamson, can settle.
Charlotte certainly has no hope of doing so. But that is what nannies are hired for.
Brimsley seems friendly with Miss Williamson; possibly it is under her tutelage that he has learned to become such a master of redirection. When the curtains are under threat, he hauls Freddie into the air until he is squealing with delight, while Georgie attempts to climb Brimsley’s clothes.
When Georgie is threatening tears, Brimsley distracts him with a toy soldier, talking in a funny voice until Georgie is giggling away.
But it is with baby William that Brimsley’s softness truly shines.
In the midst of a discussion that seems to be focussed on the new tutor, a suddenly-alert Miss Williamson sets William into Brimsley’s arms and sweeps off after the chaos-making boys, shouting orders, and Brimsley’s expression softens into something almost unspeakable. He cradles the Prince to him, brushing his gloved hand over William’s screwed-up forehead, and he sways with a gentle hum.
He would make a remarkable father, Charlotte thinks.
“Do you have any siblings, Brimsley?” Charlotte asks.
Brimsley’s attention snaps to her, and she almost regrets speaking. “Do I–? Yes Your Majesty,” he says. “I have two brothers.”
Brothers. That would explain much. “And?” she says, when he does not offer any further information.
“Your Majesty?” Brimsley asks, his eyes flickering down towards the wriggling Prince before returning to her.
“Tell me of your brothers,” Charlotte says. “Are they at all like you?”
“Oh. No. Not especially, Your Majesty. They work as farmers. We do not often correspond.”
“I see.” Charlotte takes a step closer, and Brimsley offers her the babe in his arms.
She does not take him. William has ruined too many of her dresses recently, with his affinity for spitting up milk at the slightest provocation, but she does brush her hands over his red, puffy cheeks.
“You are good with children, Brimsley,” she says.
“They are good children, Your Majesty,” he tells her. He smiles again, this time for William, and that decides it.
He deserves every piece of happiness in all the world.
It is now up to Charlotte to unravel the mysteries of his heart.
That task does not prove simple. The Season is completed, and so there are no more love stories for them to discuss. When Agatha comes to visit, despite Charlotte’s best intentions, she and Agatha fill their time with topics such as the changing fashions and the different families abandoning London for their country homes. Charlotte slips within her quest to focus on romance at the prompting of a single question, and ends up ranting about how uncomfortable she is with this fourth pregnancy for fifteen whole minutes.
It is a relief, of course, to speak with a friend who understands the trials, but Charlotte is supposed to be focussed on another for the time being.
Brimsley stands by the door for the duration of the afternoon. He anticipates her requests before she can give them. He is, in every way, exemplary.
And he stands apart.
His conversations with the footmen are cursory and to the point. When they walk the corridors, his gaze does not follow the maids, and his relationship with Her Majesty’s dressers seems entirely professional.
He is admired by the staff. He is friendly with the staff. But he is not friends with the staff–with the possible exception of Miss Williamson.
Charlotte had never before considered just how lonely he might be.
And then they spend an afternoon within the observatory, where George has been excitedly documenting the patterns of the stars. George is a beautiful mess, and it would be so easy for Charlotte to allow herself to be swept up in his exuberance at seeing her. But when he hurries to her side and professes his affection and marvels over her pregnancy and ushers her to a chair, Charlotte glances back to where Brimsley now stands with his counterpart–Reynolds.
Reynolds’ head is bent, and he is keenly listening to whatever it is Brimsley is saying. When he responds, with words far too quiet for Charlotte to catch, Brimsley dips his head and smirks. His next answer makes Reynolds break out into a wide grin–quickly smothered–and it seems that Charlotte’s patience has finally paid off.
Whatever they are discussing, even if it is business, there is a connection between the two of them that goes beyond work. They are quite clearly friends.
That is a relief. She was beginning to worry that Brimsley did not have any close relationships at all.
Here is someone who can help Charlotte in her quest to find Brimsley a wife: Reynolds.
Contented, Charlotte returns her attention to George, who is eagerly telling her all about his latest discoveries, describing the motions of the stars and the tiny adjustments he and Reynolds have been making to his telescope in order to see–
“Come and look,” he says, with so much enthusiasm in his face.
He is so beautiful when he is enthused about his work; Farmer George, Astronomer George, Father George, Husband George… he is most himself whenever he is enthusiastic. This is the man Charlotte fell in love with, who she would follow to the ends of the earth, who is worth every single ounce of the pressure that comes with their ranks and his illness.
Charlotte surrenders to the orbit of him, her heart softening as he shows her around his adjustments, as he points her towards the heavens that bring him such joy and such torment. It is almost impossible to think of anything else when she is with him.
It is a long, happy while before she recalls her mission. Entwined with her husband upon his futon, George’s hands resting on her stomach, Charlotte looks around to find that Brimsley and Reynolds are gone, leaving them to their peace.
Charlotte leans into George’s side, basking in the press of his lips upon her forehead.
“And where has your mind been?” he asks her, now he has run out of steam.
“How well do you know Reynolds?” she asks, tilting her face back so she can look at him. “He has been with you since you were a boy, has he not?”
George’s eyebrows shift upwards. “You have been thinking about Reynolds?” he asks. “Should I be worried?”
She swats him. “No. I have actually been thinking about Brimsley. And not like that. I was just wondering… he is always with me, but I do not know much about him, in truth. I do not even know his forename.”
“You do not?”
“I feel it would be rude to ask, after so many years,” Charlotte says, scrunching her forehead. “Perhaps I should, anyway.”
He presses a kiss to her nose. “His forename is Bartholomew, I believe,” he tells her. “It is on his employment form.”
“Oh.” Charlotte shifts upright. “Bartholomew Brimsley,” she muses. “That does sound right. And Reynolds?”
George grins. “His forename is Francis,” he says. “And yes, we have been together since we were boys. He has always been very careful about rules, though. It is a difficult task to draw any kind of information from him, but I believe I know him as well as anyone–except, perhaps, for Brimsley. They seem to have a strong camaraderie.”
“I noticed that, as well,” Charlotte says, turning to look back towards the door. No doubt Brimsley and Reynolds are stood together on the other side. She wonders what they talk about. “Do you ever wonder about his heart?” she asks.
George stares at her. “You are in a contemplative mood indeed,” he says. “What has brought this on?”
“I believe Brimsley wishes for marriage,” Charlotte admits. She turns over, laying her head upon George’s chest. “I happened to glance at him during the ceremony I attended the other day, and I could swear there was longing in his eyes. I fear that he would never ask for such a thing, so devoted is he to his duty.”
George does not answer her immediately. His eyes are distant, his hand absently stroking her arm. When he does answer, his voice is quiet. “You know him better than I,” he says. “But I believe you are right that he would not tell you if marriage was what he wished.”
“Do you believe Reynolds wishes for marriage?” Charlotte wonders. “To me, he does not seem so soft-hearted as Brimsley.”
George’s lip twitches. “No,” he says. “Reynolds does not wish for marriage.”
“I thought as much,” Charlotte says. She certainly cannot imagine Reynolds watching softly as two people wed each other. She cannot imagine longing in his eyes as he takes in the dancers within a ballroom. And whenever she has seen one of her children in his arms, there is always an intense sense of alarm that surrounds him, rather than any soft wanting.
No. Reynolds is not suited for a wife.
He is suited, however, to helping her find one for Brimsley.
Determined, Charlotte swings her legs from the futon and heads to the doorway, ready to send Brimsley on some contrived mission and question Reynolds–but when she opens the door, the hallway beyond is empty.
There is no sign of Brimsley or Reynolds.
Charlotte smiles into the empty corridor, a pleased triumph settling within her stomach. She was right.
She closes the door and turns to face her husband. “I suspected as much,” she tells him.
George has not moved from his sprawled-out position on the futon. “What did you suspect?” he asks.
“They are not there,” Charlotte says, brushing her hands over her skirt. “I have been wondering when Brimsley finds time to eat. I never see him eat or drink in my presence, and so I thought he must take advantage of the times I send him from the room.”
“They are not there?” George asks, scrambling to his feet. “What if something were to happen?”
“Then I would shout, and the guards stationed on the outer door would come running,” Charlotte says, drawing him into her arms and pulling his attention to her. “We are safe here, George. They will return in just a moment, I am certain.”
Her prophecy proves true. There is a creak of the door not five minutes later, and Brimsley appears to inform them that there is a letter from the Dowager Princess waiting for their receipt–a letter that, regrettably, calls George to immediate action. He rolls his eyes and kisses Charlotte softly before sweeping away to attend to his royal duties, Reynolds at his heel.
A pity. Charlotte will have to interrogate Reynolds at another time.
“What may I occupy myself with this afternoon, Brimsley?” she asks, as they step out into the grounds and the sunshine greets them. “Are the children respectable, do you think?”
“I believe the boys are with their etiquette tutor this afternoon,” Brimsley tells her. When Charlotte turns to watch him, he is walking slightly off-kilter, and she wonders if he managed to injure himself in his haste to take some sustenance.
“The poor tutor,” Charlotte muses, and is rewarded with a small, conspiring grin from Brimsley.
“If Your Majesty says so.”
Oh, but he is clever with his wit.
He is careful, and extremely proper, and Charlotte knows he is agreeing with her mocking analysis of her energetic sons in the only way he can. There is a buoyancy to him, this afternoon, a vibrancy within his eyes and an enthusiasm in his lopsided step.
She thinks that he looks happy.
Happiness suits him well. And if a stolen meal and some traded barbs with his friend Reynolds are enough to make him look contented like this, he will surely be radiant once he is paired with a wife who will cherish him how he deserves.
Confident that her plans to find Brimsley contentment are progressing well, Charlotte decides to spend the afternoon reading in the gardens. Surely, it will not be long before she can move to the next step: Interrogating Reynolds.
Indeed, the opportunity comes just two days later. The morning begins as all mornings do, with a lethargic roll out of bed, her belly certainly growing faster than it had in her previous pregnancies. A tug on the bell-pull has Brimsley and Reynolds flowing into the room, each dressed impeccably, each the picture of decorum, and perfectly ready for the day.
It is hard to imagine that Brimsley ever sleeps.
Charlotte fiddles with her hair. “Brimsley,” she says. “Please inform my dressers that I wish to wear yellow today. That fabric with the herringbone stitching–you know the one?”
“Yes, Your Majesty.” Brimsley bows. “I will see to it immediately.”
With a quick glance towards Reynolds, he leaves the room.
“Your Majesty–” Reynolds begins, George’s itinerary at the ready, but Charlotte holds up a hand.
“One moment, Reynolds,” she says. “Before we get into all that, there is an important matter we must discuss with haste.”
His eyes widen a touch, but he gives no other signal of unease. “Of course, Your Majesty,” he says.
Charlotte smiles. “You are friends with Brimsley, are you not? You converse with each other outside of your duties?”
Reynolds’ posture–if possible–straightens. The faintest ghost of a frown pinches his forehead. “I suppose I would call him a friend, Your Majesty,” he agrees.
“Good,” Charlotte says. She fixes her entire attention upon him. “The next portion of our discussion is to remain between us, you understand? I have decided that I will find Brimsley a wife.”
Reynolds drops the notebook. His face goes white; he scrambles to retrieve it and returns to his posture with his limbs locked in place, his jaw tight, his breathing rapid.
Charlotte did not even know he was capable of such emotion.
“There is no need to worry,” Charlotte says, alarmed to detect something like fear in his trembling hand. “I have no such designs upon you; George has assured me that you have no wishes for marriage. However, you must have realised that Brimsley has a more romantic nature than yourself. He is devoted, of course, to his work, and so he will never express such a wish. Tell me; what does he look for in a woman?”
Reynolds does not seem to be entirely capable of speech. He opens and closes his mouth a couple of times. His grip upon his notebook is white-knuckled and shaking. “I–I could not–Your Majesty, this is not an acceptable topic of–”
“You are his friend,” Charlotte says. “I am sure you have discussed topics such as romance before. Perhaps there is someone within the staff he has designs upon?”
Reynolds’ throat bobs in a hesitant swallow. “Brimsley is devoted to his work, as you say,” he croaks. “He has no wishes or intentions to marry. He would not have the time to devote to a–” He almost chokes. “A wife.”
Charlotte waves a hand. “I am sure if we find the right woman, she will understand the demands of his job,” she says. “You cannot mean to tell me that in all his time working here, Brimsley has not shown any interest in anyone?”
She glances at George, who is watching Reynolds with a curious expression on his face.
Charlotte knows for certain that, though George was the first she ever laid with, her husband had received many visitors to his bed before she came along. She had gladly reaped the benefits of his experience.
She also knows that this is an extremely common occurrence.
“Brimsley is a man,” she says, turning back to Reynolds, who has not moved an inch since he recovered the notebook. “I do not mean to be crass, but I am sure he has certain needs as much as any other man. Such as I am sure you do as well, Reynolds. Tell me, you must know his preferences.”
Reynolds has gone from white to red.
“I am sure I could not say, Your Majesty,” he says, in hardly more than a squeak. “We do not… we have not discussed such topics.”
“No?” Charlotte hums.
How odd. She has shared many of her experiences with Agatha, and has heard many stories in return from her friend. But perhaps it is different among men, or among those of different stations.
“Well, perhaps you might coax some information out of him,” Charlotte decides. “Ask him in a subtle way if he has his eye upon anyone. You may report back to me. Otherwise, I shall have to find a suitable list for him to choose from myself.”
“Your Majesty, I really do not think–”
“Surely you cannot deny that Brimsley is a romantic.” Charlotte interrupts whatever nonsense Reynolds is trying to spew. “He clearly wishes for marriage; I have seen it on his face. And you also cannot deny that he would make a marvellous father. Can you say that he does not deserve such happiness?”
Reynolds’ face is a picture. His jaw has slackened, so his lips are slightly parted. His eyebrows are properly creased together, and his eyes skip from object to object as thoughts run through his mind.
“Of course he deserves happiness,” he says eventually, in hardly more than a whisper.
“Good,” Charlotte says. Finally, some sense from him. She wonders if George was incorrect in his estimations of Reynolds–clearly this discussion of marriage has him rattled.
His reaction is certainly unlike him. That means that he is either more affected by the topic than she guessed he would be–perhaps he does wish for marriage himself–or there is something he knows, which he is not saying.
Does Brimsley have a lover that Reynolds is unwilling to disclose? Perhaps he is infatuated with a woman who is already wed. That would be scandalous, indeed, but Charlotte is not unfamiliar with the notion of an unhappy marriage. She knows there are many married men and women who take lovers on the side.
Well, she certainly could not blame an unhappy woman seeking comfort from Brimsley’s kind heart, but that will not do for his long-term happiness.
No. It is not good enough. Charlotte will see him properly happy, and she will not permit anything to stand in her way of that task.
“That is all for now, then,” Charlotte tells Reynolds. “And I remind you not to tell Brimsley of this discussion.”
A tremor ripples through Reynolds. He grips the notebook in both hands. “Of course, Your Majesty,” he says.
It does not ring with his typical surety, however.
Charlotte will have to watch him.
The morning that follows is bizarre. Once Brimsley returns, it seems that Reynolds can hardly keep his eyes from the man, as if the secret Charlotte has made him swear to keep is burning his insides–but Charlotte knows Reynolds is more than capable of keeping quiet when required. He has held George’s secrets for so many years, even keeping them from Charlotte after they were wed.
Reynolds fumbles at breakfast. He orders the wrong horses for their carriage ride over to Kew. He almost forgets George’s appointment with the Archbishop, and it falls upon Brimsley to remind him.
And Reynolds’ fumbling, it seems, is catching. Brimsley has noticed his odd behaviour–how could he not–and keeps turning from his duties to cast curious looks across the room.
George, as well, keeps giving both their secretaries long, thoughtful looks when he is supposed to be focussing on his imminent meeting with the Archbishop.
Perhaps involving Reynolds was a poor idea, after all. But how was Charlotte to expect such a strong reaction?
Reynolds fully collides with Brimsley when the carriage arrives at Buckingham House, as the two of them rush forwards to assist Charlotte to the ground, and in a rare break of character, Brimsley turns on Reynolds with an astonished, “What is wrong with you today?”
Reynolds opens and closes his mouth, and hurriedly steps out of the way. “My apologies,” he says, somewhat strangled.
“Did you have a poor night’s sleep, Reynolds?” Charlotte says, giving him a warning look as she takes Brimsley’s hand and descends from the carriage. “You do seem distracted.”
“Ah–” Reynolds glances towards Brimsley. “Yes, Your Majesty. That must be it. I am sorry.”
Somehow that does not calm Brimsley. The look he casts Reynolds is nothing short of bewildered.
Charlotte does not have strong hopes for her secret.
In the end, Reynolds does not manage to keep it for even a full day. Brimsley pulls him aside while Charlotte and George take their lunch–using some flimsy mention of the perfectly-functional fountain in the garden–and when Reynolds’ cheeks flush and his eyes drop away as he speaks, Charlotte knows the secret is told.
She does not even need to see the alarm in Brimsley’s eyes and the sharp look he sends in Charlotte’s direction–she quickly busies herself with her meal–to know it is done.
Though, Brimsley could look a little more grateful. Perhaps there is a lover, after all, because Brimsley does not look like he is happy about Charlotte’s meddling at all .
Well, it is of no matter. Whoever she is, if this lover of his is not available to love Brimsley openly, she is certainly not good enough for him. Charlotte will not be swayed.
But she does need more information.
If she discovers who this woman is, she will at least gauge an idea of Brimsley’s taste. As the Queen of England, Charlotte will surely be able to find someone who is both properly suited to him and available.
As she attends to her afternoon, Charlotte considers what she knows: Brimsley is always with Charlotte during the day. If there is an ongoing affair, that means it must be undertaken in the nighttime–and so that is when Charlotte must learn more.
George, thankfully, falls asleep readily that night, one arm outstretched towards Charlotte’s belly, his face slack and peaceful in sleep. Sitting up and watching him sleep sends a swell of affection through her–affection that keeps her going even through the most restless nights of her pregnancy. It is that depth of love that gives her strength when she needs it; it is George who holds her steady.
He has been strange as well this evening, making odd notions that perhaps Charlotte should forget her plans for Brimsley after all. Clearly, Reynolds’ unease has caught on.
Charlotte loves her husband with all that she is. That does not mean he is the smartest man when it comes to love.
Brimsley has been her rock–he absolutely deserves to feel the same contentment she shares with George, even if he does not believe it himself.
Charlotte has been to Brimsley’s chambers once before, when an illness swept through the household and laid him out. He had very stubbornly refused to rest until Charlotte marched him back to his chambers herself and ordered him to remain there.
It is not far from her own chambers, residing in a corridor in the upstairs wing, where the highest-ranked servants sleep. Of course, he must be nearby for when Charlotte needs him in a hurry.
The door is nondescript, but familiar–the closest to a rough-edged cabinet that Charlotte recognises from her previous journey along these corridors.
Charlotte sets her ear to the door. The room beyond is silent.
She reaches for the handle, her heart pounding in her throat, adrenaline fizzing rather excitingly within her belly. She turns it as slow as she can, pushing the door open in tiny increments so as to not wake the inhabitant–or inhabitants–within.
The room is small and dim, but not completely dark. There is a small window above a writing desk, and the curtains hang open, filling the room with silver moonlight.
The bed is empty.
Charlotte throws the door open completely, letting out a quiet, “Hah.”
It seems she was once again correct; if Brimsley is not within his bedchamber in the small hours of the night, he is most certainly with a lover. The only question is– who?
Charlotte bites her lip, casting a look back towards the corridor. She could creep along each of the rooms and check, but there is no way of knowing that whoever it is is even up here. Brimsley might be anywhere in the whole palace.
Well. That would not do. She frowns, looking now about the small room. It was designed to ensure that Brimsley would be close to her chambers at all times. If she needs to call upon him for an emergency, this is where he is supposed to be.
Should not his lover come to him?
She had suspected that whoever it was must be unsuitable for Brimsley, but now she is certain. Surely Brimsley’s role is more important than that of whichever maid or dresser or– whoever she may be? She should certainly not require Brimsley to go traipsing around the palace for a hint of the affection he is owed.
He most definitely needs Charlotte’s help.
And perhaps this chamber will reveal more secrets.
Dismissing any unease at her own actions, Charlotte pushes the door to and strides across the room. It is true that she is snooping, and is absolutely beneath her, but this is for Brimsley. The man is determined not to help himself, not to ask for what he is worth, and so it is up to Charlotte to provide what he needs.
Besides, she is the Queen. People do not tell her what to do.
She rifles first through the papers on his desk, turning up a couple of letters from Brimsley’s brothers–very short and to the point, indeed. It seems he was not wrong when he told her they were not close. There is plenty of professional correspondence as well– lots of it, in fact. She turns over piles of orders and organisations, rifles through a book of notes he has made in order to organise her life.
Very good at his job, indeed.
There are also many letters from Reynolds. Plans for early-morning liaisons, meetings in the gardens, nighttime discussions in various locations across Buckingham House and Kew. A handful of late-night summons with wildly changeable excuses.
Good lord, just how hard do the two of them work? They are coordinating Charlotte and George’s lives outside of typical waking hours. When does Brimsley even find the time for a lover?
And there is a lover. Charlotte is almost ready to give up on the whole idea when she tugs open the bottom drawer of Brimsley’s desk and finds the evidence she needs.
There are torn corners of parchments within, adorned with small hearts, with doodles and more detailed drawings. And, most telling of all, there are intricate pencil-drawn portraits of Brimsley, looking entirely unlike the man Charlotte knows.
The man in the drawings is beautiful. His smile is radiant, his eyes admiring. His hair is no longer constrained by order–it is soft and hand-messed, and he is clearly watching the artist with the deepest affection.
In one, he is sleeping, one hand curled under his cheek, his face soft and sweet.
In another, he is certainly awake. His expression is not soft or adoring–it is flushed, and it looks at the artist with an intent that makes Charlotte’s cheeks flame. She catches a glimpse of a bare shoulder within the pile, of a gloveless hand and a sculpted chest and–
She shoves the papers hurriedly back into the drawer.
There are lines that cannot be uncrossed, and she has certainly seen enough. There was no hint of another person within those drawings, which were absolutely drawn by a lover. That final look was more than evidence enough. But they are none of them signed. There is no letter of admiration for Charlotte to find.
She sits back in the chair and rubs a hand over her belly.
Perhaps that is all she will be able to uncover tonight. It may be enough to know that Brimsley has affection for an artist. That will certainly narrow down the number of potential candidates, and it also makes a lot of sense. Of course he would fall for someone who has a romantic soul just like his own.
Charlotte adjusts the papers upon the desk, making sure to leave them how they were found, and stands to leave when the bell in the corner of the room rings.
Brimsley is being summoned.
Charlotte leaps to her feet. George must have noticed she was missing–or worse. What if he has had another episode, and she has left him to fall into it alone? She crosses the room, just as the sound of footsteps comes from the corridor beyond.
“Do you think it is an episode?” comes Brimsley’s voice.
He is here! Charlotte hurries to the door and presses her eye to the gap she left. Within the corridor, Brimsley is hurriedly dressing. His shoes are untied and his hair is loose, his waistcoat hanging open. He tucks his shirt in as he goes, and after him–
“He did not seem in any danger when I left him,” Reynolds says, in a similar state of undress. There is a harried air to him as he struggles into his blue jacket, stumbling over his own untied shoes. “Though I was far too distracted, all day. I must have missed something. I should not have–”
“Hey.”
The footsteps stop. Charlotte pulls the door open just a little further so she can see Brimsley reach for Reynolds’ sleeve and tug him to a stop. He reaches up and fixes Reynolds’ collar, looking him deep in the eyes. “Take a breath. This is not your fault,” he says.
Reynolds releases a shaky breath. “I need to be more careful,” he says. “I just–I kept imagining–”
“I know.” Brimsley tucks in Reynolds’ necktie. “And I have told you, you need not worry. I will not be marrying anyone. She may march me down the aisle, but she cannot make me say the words.”
Charlotte’s mouth falls open.
She did not know him capable of such audacity.
Reynolds looks around himself–Charlotte stills in the darkness of the cracked doorway–and then cups Brimsley’s jaw and leans in for a kiss that is so sweet that it makes Charlotte’s heart ache.
When he pulls away, Brimsley is smiling.
“Come,” he says. “Let us discover what the crisis of the night is.”
Reynolds sighs, dragging a hand through his hair and striding in the direction of the royal bedchamber. “I am quite at my capacity for crises,” he says.
And then they are gone.
Charlotte gapes wordlessly at the empty corridor.
Well that was unexpected. Brimsley’s lover… is Reynolds?
It does rather explain Reynolds’ dramatic reaction yesterday, when she told him she planned to marry Brimsley off. No wonder he had been flustered. No wonder he had failed to keep the secret.
She glances back at the desk, to the pile of letters from Reynolds about planned rendezvous that–she smirks–maybe were not quite as professional as they first seemed. And the drawings? She did not know Reynolds capable of art, but she would be the first to admit she does not know much of the man.
The man.
She smothers a laugh.
His tastes are quite different than Charlotte expected. It would be challenging indeed to find him a wife who could satisfy those desires.
Charlotte pulls the door open and creeps towards the main portion of the house in the wake of the two secretaries. Her thoughts spin around what she has just witnessed, even while she fears for George. She slips right instead of left at the end of the corridor, and then circles around so that it will look like she has come from the library.
Then she hurries back in the direction of her bedchamber, just in time to come face-to-face with a harried Brimsley coming the other way.
Brimsley’s eyes go wide. “Your Majesty,” he gasps.
“Brimsley,” Charlotte says, schooling her expression into one of surprise. “Whatever are you doing awake? Is George–?”
“I believe the King to be well,” Brimsley says, sagging within his uniform, relief evident in his face. His collar is squiffy, Charlotte notices, and one of his buttons is not done up. “He was highly concerned when he found you missing.”
“I am not missing,” Charlotte tells him. “I was simply unable to sleep. I thought I would visit the library. It is nothing to rouse yourself about.”
Brimsley manages a faint smile. “Of course, Your Majesty,” he says. “Though, I might ask in future that you perhaps leave a note when you go wandering?”
“Indeed,” Charlotte says.
Brimsley bows, turns to return to the bedchamber, and stops. He hesitates, one hand outstretched towards the handle.
“Your Majesty,” he says slowly, lowering his hand. “I have become aware that you are asking around after my romantic preferences. I am indeed flattered that you care so deeply about my happiness, but I would assure you that I have no desires to, and never intend to marry.”
Charlotte thinks of the look in his eye and the pair at the altar.
“Never is a long time, Brimsley,” Charlotte tells him gently.
“All the same.” Brimsley straightens himself up and looks at Charlotte with an intensely stubborn set to his eyes. “I will never marry. And I am content with that truth.”
Charlotte looks back at him. She thinks of the soft kiss within the hallway, the pictures within the drawers.
She thinks of secrets and sneaking around. Of stolen moments and the fear that must accompany a relationship such as that. The concerns over being caught, and the unknown consequences that would surely follow.
He is worth more than secrets, but with his interests so inclined, she fears that is not possible.
Not within the wider population, anyway.
“Very well,” Charlotte says. “I will not force you to marry against your will. But Brimsley?” She smiles. “Make sure that he treats you right.”
She winks.
The blood drains from Brimsley’s face all at once, and he sways. “Your–Your Majesty?” he rasps.
Charlotte waves a hand. “I witnessed the two of you within the corridor,” she admits. “It does explain a lot.”
Brimsley’s eyes go wide. A tremor ripples through him, and Charlotte steps up to him and braces her hands upon his shoulders before he can fall.
Goodness, perhaps that was too abrupt of her. “Brimsley,” she says, more carefully. “I only tell you this to assure you that the truth is safe with me. You are my most trusted confidant and I wish only for your happiness. You need not fear my reaction any further–you will, of course, keep your position. I would not be responsible for breaking apart two people in love, if that is the truth.”
Brimsley’s mouth moves silently for a moment, and then he manages a shaky nod. “It is the truth,” he croaks.
Charlotte smiles, squeezing his shoulders once more before stepping back. “Good,” she says. “In that case, I need only reiterate the most important part of this conversation. Make sure that he treats you right, Brimsley.”
Brimsley gives another shaky nod, and Charlotte smiles at him. “Good. I had better pacify my husband,” she says. “You have my apologies for disturbing your sleep.”
She moves past him, returning to the bedchamber, where she catches a glimpse of the true strength of George’s own relationship with Reynolds. George is sat upon the edge of the bed, his hands shaking in his hair as Reynolds presses a hand to his shoulder and speaks in a low, calming voice.
And then both eyes snap to her.
Reynolds steps back in a hurry. George lunges to his feet, hurries across the room, and draws Charlotte into his arms. “My God,” he says. “Where on Earth–?”
“I simply could not sleep,” she says. “I am sorry. I should have left a note.”
“I thought–it seems so foolish now, but–”
“I am well,” Charlotte says. “Look at me? George?”
She pulls back so she can look him in the eye, gripping him strongly. “I am well, and so are you. I am here. Do you feel me?”
He blinks quickly, his hands curling into the shoulders of her dressing gown, his breathing slowing by increments. “Charlotte,” he breathes.
“Stay with me,” Charlotte soothes. “Focus on me.”
He does, and gradually the shaking stops. The solidity of him remains. His eyes stay clear, and his breathing levels out. He nods, relaxing within her arms. “I am with you,” he says.
“Well done,” Charlotte says. She looks past him now, to the rather bedraggled-looking Reynolds. His hair is far from its usual order, falling apart all over his face. His waistcoat is buttoned wrong, making it look entirely lopsided, and one of his shoes is still untied.
“Thank you, Reynolds,” Charlotte says. “I shall take it from here. You may return to bed.”
“I am happy to remain nearby,” Reynolds says, so much concern in those blue eyes of his. “In case you have need of me.”
Charlotte smiles. “If I have need of you, I will ring the bell,” she tells him. “Go. Sleep.”
He hesitates a moment longer, his attention on George, taking in the now-steady movement of his hand, the now-clear look in his eye.
Then he bows, and vacates the room, and Charlotte exhales, running her hands over George’s face. “I am sorry,” she tells him. “I should have left a note.”
“Where did you go?” he asks, crawling back into bed and pulling her after him, laying down and wrapping himself around her.
“I confess I was rather foolish,” Charlotte says. “I went snooping.”
He sighs, his eyes sliding closed. “This is about your plans to find Brimsley a wife,” he realises. “Charlotte, I do not think–”
“I will cease the plans,” Charlotte says. “You do not need to worry.”
He shifts then, moving up onto his elbow and looking down at her. “The snooping was successful?” he asks. He glances towards the door and presses his tongue to his teeth. There is curiosity in his face–but it seems he is reluctant to pry further.
“It was,” Charlotte says. “I have discovered who Brimsley’s lover is.”
She eyes her husband. She knows how she feels about the pair, but she is not sure how to proceed. She likes to believe she knows her husband fully–that he would also be supportive, but…
His eyes narrow upon her as well.
“I do have some suspicions,” he says slowly. “As to the person in question.”
“Who do you suspect?” Charlotte asks.
George glances towards the door. He looks back at her. “I would not want to accuse anyone,” he says. “If I am incorrect.”
A name hangs in the air between them both.
The consequence of saying it out loud–if Charlotte is wrong, and George has another in mind, if he has not realised…
She thinks of George’s reaction to her asking if Reynolds would wish to marry. The idea had been entertaining to him.
Because of course, if George knew Reynolds’ affinity towards men, the concept of him marrying would be an amusing one.
If.
“What… what is your opinion of the person in question?” George asks.
“I believe I do not know them as well as you,” Charlotte says carefully. “But from what I see, they are loyal. Hardworking. I worry that they do not have time to focus on Brimsley as he deserves.”
“Because Brimsley is so available,” George says with a glimmer in his eye. “Charlotte. You may speak freely.”
“And so may you,” Charlotte says, squinting at him.
George sighs and lays back in the pillows. “It is like you said; I have known Reynolds since he was a boy. His reaction yesterday was extremely telling.”
“Oh, thank God.” Charlotte buries her face in his chest. “I was afraid we were going to dance about it all night. You knew about Reynolds?”
“I knew that he preferred men,” George says. “As to Brimsley–like I said, yesterday’s reaction was practically a confession. So it is Reynolds and Brimsley, is it?”
“It seems so,” Charlotte says. “Perhaps not the match I truly wanted for him, but Brimsley does seem quite determined to remain with him.”
“Not the match you wanted?” George asks, his hand stilling on her arm. “Why? Whatever is wrong with Reynolds? Besides their need for secrecy, of course.”
“Well, Reynolds is not the softest of people,” Charlotte says, with a huff. “He certainly has an ego. It is difficult to imagine him as romantic.”
Though, she must consider the drawings she found in Brimsley’s drawer. The gentle kiss she witnessed in the corridor.
Perhaps there is a softer side to him–but Charlotte must be sure.
She cannot leave Brimsley’s future to chance.
And so, she watches as Reynolds and Brimsley sweep into their room the following morning, perfectly professional once more–even if there are a couple more glances exchanged than usual (though perhaps that is simply down to Charlotte’s observation). Reynolds, in particular, is as stiff as ever.
It is difficult to imagine him producing heartfelt declarations of affection.
Well, Charlotte has never been one to beat about the bush.
“Reynolds,” she says, turning to face him head on. “If I may; what precisely are your intentions with regards to my secretary?”
“Charlotte!” George exclaims, as Reynolds falls entirely out of character, his eyes widening with horror as he stumbles backwards, directly into the chest of drawers, knocking a candelabra to the floor with a loud clang.
They are lucky it was unlit.
Reynolds does not make any motion to fix it; indeed, it seems rather as if he has forgotten how to move at all.
“Well?” Charlotte prompts.
George takes her arm. “Well nothing,” he says. “Reynolds, you may ignore her. Charlotte, this is not an appropriate time for this conversation.”
“Oh?” Charlotte says. “When will be an appropriate time? You will give me your answer, Reynolds.”
“Your Majesty–” Brimsley says, strangled.
Charlotte waves a hand at him. “Hush, Brimsley. You are deserving of an answer as well.”
“I–” Reynolds fails at his first attempt to speak. He clears his throat, a bead of sweat forming on his forehead. His eyes flick towards Brimsley. “My intentions?” he says weakly.
“Yes,” Charlotte says. She clasps her hands in front of her, ignoring George’s grip on her arm. “You told me yesterday that you believed him worthy of happiness. Do you believe you are capable of providing that happiness?”
Reynolds gapes at her.
“Of course he is capable,” Brimsley interjects, stubborn-jawed and straight-faced, and scowling. “You need not ask after me, Your Majesty. I am fully able–”
“I do not know that I am capable,” Reynolds interrupts. He lifts his chin and fights his way towards composure. “Your Majesty must realise that the nature of–of our relationship means that it must be kept secret above all else. And that the nature of our jobs means that protection of the two of you must be our top priority.”
He looks towards Brimsley, and stands taller as the slightest smile plays about his lips. “I can assure you, however, that in the brief moments that are given to us, Brimsley’s happiness is all I strive for. I do not always succeed, for I am but a man, but I do try. What is more, I plan to continue fighting for that goal for as many years as this life offers me, in every moment we can steal together.”
“Francis,” Brimsley says softly. “My dear, you do succeed.”
George throws up his hands. “And you feared he was lacking in romance,” he says. “Are you happy now, Charlotte? Or should I push Brimsley next on his intentions?”
Brimsley grins, his face breaking into the widest smile Charlotte has ever seen. “Oh, that is simple,” he says. “I intend to love this man with everything I have, for the rest of my life.”
Reynolds laughs, ducking his head as a flush colours his cheeks.
It is adorable.
“They will make me cry,” George announces. “Is that what you wished for, Charlotte? To reduce me to tears before I can even have my breakfast? My God, kiss the man, Reynolds, before you fall completely apart. I have never seen you like this.”
Reynolds does not need to be told twice. He strides past Charlotte and George and takes Brimsley’s face in his hands, pressing a claiming, heartfelt kiss to Brimsley’s lips.
Brimsley melts into it, and Charlotte blinks away her own instinct to cry, instead threading her fingers through George’s and holding on tight.
“Well,” she says, when the two of them finally break apart, breathing each others’ air for a lingering moment. “In that case, I have decided I will give you my blessing. Treat him well, Reynolds, or I will ensure your life becomes extremely unpleasant.”
Reynolds laughs, his eyes closed, his forehead pressed to Brimsley’s.
“Yes, Your Majesty,” he says.
“And Brimsley,” Charlotte says, and Brimsley stands up straight to receive her orders. “You must tell me if there is anything George or I can do to help the two of you. When you are alone with us, of course, you need not keep your affections secret. If you wish for adjoining bedchambers, I will see it arranged–your roles of course mean you must be available to each other at any time.”
Brimsley clings to Reynolds’ hand. “Thank you, Your Majesty,” he says weakly.
“There is a private garden,” George says, looking sideways at Charlotte. “Within the grounds of Kew.”
There is, indeed. It is a space grown wild, cared for only by George, attended only by the two of them, when the world outside becomes too stifling.
Charlotte smiles.
“Of course,” she agrees. “You will be provided with a key.”
“If you ever need time to be together,” George continues. “In the hours of daylight. That place will be safe.”
Reynolds makes an aborted movement, taking a staggered half-step in George’s direction before he catches himself.
George grins. He abandons Charlotte’s side and grabs Reynolds in a hug, laughing when Reynolds stiffens in pure astonishment.
“It is all you deserve, my friend,” George says.
Brimsley stares at the two of them, dazzlement in his eyes, as he shakes his head and beams.
“It is a good look on you,” Charlotte tells him, coming to stand at his side. She nudges him with her shoulder. “Happiness. Make sure you cultivate that. Cherish your joy, Brimsley. Promise me?”
He smiles at her with tears in his eyes. “I promise,” he says. He bumps her with his shoulder in return. “I will. So long as you do the same, Your Majesty.”
“Oh, I will,” Charlotte says. “For every second God grants me, I will.”
She cannot predict what the future might bring for them all. What happiness or strife awaits them within the long years, but right now, there is a fresh, buoyant joy that fills the room, and Charlotte certainly cannot regret her snooping when it has led to such exuberance.
She may not have achieved her goal of finding Brimsley a wife, but his happiness? That, she now knows how to secure.
And she will fight for it, just as she fights for her own.