Discussion Groups / English Usage / January 2009

Okay, I've used a lot of the suggestions offered here, and now my first
three chapters are ready to be sent as sample chapters to the publisher.

Any errors not would be appreciated.

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GANNIBAL!

Spring  1760– Mecklenburg-Strelitz, Germany

Frau Mueller’s knees were knocking …

She was sitting in the grand banquet hall of her liege lord, Duke
Frederick of Mecklenburg-Strelitz. Although the most skilled hair
dresser in the duchy, never before had she been summoned to the Duke's
palace; never before had she thought such good fortune possible.

Heidi, her sixteen-year old assistant, was all agog at the richness of
the magnificent room. Indeed, such was her stupefaction that when Frau
Mueller asked whether she remembered to pack the beeswax, the girl
hadn't answered. Hopefully, she would snap out of it; meanwhile, Frau
Mueller rummaged through the baskets herself.

Intelligence was scant: everyone knew the issue with the Princess's
hair; no one knew what the Duke wanted done about it. Some said he
wanted his sister's hair bleached blond, and if this was so, Frau
Mueller had the very thing for that. Others said the Duke wanted it cut
to a Joan of Arc fringe, and this too Frau Mueller could do with flourish.

But the gossip that excited her the most held the Duke wanted his
sister’s hair straightened. Straightening even the coarsest hair was
possible using today's modern remedies with the added bonus the customer
then required regular maintenance. A maintenance contract with the
Duke's could serve as collateral for a loan on the small hair shop Frau
Mueller wanted.

The Duke's footsteps sounded from the hall. Poor Heidi looked as if she
was ready to dive under the table. She grabbed Frau Mueller's arm and
said in a hushed voice, "He's coming." Seconds later Duke Frederick
entered the room.

"Ah, Frau Mueller!" he said. And he gave the most splendid bow.

Frau Mueller and Heidi were already standing, and as they had practiced
all morning, they executed perfect German curtsies.

"Your Grace," the women said in unison.

Duke Frederick waved his hand. "Ladies be seated, please.” He looked
from Frau Mueller to Heidi then said,  “Your daughter?"

"My apprentice, Your Grace."

"Most excellent."

Other footsteps came from the hall then the Princess entered. She was
wearing a white skirt of Chambery gauze and her hair was covered in a
big headscarf made of cambric. She seemed younger than her sixteen
years. Frau Mueller and Heidi jumped up again and immediately curtsied her.

"Good Day," said the Princess in a voice as pure as a child's.

"And this as you know,” said the Duke motioning to his sister,  “is
Princess Charlotte."

"An honor, Your Grace," said Frau Mueller.

A serving girl appeared with a tray of apricots and bread, but Frau
Mueller declined knowing it would be impossible to eat under such pressure.

"And how is your father, Frau Mueller?" asked the Duke.

"As well as can be expected, Your Grace” – she titled her head in
supplication – “and he sends his best wishes to you and the rest of the
ducal family."

The Duke turned to the Princess. "Did you know, Charlotte, Frau
Mueller's father is the oldest man in the duchy?"

The Princess smiled. "I have heard of this, Frederick, and think it
remarkable." She turned to the older woman: "Please give your father our
wishes for many more years of good health, Frau Mueller."

Frau Mueller curtsied again then said, "My Lady … Your Grace. It's been
an honor to be your humble servants these many years and we look forward
to many years to come."

This went over splendidly so much so Frau Mueller made a mental note to
give Mildred, the lawyer's wife, something extra for coaching her on the
proper things to say to people of such high birth. The Duke coughed then
said, "See here, Frau Mueller, I've summoned you for a matter I’m told
your skills alone hold the key."

"Yes, Your Grace."

He pointed to his sister. "The Princess's hair – Charlotte, remove your
scarf."

Charlotte removed her scarf to reveal a thick mane of  kinky hair.

"As I was saying," the Duke continued, "my sister's hair is of a texture
we would like to permanently change."

"Permanently, sir?"

"Can it be done?"

Frau Mueller stood up and pointed toward the Princess. "May I?"

"Yes, of course," said Duke Frederick.

Frau Mueller walked around the Princess her eyes locked on the young
woman's hair.

"Heidi – my magnifying glass!"

Heidi snapped out of her wonderment and began rummaging one of the
baskets. Finding the magnifying glass, she handed it over. Frau Mueller
continued her circular inspection now peering through the magnifying
glass. She stopped and said, "Lady Charlotte, if it pleases, may I touch
your hair?"

"Yes, you must," said Charlotte.

Carefully, as if she were about to touch a precious jewel, Frau Mueller
let her fingers touch the girl's hair. She frowned. It not only looked
kinky, it felt kinky.

"Has it always been this, eh …  texture, madam?"

"I believe so, Frau Mueller."

Frau Mueller turned to the Duke. "I ask the question, Your Grace,
because children sometimes grow out of it … but let me see–” She turned
back to Charlotte. “If I remember correctly, Lady Charlotte, you’re
sixteen summers, no?"

"Yes, I am, Frau Mueller.”

Frau Mueller gave a warm laugh. "I remember, ma’am, because you were
born the same year as my youngest."

"Yes, I know – and her name is Aarika, is it not?"

"Yes, Lady Charlotte!" said Frau Mueller stunned. And in an instant she
was beaming as proudly as she ever had. "You do me a great honor in
remembering the name of such a worthless child, Lady Charlotte. When I
tell her she will be very pleased – very pleased, indeed."

Everyone laughed approvingly at this. Frau Mueller, it seemed, knew how
to turn a phrase.

Thrilled with the princess's unexpected kindness, Frau Mueller smiled at
the Duke, curtsied the princess yet again, then cut Heidi a look that
said, “Mark that well, girl – the Princess of Mecklenburg knows my
daughter's name!”

Heidi smiled. Frau Mueller continued her inspection; then she stopped,
looked at the Duke and said, "Your Grace, is it possible – and if it
isn't I will surely understand – that I may snip a lock of hair from the
princess for closer analysis?”

"Yes, of course."

Frau Mueller snapped her fingers; Heidi dug into the baskets, retrieved
a pair of scissors and handed them over. Frau Mueller grabbed the
scissors without letting her eyes off the princess's hair. She
considered where to cut, lifted a tuft, and snipped.

"Ah!"

In a moment Frau Mueller was back at her baskets. She rifled through
one, pointed to a second, rejected this, pointed to a third. From this
she retrieved a small jar and a large one. She motioned Heidi to push
the fourth basket forward. From this she retrieved a pair of gloves,
thin flat stone, and more jars. She then assembled all the pomades,
powders, emollients and tools around the flat stone. She placed the lock
of hair on the center of the stone, inspected it once more with the
looking glass then put on the gloves.

"I believe this procedure might be of some help, Your Grace," she said,
waving her hand over the assemblage. "I've been corresponding with the
guild in Berlin who gave me a good account of it. It comes from Paris."

"Paris?" said Charlotte, unable to resist. For although she had long
been tutored in French, she had yet conversed with a native French speaker.

"Yes, Lady Charlotte," said Frau Mueller. "All the latest hair
techniques come from France – and of course in Paris there are many
foreigners with your grade of hair. "

"There are?" said Charlotte, her curiosity piqued. It was her first time
hearing this.  She thought about it for a second then said, "And where
do these foreigners come from – originally?”

"Africa, mainly, although – "

"Enough!" the Duke shouted.

Frau Mueller was stunned – what had she said wrong?

"Yes, of course, Your Grace."

More frightened than she could ever remember being, Heidi stared at Frau
Mueller then the Duke – what had she said wrong?

The Duke's voice came like a whip: "And what's said here today stays
here, Frau Mueller – is that understood?"

"Yes, but of course, Your Grace."

Another rebuke – but why? Frau Mueller hadn't a clue.

And even now the storm wasn't over for the Duke was out of his chair,
eyes glaring, muscles in his face quivering.

"Do your work, Frau," he said, breathing deeply, noisily. “You are not
here to gossip!”

"Yes, Your Grace."

He looked at his sister with a wild-eyed, crazy look then turned back to
the two trembling women: "Have the Princess fetch me when you're done."

"As you wish, sir."

And then he was gone, storming out of the room like a man challenged to
a duel.

Summer 1760 —  A Trip to Mecklenburg

It was seed and harvest time and across the valley’s golden fields
heavy-bodied men and women were digging like ground hogs, digging while
the summer sun peaked through the fleecy clouds, digging for what, the
Englishman in the passing coach could not imagine.
The coachman slowed the four exhausted horses then called out, "The
palace of Mecklenburg-Strelitz, sir – straight ahead!"

Pressing a perfumed handkerchief to his nose to protect from the dust,
John Shackleton, Principal Painter in Ordinary to King George II, looked
out of the coach past the rows of  haystacks to a rectangular boxlike
building that looked more a barn than palace.

"What … is that?” he asked.

"The palace of Mecklenburg-Strelitz, sir!” said the coachman, chest out,
chin high.

"Palace?"  Shackleton said, rubbing his eyes to make sure he was seeing
the same thing the coachman was seeing.

The coachman smiled. “Isn't she beautiful, sir?”

“Fit for the gods.”

“Huh …?”

Shackleton was fifty-five with a round belly, rosy cheeks, and balding
head all of which made him often mistaken for a parish vicar or Oxford
don, vocations he now wished he had pursued. The coachman whistled,
cracked his whip, and the carriage was rolling down the road again.
Jolted by the quick start Shackleton grabbed his easel to prevent it
from toppling. Not long after the carriage pulled in front of the
palace. Duke Frederick was standing on the porch in a green Châlons
jacket and red vest. He was a smallish man with a beard shaped like a
wedge. He looked more a French customs inspector than German
aristocratic. He was grinning.

"Welcome, Mr. Shackleton," he called out in heavily accented English.

Shackleton was stepping our of the coach. He  looked up and smiled. "You
speak, English, Duke Frederick – we weren't sure."

"Much better French," said Duke Frederick.

"Well, good for you – good for you," said Shackleton, reaching for the
Duke's hand. "I only wish I had some ability with languages, but paint
is the only thing that sticks to this Anglo-Saxon head."

A servant came out and doffed his alpine hat. The Duke pointed to
Shackleton's gear; the long-limbed man went for it.

"Franz will get your things, Herr Shackleton."

The Duke and Shackleton walked into the palace. Two young women waited
for them in the foyer: one, quite the German beauty and exactly what
Shackleton had hoped for; the other … not beautiful in the least . . .
some kind of ethnic mix.  Shackleton immediately hoped she wasn't
Princess Charlotte.

"And these are my sisters," said the Duke. "This is Princess Albertina .
. . And this one, Princess Charlotte."

Shackleton groaned inside as the women curtsied. Princess Charlotte was
the queer one.

“And a very lovely princess she is,” lied Shackleton somehow managing to
smile at the strange-looking girl.

“Thank you, sir,” she replied in a sweet maiden’s voice.

Well, at least she's sweet, thought Shackleton. And with a little luck
perhaps her brother – if he's fabulously wealthy, which by all
appearances he's not – will be able to hook some impoverished prince
into marrying her. It was her bone structure mainly – where on earth did
she get it? As an artist Shackleton understood bone structure, most
especially that of German princesses, for it was German princesses all
the royal European houses demanded. This demand was echoed in royal
houses as far away as Russia, the Ottoman Empire and beyond. Shackleton
had painted German princesses all of his professional career and never
seen bone structure like hers. Simply put, German princesses did not
look like her – in fact, neither did English princesses, or for that
matter, any princesses he’d known.

Who the deuce was behind this farce? The girl was no German princess –
her hair, nose, lips, hatchet jaw were all wrong.

The Duke was leading them into the banquet room. Shackleton was still
fuming: how long did they expect him to continue this charade? Gad! Even
her body doesn’t measure up – too thin and woefully bereft of anything
that might help a fellow forget her face. She had nothing – nothing.
What's the point? Why even waste pigment on such a hopeless creature?

“The light is best in our dining hall and we’ve prepared refreshments,”
said the Duke, waving his hand toward the feast on the table. The aroma
hit Shackleton's nose like the heat from a blast oven. He hadn't eaten
since somewhere in the dark morning and then only a cup of tea and
buttered bread. Instantly his foreboding about the girl was replaced by
a ravenous hunger : Is that sturgeon? And that there – is  it actually
brisket of beef? And over there – Heavens! Kidney pie! You can see the
meat, peas, and potatoes peeking up from the little hole in its center –
Good Lord!

“I hope you're hungry,” said the Duke.

“Hungry? Do we really have time to eat, Your Grace – well, if you insist.”

“Do you drink German beer, Mr. Shackleton?”

“Beer? A sip now and then, Your Grace.”

The Duke motioned for the serving girl to pour the beer which she did
filling a giant-sized tankard to the brim. The Duke then placed it on
the table in front of Shackleton.

“Careful, now, Herr Shackleton, our Mecklenburg beer and has a kick like
a mule.”

Shackleton laughed, quaffed the tankard dry, burped, then waved the girl
forward for a refill. He made short work of this too and by the time he
finished his mind was working at a feverish pace:  God – this
Mecklenburg brew is choice! And who knows, if I drink enough I might
actually be able to paint a portrait of the girl. Say! Maybe that’s the
plan – liquor me up so I paint a Mona Lisa instead of the girl sitting
in front of me. Well, If that’s what he’s up to, I’ve got news for him –
 the King’s Principal Painter in Ordinary is not so easily tricked,
sir. One beer or one-thousand beers, I paint exactly what I see, warts
and all.

But after four tankards of the foamy stuff  Shackleton was painting an
image of Charlotte he did not see, at least with his naked eye. It was
the potent Mecklenburg beer, of course. It had made what seemed an
impossible task only moments earlier now an exercise in pleasure.  His
paint brush was flying across the canvas as if it had wings. What had he
been thinking? How could he have been so wrong? Princess Charlotte was
as fetching a Teutonic princess as ever there was; just a matter of
perspective, that’s all. And such was the Royal painter’s new resolve
until he reached her forehead and was about to render the first strokes
of hair.  He looked toward the princess his head turned and eyes
squinting. He craned his neck and squinted harder.

“Is there something wrong, Herr Shackleton?” asked the Duke who had
perched himself on a stool and was observing all.

“No, no – just the light, I’m sure,” said Shackleton. The Duke and
Princess looked at the glorious sunshine pouring into the hall then
looked at each other thinking the same thing: the light was as perfect
as can be. Shackleton looked at the sunshine pouring into the hall and
thought the same thought. He laughed. “Fifty-year old eyes playing
tricks on me again,” he said. The Duke and Princess gave polite smiles.

Then it happened. Suddenly Shackleton’s beery face lost all color.
“Heavenly Father!”  he gasped, dropping his paint-brush and nearly
tipping over the easel.

The Duke jumped off his stool. “Herr Shackleton – are you all right?”

“Me? Your Grace? Yes – perfectly all right.”

But Shackleton wasn't perfectly all right because as he had squinted at
Charlotte’s hair once more it suddenly dawned on him where he had seen
hair like hers before – the Negro girl who sells ginger cakes in front
of Newgate Jail!

London: John Shackleton's Studio
After arranging the four portraits on easels, Shackleton stepped back
and surveyed the lineup. He had  placed Princess Charlotte's portrait
last in the lineup so the other–prettier!– princesses would be seen
before her. King George II and the wife of his deceased son, the Dowager
Princess Augusta, would arrive soon for this purpose.  Still, with the
exception of  how fraudulently he had covered up Princess Charlotte's
ethnic features, Shackleton was pleased with himself. He had done as
well as could be expected. The project cost two months of his life
traveling to German principalities so remote they weren't even on the
map. As to the princesses, their futures were now out of his hands. One
would become the queen of the greatest empire on the planet while the
others would grow fat in their gloomy German palaces never to be heard
from again. Life is hard and then you die.

Shackleton sighed, walked down the line of portraits once more, then
signaled the page.

"You may summon the Dowager Princess Augusta, boy."

The page bowed. "Yes, sir.”

The portraits were commissioned by King George II, grandfather of
heir-apparent Prince George. But Shackleton knew it was really the
Prince’s mother, the Dowager Princess Augusta, who was behind the
commission. When her husband Frederic Prince of Wales died, she made it
clear anyone who fouled-up her plans to have her cousin marry her son,
would know her wrath once her son became king.

Directly, the Dowager Princess Augusta arrived with Lord Bute. The
Dowager was a tall, 40-year old German beauty who wore great gowns and
petticoats made with massive amounts of cloth. She wore a type of hat no
other women wore – an admiral's hat worn sideways. The effect was
wonderfully Iberian and when she was whipping her skirts and petticoats
about her, it gave her the appearance of a matador whipping his cape
over the horns of a charging bull. Younger men found her irresistible
then found themselves in the Tower for their impudence. It was said she
encouraged their impudence.

"Ah! John Shackleton, you've finally returned," said the Dowager.

"So very good to see you again, Your Highness," said Shackleton taking a
deep bow.

"So, how was your trip?" asked Lord Bute, the future prime minister.

"The Greeks have a word for it," said Shackleton.

Bute snickered.

The Dowager stepped forward. "Cleverly put, sir, but, are you confident
you've captured the likeness of each princess?"

"Every blade of hair," Shackleton lied.

The Dowager gave him a hard smile. "I should hate to think otherwise."

"Now, now,” said Lord Bute. “Don't let her frighten you, Shackleton. Her
bite is worse than her bark.”

“And stop being so clever, Bute,” said the Dowager. “I’m tired of
cleverness.  Everybody is clever nowadays and I wish to heavens we had a
few fools left.”

“But we do, Your Highness,” said Bute.

“And what do they talk about?”

“Clever people.”

“Fools!”

The Earl of Bute was one of those chaps with an eternal smile, except
when you angered him at which point he'd bore his gray eyes into you
with such  imperious disdain, it made you want to grab your hat and run
from the room. He dressed in more ermine than the King and didn't wear a
wig but powered his gray hair with starch so it was whiter still. A
highly-educated man, he had two law degrees, was a past  member of the
House of Lords, and besides being the Dowager's not-so-secret lover, had
been Prince George's surrogate father since the boy's biological father
died eight years earlier. All of which rendered him in the parlance of
the time set for life, or at least set until he did something
exceedingly stupid, which as fortune would have it, he was soon to do.
He was 50, but exceedingly well-preserved because he drank in moderation
and exercised excessively (riding and fencing).

Bute gave the painter a diplomat's grin then said, “You may not know
this, Shackleton, but we were very near making arrangements for all the
princesses to come to London until their families got wind and became
unionized!  They sent a letter to our Ladyship – in Latin! – refusing to
have their precious daughters stand on auction, as they put it, even for
the future king of England.”

The Dowager gave a mirthless laugh. "Those old German families are so
stuck in their ways, no modern sensibility to speak of. Would you
believe, Mr. Shackleton, one of them actually asked if the prince – the
heir-apparent! – could travel to Germany to be interviewed  by her
daughter! Can you imagine that? What will they ask for next –references?"

Lord Bute was looking at the first portrait.

"Your Highness, here's a comely lass if ever there was one.”

The Dowager walked to the portrait, stared at it, turned to Shackleton
and said, "And she is …?"

Shackleton smiled for this princess was his favorite (which is why he
put her portrait first). "Princess Sophia of Brunswick-Wolfenbüttel,
Your Highness."

The Dowager and Lord Bute exchanged frowns. And it was at this very
instant a page in the hallway announced loudly, "HERE YEE!  HERE YEE!
The King and Prince enter!" and King George II and his grandson Prince
George entered the room. Lord Bute and Shackleton bowed; the Dowager
curtsied.

"What's going on here, Shackleton?” bellowed the King. “Why wasn't I
informed of your return?"

"We wanted it to be a surprise, father-in-law," said the Dowager.

"I don't like surprises, you know that. I commissioned Shackleton for
this job – not you, young lady – so I should have been informed of his
return immediately!"

Shackleton prayed a silent prayer that the King had made it clear to the
Dowager he was answerable only to him. Shackleton hoped for this because
before leaving to paint the princesses the King told him his favorite
was Princess Sophia of Brunswick-Wolfenbüttel and that he wanted her
portrait to shine above the others.

The Dowager gave a carefree laugh and took her son the Prince by the
elbow. "Look here, darling, Mr. Shackleton has four lovely princesses
for you to review."

The King threw his hands up for silence then turned to Shackleton.
"Which one is Sophia of Brunswick-Wolfenbüttel?"

"Don't tell him yet," said the Dowager.

"He will or rue the day he didn't!"

"For what – disobeying my order?”

"For disobeying mine!"

"Not when I countermand yours, then he's disobeying mine – isn't that
so, Lord Bute?"

"Not a word from you, Bute!"

The Dowager tugged the Prince to the line of portraits. "You'll listen
to me on this, my son. I know German girls – don't forget I'm one myself."

"And what am I?" said the King.

The Dowager laughed. "Pray, not a German girl."

“Watch your tongue, daughter-in-law!”

“Ah, hush.”

Reaching for her elbow the King separated the Dowager from the Prince
and said, "Grandson, listen to me … I was married to the best Queen
consort England ever had – Caroline of Brandenburg-Ansbach. So I ask
you, who could possibly know German girls better than I? But more to the
point, I'm the king of England, and if I tell you to marry Sophia of
Brunswick-Wolfenbüttel, you shall – and I do!  So that settles it” – he
turned to Shackleton – “providing, of course, she has no defects
uncovered by our most worthy royal painter …?"

Shackleton was ready. He had four white cards in his hand. He shuffled
one to the top then said, "No defects at all, Your Majesty. Sophia of
Brunswick-Wolfenbüttel is a most excellent choice. Besides her obvious
beauty she is sixteen years of age and –"

"Sixteen is too young," said the Dowager.

"But you were sixteen when my son married you!" roared the King.

"Two wrongs don’t make a right."

The King snorted then looked from his daughter-in-law to Shackleton:
"Continue, Royal Painter.”

"Yes, Your highness. She does excellent needlework, plays the
harpsichord – and exceedingly well, I might add."

"Did she play for you?" snapped the Dowager.

"Yes, Your Highness. I followed the King's instructions to the letter."

"Languages?" said the King. "How many languages does she speak?"

Shackleton tensed up. "Well, on that … there may be a  minor deficit,
Sire – she speaks  only German."

"Only German?" said the Dowager, covering her mouth as if someone had
yelled plague!

"Don't be ridiculous," snorted the King. She's only sixteen.  Why,
she'll be speaking better English than all of us in a fortnight."

The Dowager was looking at the second portrait. "Mr. Shackleton, pray,
who is this?"

"That would be Princess Maria of Saxe-Gotha."

The Dowager smiled. "Oh, yes, my cousin –"

"No!" said the King.

"Your Majesty, dear, at least let Mr. Shackleton tell us about her –"

"No! There’ll be no cousin-marrying on my watch. That's why half the
monarchs across Europe can't produce healthy heirs. No, madam – no
inbreeding!"

Sensing the timing wasn’t right to press her case, the Dowager shrugged
and said, "As you wish, Sir."

"Tell us about the next princess, Shackleton," said the King pointing to
the third portrait.

"Yes, Sire, that would be Magdalena of Saxe-Weissenfels and–"

"No!" said the Dowager.

The King  jumped back. The vitriol in his daughter-in-law’s voice
stunned even him, a battlefield-hardened King. "At least let him finish,
Princess Augusta –"

"No!" said the Dowager twice as forcefully. “I’d rather see my son marry
an African’s daughter before a Saxe-Weissenfels’ daughter.”

The King sighed and said, "We'll come back to her later. Now this last
one, Shackleton. Who is she?"

Shackleton groaned inside. In his plan they never should have gotten
this far down the line. He swallowed hard then said, "Princess Charlotte
of  Mecklenburg-Strelitz, Sire.”

"Who?" said the Dowager.

"Princess Charlotte of Mecklenburg-Strelitz."

"Where on earth is Mecklenburg-Strelitz?” asked the King.

"Near the Pomeranian border opposite Ratzeburg.”

"Rats-burg?" said the King and Dowager.

Shackleton corrected them: "That would be Ratzeburg, Your Highness, a
tiny principality in Northern Germany. Nothing to do with rats at all."

The King was staring at the portrait.  He pursed his lips then said,
"Speaking of rats, she looks as fertile as one . . .  hmmm . . .” He
turned  to his grandson. "That's the important thing, George, and don't
ever forget it – a  queen must produce heirs!”

“Yes, and that reminds me,” said Shackleton, knowing he was speaking out
of turn but desperate to get them away from the Charlotte portrait. “The
first princess we viewed expressed  a deep interest in learning English
and –”

"What are her refinements?" the Dowager wanted to know.

Well, yes, as I said, Sophia of Brunswick-Wolfenbüttel is sixteen and  –”

“Not that princess – this princess,” said the Dowager, pointing to
Princess Charlotte.

Shackleton looked at the Dowager the way a boy looks at his mother after
being told he’s going to get whipped when his father comes home. He
shrugged, looked at the card in his hand, shrugged again then quickly so
as to race through it said, "Expert needlework, superb botanist, dances
very skillfully, rides a horse well  –"

And it was at this point that Prince George – the man who would marry
her if she passed muster asked, "Does she have musical talents, Mr.
Shackleton?"

Shackleton beat back a ferocious frown and thought, why are we still
talking about this damnable  girl? For God's sake – get back to Sophia
of Brunswick-Wolfenbüttel!

"Yes,  she has some slight musical ability, if I remember correctly …
let me see, where did I put that card … oh, here it is. Ah, yes. She
plays the violin, harpsichord, fife – both wood and metal – cello,
mandolin and –”

“Mr. Shackleton,” said Prince George  stepping forward again, "another
question, if you, please, sir – how many languages does Princess
Charlotte speak?"

Shackleton turned the card over in his hand and read it. He scowled
horribly at what he read and this time made no effort to hide it. He was
livid – livid at himself for the nightmare that was unfolding, livid at
how all his plans to steer interest away from the damnable girl had come
to naught. Finally, in a voice as hopeless as ever left his throat he
said, "Five languages, sir."

"Five languages?!" all three Royals exclaimed at once.

"Six, if you count Portuguese.”