The twenty-two year old Prince had recently been appointed to King upon his grandfather’s death, and yet he was also without a wife. With the family searching with desperation at this point, Marigold’s grandfather leapt at the opportunity. Marigold herself was quite enjoying a life as Charlotte without a husband, so unlike her previous lives where she was given a betrothed almost immediately. Though she knew one would come eventually, it was all about the right match like her grandfather said, and frankly she was happy the right match hadn’t yet appeared. Her previous marriages had only lead to heartache; at worst, they hated each other or her husband was cruel and abusive, and at best they actually did fall in love, but humanity always withered and died before her eyes, and she was forced to mourn yet another loved one. Nothing good could come from another marriage, Marigold thought.
First her grandfather appealed to George’s mother, the Dowager Princess of Wales. After weeks of letter writing, hours of speaking in person, they came to an agreement. It would be approved if, upon meeting, George approved. So her grandfather instructed her to be as kind and delicate as possible. To be sweet and alluring.
“Couldn’t we just force their hand and get this over with?” Marigold suggested. “We have the means to do that. A display of power, then threaten something like a drought, crop shortage.” She could do it with a wave of her hand, and her grandfather had the capability of doing much worse.
“I would prefer us to be discreet.” he insisted. “I’ve allowed his mother to know of our true nature, and she has promised secrecy, but George knows nothing. Let’s keep it that way.”
“He’ll need to know eventually.” Marigold argued.
“Perhaps. But not now. Just continue to keep in mind, if this marriage successfully manages to happen, you will be the Queen of England. Secure and stable, no longer needing to worry about whether your needs will be met.”
“At least until the next generation.” Marigold sighed.
So she put on the soft-faced facade of Charlotte, someone gentle and full of compassion. Her grandfather, posing as her father since he looked like a much younger man, introduced her as Charlotte of Mecklenburg-Strelitz, born in Germany but primarily raised in England. It had to make sense that her accent was English.
“Your Majesty.” she greeted with a small smile placed on her lips, curtsying to George.
