by Anya Seton
Francis Radcliffe was at the gaming table in the alcove playing ombre with two Catholic barons. The elder, Lord Widdrington, was a Northumbrian, a spindling paunchy man of thirty with chronic indigestion and a touch of gout in his left foot. He played irritably, slapping down the cards and cursing when they were trumped. The other baron was little Lord Petre, who was only nineteen, undersized, and somewhat like a whippet. His round eyes darted anxious looks at Francis, who played languidly, never seemed to glance at his cards but always won.
Dr. Radcliffe had not yet returned, having been called out to treat the Duke of Beaufort, a friend so close and influential that the Doctor had for once accepted an inconvenient summons. The old physician was famous for his brusque treatment of patients, and for the offense he had once given Queen Anne, though his reputation was not thereby affected, and he commanded immense fees.
Nor was James present in the drawing room. He was closeted in the library with the Northumbrian lawyer Roger Fenwick and with Thomas Errington who had dropped by to pay his respects. The Earl was eager to understand all he could about his Northern estates before he went to Dilston.
Charles was unused to sitting in warm scented rooms, he longed to be out walking in the snow, sampling the giddy life of the great city, but it would be rude to leave Betty and, besides, Henrietta, Duchess of Bolton, would soon be arriving. Charles was fascinated by that practiced and seductive lady. That the Duchess was over thirty, and that Dr. Radcliffe was infatuated with her too, did not decrease Charles’s interest. She aroused in him a voluptuous excitement, and he had dreamed of lying in her arms.
“Charlie!” said Betty giggling, and pinching his knee. “Say something, you great booby. I dislike being ignored.”
Charles jumped and said gaily, “Oh, I was trying to picture you married, my pet, and I can’t -- no more than me. Has your lady mother found some likely takers?”
“Not yet. I’ve a fair dowry, but I haven’t the looks my mother and grandmother had. ‘Tis a pity,” she added flatly. Lady Lichfield, still a handsome woman, had been Lady Charlotte Fitzroy, King Charles’s favorite daughter, and a great beauty, while her mother had been the Duchess of Cleveland, best known to the world as the “incomparable Barbara Castlemaine.”
“But I think you comely,” said Charles awkwardly. He had not yet learned the easy bandying of compliments, nor did Betty invite them. Still she was comely -- despite red hair, big mouth, and freckles. Charles liked her, he was comfortable with her, and he found her smooth plumpness appealing enough, though he had no wish to fondle her as did various elderly noblemen, who were always stroking Betty’s round arms or chucking her under the chin as if she were a dairymaid. “And I hope,” he said grinning, “her ladyship finds you a rich titled husband who’ll dote on you and let you romp at every masquerade!”
Betty laughed, showing all her strong white teeth. “She had her eye on Derwentwater, and I wouldn’t mind much though he’s shorter than me.”
“James?” cried Charles, startled. “Has he offered for you?”
“Oh no. I said Mama had her eye on him, but she’s giving up hope. She didn’t realize how devout a Papist he is. He’s such a grand match that my father’d overlook that, but my Lord Derwentwater wouldn’t.”
“No,” said Charles. He could not imagine James marrying out of the Church, nor imagine him marrying at all, for that matter. James was agreeable to everyone, he made graceful speeches to the pretty ladies who fluttered around him, yet there was something untouchable and solitary about him. Still, marry he would, of course. The name, the title, the estates must all be carried on, and already Charles knew that his brother would never let selfish inclination stand in the way of family duty.
The drawing room door opened, the supercilious footman stalked in and announced, “Her Grace the Duchess of Bolton” to the ceiling, then stalked out again.
“Oh gemini!” cried Betty with a flounce. “Here’s her high and mightiness and you’ll have no eyes for me -- what you can see in that painted old doxy --”
“She isn’t!” said Charles indignantly. “Sh-h.” He stood up, preparing to bow. Betty stood up and sank into a curtsey. At the gaming table Francis quietly pulled towards him the ten guineas he had just won from the others, then stood up, his narrow face expressionless. Little Lord Petre rose eagerly, craning to see the Beauty. Lord Widdrington muttered something, belched, and hauled himself up onto his good leg. By the fireplace the Ladies Lichfield and Stamford rose in a sedate, reluctant manner and exchanged a look of exasperation. The Duchess was no favorite with her own sex, and though by marriage she far outranked these ladies they considered that, in view of her dubious parentage, her superior airs were ridiculous. To be sure, Henrietta Crofts was an acknowledged Stuart, but a tarnished one since she was only the natural daughter of the illegitimate Duke of Monmouth, who had been beheaded after his rebellion.
The Duchess entered, pausing a moment in the doorway, a vision in a new French gown of flowing violet taffeta garnished with brilliants. Two long blank curls hung forward over naked white shoulders and down to her slender tight-corseted waist. She waited regally for the customary tribute of the indrawn breath, which duly came from Charles and Lord Petre, then she undulated into the drawing room on a wave of musk and sweet tinkling laughter. She was followed by two admirers, for Henrietta never moved without an entourage. Today these were a red-faced country baronet, Sir Coplestone Bamfylde, and a cadet of her husband’s house, a simpering coxcombe called Mr. Paulet who made himself generally useful in return for lodging and an allowance. There was also a small turbaned blackamoor page who carried the Duchess’ fan and pomander ball.
The Duchess inclined her graceful head in recognition of the various bows and curtsies which greeted her, and her sapphire eyes roamed lightly over the assembled faces. “The worthy Doctor is not present?” she asked with a delicious pout of her rouged lips. Her blue gaze rested on Francis because she had found him bafflingly unresponsive to her charms.
Francis bowed again. “Il est sorti, madame,” he replied. “Il va revenir tout a l’heure.” Francis spoke French because he preferred it to English, and also because he knew it embarrassed the Duchess, who understood little of the language. His squint gave the effect of his looking past her, and she turned away with a petulant shrug.
“Well,” she said, “then someone must amuse me until my dear Doctor appears -- not you gentlemen who have put yourselves to such endless trouble in my behalf already.” She gave Sir Coplestone and Paulet an enchanting smile and a dismissing wave of her white beringed hand, “But you, sir!” She turned the smile full upon Charles, who crimsoned to his eartips. “If,” went on the Duchess smoothly, “Lady Elizabeth will be so good as to yield her place on the sofa?”
“Old strumpet!” murmured Betty as loud as she dared, but there was nothing for it but to curtsey and move away, leaving the dazzled Charles to the Duchess.
Henrietta settled herself gracefully, spreading her violet skirts, arranging the silver-lace ruffles at her bosom to disclose the tops of her breasts, which were pushed up by the stays to a rounded firmness they did not actually possess. Nor was her face as oval as it once was, though the slight slackness of throat, and the fine lines near her mouth were well concealed by an enameling of paint and powder. On her temple a black beauty patch like a crescent moon drew attention to her best features -- the sensuous blue eyes and the dark curls which clustered above them, and she knew from his expression that Charles found her very seductive.
It was pique which had first roused her interest in the young Radcliffe lad, pique that both his brothers seemed indifferent to her. The Earl politely so, Francis with a silky insolence she could never quite fathom. Also, Charles was handsome in a callow raw-boned way, and it occurred to the Duchess that it had been several years since she had taken a very young lover. There would be a fillip to it.
As Charles continued to gape at her wordlessly, she laughed and gestured to her Negro page, who handed her a pa
inted gauze fan. She flicked the fan open and lowering her long darkened lashes said, “You will put me out of countenance, sir, if you stare at me like that. Do you think me such a fright?”
“You know I d-don’t, your grace,” said Charles. “I don’t know what to say, except I-I wish I could kiss you,” he went on in a desperate rush.
“Oh la, sir, you go monstrous fast!” cried Henrietta, feigning anger so well that Charles was fooled.
“Forgive me, madam,” he said miserably. “I don’t know what made me speak so. Forgive me.” And to cover his confusion, he added at random, “Your blackamoor, he has a silver collar with a crest on it.”
“Why, ‘tis my crest, to be sure,” said the Duchess, seeing that she had frightened Charles and must let him recover. “Juba is my slave. Dr. Radcliffe gave him to me, and Juba was sent to him by some Colonial planter in the Virginias -- William Byrd was, I believe, the name of the planter, wasn’t it, poppet?” She turned indulgently to the Negro boy, who bowed solemnly.
“Yuss, mistiss. I’uz born in the Quarters o’ Master Byrd’s plantation in Virginny, then Master he sold me ‘cross that big ocean to Dr. Radcliffe.”
“And you like it better here, don’t you!” said the Duchess, patting the turbaned head. Juba’s intelligent brown face creased in an ingenuous grin. He rolled his eyes ecstatically, and made the expected answer.
“Sho do, mistiss. Jest like heaven with you, no beatings, have ale an’ white bread ev’ry day. A pure angel you is, mistiss.”
The Duchess laughed complacently. Not all her servants evinced such devotion, and she enjoyed seeing herself in this flattering light.
“Sure you’re not homesick, Juba?” teased the Duchess. “Shall I send you back to Virginia with a Mr. Spotswood who’s going out as Governor?”
“No, no, mistiss!” cried Juba kneeling and nuzzling a portion of the violet skirt. “Don’t make me leave you, never! I’d die ef I couldn’t see your beautiful sweet angel face a-smiling at me.”
“Well, well,” said the Duchess. “It’s a good little black dog it is, and shall stay with me.” She waved Juba aside, and the page instantly sprang to his post behind the sofa, where he folded his arms and stood motionless.
“How delightful,” said Henrietta, glancing sideways at Charles, “to be certain of one person’s affection in this miserable world.”
“Your husband, madam,” answered Charles nervously after a moment. “For sure the Duke must dote upon you.”
This piece of naiveté startled Henrietta, but it intrigued her too. She proceeded to explain with many sighs and flutterings of her lashes that the Duke was an old man, with no thoughts for her, that they seldom met, and in any case that doting affection was woefully vulgar in an aristocratic marriage. During this conversation, she moved gently nearer to Charles, so that he felt the warmth and pressure of her body against his side. His head began to spin and presently he found himself making amorous speeches which the Duchess no longer rebuffed.
Betty, after one disgusted look at this scene, drank a cup of chocolate and allowed herself to be ogled by Sir Coplestone and Mr. Paulet, a pastime which annoyed her mother since the baronet was married to somebody in Devon and Paulet was a nobody.
In fact, thought Lady Lichfield, there was no one here of any eligibility at all, just Roman Catholics and hangers-on. A situation not improved when the footman curtly announced, “Mr. Pope.”
“Merciful heaven!” murmured Lady Lichfield as a tiny young man with a crooked back most obvious under a plain black suit, hunched into the room. “Another Papist! And a dwarfed linen-draper’s son to boot. I must say Dr. Radcliffe has a singular taste in friends.”
The two ladies watched Alexander Pope wander towards the gaming table, where nobody welcomed him, so he took a cup of coffee and sitting down surveyed the company alertly. He had come because he was a protégé and past patient of the Doctor’s, and because he was, as yet, much flattered by inclusion among the nobility.
“He looks very odd,” said Lady Stamford, “though I’ve heard he’s written some pretty pastorals, and is quite the thing at Will’s Coffeehouse these days.”
“Oh, those Whigs have no discrimination at all!” said the Countess acidly. “Pack of warmongers and place-seekers, running after the Marlboroughs, toadying that dreadful Duchess -- don’t speak to me of Whigs!”
Lady Stamford quite agreed, but felt it only fair to remark that the Duke of Marlborough had won some glorious victories for England against France, and that one might even hope the war would soon be over. Her friend retorted that it never would be, unless the Tories got in, though there seemed to be a dawning hope of that, and forgetting for the moment her disappointment in Dr. Radcliffe’s guests, she leaned forward whispering, “Have you heard that Her Majesty will not speak to the Duchess of Marlborough any more -- is casting her off? And high time too. Such insolence that woman has!”
Lady Stamford nodded. They pieced together the court gossip they had heard. Queen Anne’s long domination by Sarah, Duchess of Marlborough was ended. The quiet, insinuating chamberwoman Abigail Masham was the new favorite, an excellent thing, since Mrs. Masham intrigued for the Tories as ably as the Duchess had intrigued for the Whigs. The Duchess had even managed to place all members of her family in the highest state positions. Now there was hope of overthrowing the whole lot of Marlboroughs. The Queen might vacillate for years, as she had, but once her mind was settled, or she allowed a stronger mind to settle it, she could be as stubborn as a tortoise. “Like she is in naming her successor,” said Lady Stamford, who was a secret Jacobite. “Nobody can make her speak.”
“But surely the succession’s all settled on Hanover!” cried the Countess. “Willy-nilly we must have those Germans in, I fear. And ‘tis perhaps better than a Papist king.”
Lady Stamford did not think so, but she smiled and said pleasantly, “I wonder to hear you, my lady, who are a Stuart say that, and many believe that if Her Majesty actually names her brother as her successor he might go Protestant, and if he did not, he would certainly guarantee freedom of worship to his subjects.”
“True, true,” said Lady Lichfield vaguely. Queen Anne might live for years and her successor was not of great importance to a harassed mother just then. She had just noticed that Betty was almost sitting on the arm of Mr. Pope’s chair and was laughing down at him in a saucy provocative fashion. The Countess rose, intent on putting a stop to such behavior, but was checked by the arrival at last of their host.
Dr. Radcliffe stamped in, flourishing his gold-headed cane and crying, “Welcome, welcome, my good friends! A thousand apologies for my unavoidable absence!” There was snow on his boots, snow on the collar of his cape, from which a servant was disentangling him, snow mingled with the silver-gray of his peruke. His great nose flamed red from the cold as well as from the brandy which the Duke of Beaufort had given him. “Ecod!” he cried. “ ‘Twill be a good old-fashioned Christmas, and we must all make merry! Bring a bowl of punch!” he said to the footman. The Doctor’s shrewd little eyes twinkled as he greeted each of his guests, and then he turned towards the Duchess of Bolton, who had drawn away from Charles and was smiling tenderly at her host.
“Ah my darling Duchess,” cried the Doctor lumbering over to her. He seized her hand and kissed it with lingering gusto. “Did you miss me, hey, m’dear? Has young Radcliffe been diverting you? Get up, you puppy, and let me sit here!”
Charles was already up, and glad enough to yield his place, for matters had moved fast indeed on the sofa. He was choked with excitement, his head was hot, his hands were cold, and he wanted to collect himself. Henrietta had invited him to her mansion tomorrow night at ten, “When we will be quite safe from intrusion since it is Christmas Eve.” There was no mistaking what she meant, and Charles was torn between desire and apprehension. He wanted to be alone, and wandered into a small anteroom where a coal fire was burning. He rested his hand on the carved mantel and stared down, unseeing, at the fire. But Betty fol
lowed him.
“What are you and the Duchess up to?” Betty asked with deadly feminine precision. “You look peculiar, Charlie -- are you really going to let that woman seduce you?”
Charles stiffened, his eyes narrowed. “Lady Elizabeth, I find your remark offensive, and I fail to see what sanction you have for making it.”
“Hoity-toity!” said Betty reddening. She drew back and her teasing smile faded. “I’m sorry, sir. I thought we were good enough friends for a jest. It seems I’m at fault.”
Charles received the girl’s apology with a slight bow, and might have spoken something civil had not a lackey come into the room with a scuttleful of coals, which he dumped on the fire. The rattle of the coals and the tiny cloud of dust they raised brought instant memory to Charles. He was standing on Tyneside by the keelboat on that September morning when he had met Meg. These very coals might be some of those he had seen then, a bizarre speculation which he clung to, so as not to go deeper into memories, for they were painful. And though certain of the sensations aroused by the Duchess were like those he had felt for Meg, others were not. The result was a confusion of shame and discomfort.
Betty saw that he had forgotten all about her, and was dismayed to feel her eyes sting with tears. Head high, she walked back into the drawing room.
Lord Derwentwater had now joined the company, and Dr. Radcliffe was imparting great news in his booming voice.
“What d’ye think, my lord? Imagine what my friend His Grace of Ormond has arranged!”
James smiled. “Something good, I vow, my dear host, since all your arrangements are surpassing kind.”
