Charles had said I brought him peace, and perhaps for that reason he kept to his ministers and other counselors for the rest of March, and I saw little of him. He was not in the humor for peace, not from me or anyone else.
On the sixth of April, he declared war on the Republic of the Seven United Provinces. Finally—or rather again—the Dutch were England’s enemy.
Was there ever a man at the start of a war who wasn’t convinced that victory would be swift and easy?
Certainly that was the way with both Charles and Louis. Both kings were certain that the Dutch would prove no challenge at all to their combined might, and that between them they’d be merrily carving up the spoils by the middle of summer at the latest. Louis hoped to claim as his the various lands agreed upon in the Secret Treaty, while Charles anticipated putting several important foreign ports under an English flag, plus helping to plump his dwindling treasury with a few fat prizes plucked from the Dutch navy and shipping.
Certainly it would seem that the alliance between France and England had the overwhelming advantage, and they’d every reason for cheery optimism. Between the two countries, the French and English forces vastly outnumbered the Dutch in men, ships, and guns. Louis himself rode at the head of his army of more than one hundred twenty thousand men as they marched northward to invade Holland, his confidence so high that he’d brought along his own historian to document his glorious victory.
Not to be outdone, Charles made his first move even before his official declaration, sending the English fleet to intercept the Smyrna Fleet in the English Channel. Reputed to be the richest prize on the seas, the Smyrna Fleet was the annual convoy of Dutch merchantmen sailing from the Levant through the Mediterranean with an armed navy escort to protect them from Barbary pirates. They scarcely expected to be attacked by the English so close to their home port, but despite having surprise in their favor, the Dutch escorts beat back the English, who to Charles’s humiliation captured only a handful of prizes.
Alas, this first engagement proved a sign of more misfortune to come. On the seventh of June, part of the English fleet was surprised by the Dutch at Southwold Bay, off the coast of East Anglia, and the battle that raged was enormously costly to both sides. Serving as commander, the Duke of York had two successive flagships destroyed and sunk beneath him, and despite the seeming advantage of the English, the Dutch were finally able to retreat into the fog without any clear victor decided.
Surely Louis’s army—by repute the greatest since those of the ancient Caesars—would have better success against the tiny Dutch army. The French easily poured over the first two provinces of Gelder land and Utrecht, and Louis and Charles, believing the war was over, wished to begin negotiations for peace. But once again, the Dutch proved that surprise and cleverness can confound sheer might. Faced with invasion, the Dutch turned to their boyish leader (and Charles’s nephew) twenty-one-year-old William of Orange, who ordered the famous network of dykes released and the Dutch Water Line flooded, creating an impossible barrier for the French army. Louis had no choice but to retreat, and plan a fresh attack in the winter, when the water would freeze and be crossable.
The English people could find little cheering in such woeful news, proving as it did that the Dutch were still their superiors. Many began urging Charles to sue for peace soon after the debacle at Southwold Bay. With so little support for the war or hope that it could be won, desertions ran high among the English soldiers and sailors, and officers complained about the flagging morale of those who remained.
Still Charles seemed unaffected both by his country’s despair and his war’s lack of glory. Instead he insisted that everything was well and good, and that victory lay just over the horizon. He wrote long letters of instruction to Lord Arlington, his emissary at the peace negotiations, listing terms and conditions when in truth England had yet to win anything. He made excuses for his brother’s incompetence at Southwold Bay. He visited the fleet at the Nore in Chatham repeatedly, taking his Lord Chancellor, Lord Shaftesbury, and other advisers with him, as if on a summer pleasure junket. In early July, he even took Her Majesty and her attendants with him, as if a trip to the mouth of the Thames were a fit place for his queen.
And where, pray, was I amidst all this?
I was nearly nine months gone with Charles’s child, my poor body so large and clumsy that I scarce left my bed. The palace was nearly empty, with everyone who’d somewhere else to go gone from London. I was left with only Bette and my other servants and a pair of midwives, who took turns watching over me in case my travails began early. My rooms seemed unbearably hot and close, and I was too large to find any comfort in food or drink. Without family or true friends about me, I felt abandoned and melancholy, and more than a little fearful of the coming birth. I wrote letters to my unborn child in the event that I died, I wept into my pillow, and I prayed, for myself, for my child, and for Charles.
My pains began before dawn on the twenty-sixth of July. Following the best advice for safe birthing, the windows to my rooms were sealed shut and roaring fires set in my hearths, no matter that it was the middle of summer. In addition to the midwives, I was attended by Mrs. Chiffinch, a cronish but venerable servant in the king’s household. It was her responsibility to oversee and verify all royal births, and in Charles’s service, she’d witnessed more than her share.
Because this was my first child, my pains were long and my labor so tedious that I feared I’d never be delivered from my suffering. Finally, as the sliver of a new moon was rising in the summer sky, my son was born, a large and lusty boy covered with muck and the blood of my suffering.
“Aye, that’s His Majesty’s get, no mistake,” Mrs. Chiffinch proclaimed as the nursemaids washed my son—my son!—and wrapped him in his first swaddling. “Mark his size, and his hands, and the black hair. He’s the king’s, and I’ll swear to it. I wish you much joy of him, mistress.”
“Thank you,” I said wearily as they finally put the babe in my arms. His tiny mouth opened like a bird’s, and his head flopped awkwardly against my chest.
“He’s hungry, mistress,” explained one of the nursemaids. “Poor little mite. We’ll give him over to the wet nurse soon as she arrives.”
I’d planned to bind my breasts to stop my milk and let him be suckled by another, as was the custom for ladies. But when I gazed down at that tiny, toothless mouth, my eyes filled with tears and my heavy breasts ached with milk.
“I can’t let him go hungry,” I said, fumbling at the front of my gown. “I can’t ever let him go without.”
“Ah, that’s a proper new mother speaking,” the nurse said with approval. “Here, it won’t hurt you, and ’twill do him more good than you know.”
She helped me place the child at my breast, and at once he began to suckle, making tiny mewing noises of contentment, a contentment that matched my own. I was exhausted and torn, but I’d never been happier.
“What shall you call him, mistress?” asked the nurse. “Have you a name?”
“Charles,” I said, the only name I’d ever considered. “His name is Charles.”
Mrs. Chiffinch cackled. “ ’ Course it’s Charles,” she said. “That’s what they all name the first one. Yours is the fifth o’ that name that His Majesty’s sired, you know.”
“But this is the first that he’s sired with me,” I said softly, and as I touched the dark, damp curls on our new son’s head, I resolved my little Charles would always be that way: first among his peers, first at Court, but most of all, first in his father’s affection.
And with me as his mother, how could it be otherwise?
Chapter Twenty
WHITEHALL PALACE, LONDON
August 1672
A lady’s lying-in is usually the month following childbirth. The lady is permitted to remain abed the entire time, dressed prettily in a lace-trimmed smock with ribbons or a cap in her hair and, whilst recovering from her ordeal, receive the congratulations of her acquaintance. Special dishes and pu
nches are served, and the lady receives gifts for her new child, as well as hears the gossip and news she may be missing during her time away from the greater world. At the end of lying-in, the lady is given churching, a special blessing by a priest in gratitude of her safe delivery, and is then welcomed back into her ordinary life.
But because my son was born at a time when my acquaintance were so scattered, I decided to let my lying-in continue beyond its traditional length, until the Court returned to the palace. No one would count the days, or leastways not to my face. It also gave me further time to recover my beauty, and for my little Charles to lose his wizened quality and plumpen, and become even more handsome. Of course to me he’d always been handsome, a true twig from his father’s tree, but I also knew how cruel people could be about mocking a homely babe, and I didn’t think I could bear that.
There was another reason for extending my lying-in. The priest who’d come for my counsel had sourly informed me that churching was reserved for women who were lawfully wedded, and refused my arguments that children of kings followed a different precedence. Impudent man, to dictate the laws of God! I’d rely on Lord de Croissy to persuade him of his error, or beseech Her Majesty’s confessor once they returned to the palace. This might only be the first test for me and my son, but I’d not surrender meekly to it.
The greater challenge, however, was Charles. I’d sent word to him immediately after his son’s birth. I expected him to rush to my side, to display the same joy over our new child as I did.
I was most sadly disappointed. Though the following day he wrote to congratulate me, he made no promises to return, or even offered so much as a hint of when he’d be back. I wept bitterly, wishing with all my heart that it were otherwise. Given the sorry state of the Dutch War, I knew he’d many good reasons for being kept from my side, but still his absence wounded me.
Yet when at last he did come, and held our son in his arms, I forgot all my unhappiness. Unlike many gentlemen, Charles was at ease with babes and children, and devoted a portion of his day in seeing his many offspring. Surely it was the cruelest irony that he’d sired none with his wife, but I found the sweetest pleasure in seeing him cradle the proof of our love in his arms, the babe’s long white linen gown trailing over his dark sleeves.
“You’ve done well, Fubs,” he said, I suspect as proud of himself as he was of me. Our son waved his tiny fists up in his father’s face, tangling them in the long black curls of Charles’s wig, and Charles laughed. “What a fine little lad!”
“Thank you, sir,” I said, tears of rare happiness filling my eyes. “He favors and honors you, I think.”
“That he does,” he said. “Mrs. Chiffinch assured me he was mine.”
“She did?” I asked, offended by that. “I was not aware there was any doubt in your mind, sir. You know you took my maidenhead at Euston, and I swear by all that’s holy that I’ve been with no other man since you. Only you, sir. You shouldn’t have needed anyone else to tell you that.”
“Oh, I’ve never doubted you, sweet,” he said easily, bending over to kiss me, and making our son squawk between us. “You alone have always been faithful to me.”
“Then why did you—”
“Because it’s the way of kings, Louise,” he said. “And it’s the way of all my ladies, too. Mrs. Chiffinch is a good old soul, and entirely reliable.”
I didn’t care for that mention of all his ladies, either. How was it with two quick sentences he’d managed to so thoroughly puncture my joy?
“You have called him Charles?” he said, still looking down at the babe.
“Yes, sir,” I said. “There could be no other name for him but yours.”
He chuckled as his son took his finger in his tiny grasp, seizing it as if he’d never let go. “True enough. Mark the strength he has already!”
“What of his other name, sir?” I’d hoped he would have told me by now, but he hadn’t, so I’d no choice but to ask. His children by Lady Cleveland were all called Fitzroy, an appropriate surname with “roy” signifying the king, and “fitz” their illegitimacy. I expected something similar. There was not the least stigma to these illegitimate royal children; in fact earlier in the summer, the Arlingtons had wed their precious four-year-old daughter, Isabella, to the eight-year-old Duke of Grafton, son of Charles and Lady Cleveland. “What shall he be called?”
“Oh, Charles de Keroualle sounds well enough, doesn’t it?” he said with terrible lack of concern. “More than enough for a brave tiny lad like this one.”
“But—but it’s not, sir,” I said plaintively. “With my name alone, no one will realize that he’s yours.”
He laughed softly, still occupied with the babe in his arms. “Everyone will, Louise. Everyone does. And if they don’t, they’ve only to look at the babe’s face and see me writ large across it.”
I wept, but he did not change his mind. I felt humiliated and disgraced, both for myself and our son, but Charles seemed to think nothing of it. Though others pointed out to me that he’d not immediately recognized Lady Cleveland’s children and that Mrs. Gwyn’s still had no other name than hers, I was not consoled. How could I be? I was a lady, and my son deserved better treatment.
To his credit, Charles didn’t neglect me in other ways. That autumn he bought me an emerald necklace and a new coach, lacquered in a lovely shade of pale blue picked out in gold—the colors that Louis himself preferred, to my amusement—and my income was raised to include the upkeep of our son. I was now receiving £8,600 per annum from the treasury, guaranteed to be paid for my life; an agreeable sum, particularly since it was double what Charles granted Mrs. Gwyn and £2,600 more than Lady Cleveland and all her brats received.
Now I know that I have been accused of being greedy and avaricious, a French woman taking so much English gold (which it wasn’t: for most of the moneys that came my way were from Louis’s subsidies to Charles) for my own. Perhaps it does appear that way when compared to the income of others. At this time, an English gentleman and his family were said to live quite handsomely on £300 per annum, while a common shopkeeper or tradesman kept his family on £50 or even less.
But I wasn’t a common shopkeeper or tradesman. My role in life was to please His Majesty, and keep him as happy as was possible. I was always making improvements to my lodgings, striving to maintain them as the most agreeable retreat for Charles in the entire palace. I kept an excellent table, and my chef was the best in London, perhaps in all England. Thanks to my connections, I’d the best cellar, too, with an ample selection of French wines to be had. Because of this, Charles often preferred to entertain foreign visitors and diplomats in my rooms, and what had begun with him meeting only Lord de Croissy there had soon grown to include the ambassadors of every other Court of any importance in Europe. He trusted me that everything would be arranged to perfection for his guests, and it was.
Further, I was extremely nice in my dress and appearance before Charles, always taking care that he saw me only in the finest and most becoming of gowns and jewels, and with my hair well arranged. Though he himself dressed with exceptional plainness for a gentleman, let alone a king, he had a quick eye for ladies’ finery, and it pleased him mightily to see me dressed in the newest fashions from Paris.
I was also still very much in the employ of His Most Christian Majesty. Louis was very pleased by the birth of my son, and pleased, too, by the influence I had within Whitehall. While my primary desire was to please Charles, I also strived to reflect well on France and, with a fine display of elegant taste, to show my pride in being French, as well.
As can be imagined, all this made for a costly undertaking, and the expenses of my household were very high. But long ago I’d also observed Louis’s favorite mistresses, the Marquise du Montespan and the Marquise du la Vallière, and I’d learned from them. A king’s affection can be fleeting, far more so than that of ordinary men. Though I loved Charles well and did my best to please him in all things, I wasn’t so foolish to believ
e that in time another lady might not catch his eye and replace me in his favor, just as I had done with Lady Cleveland.
I remembered, too, the unpleasantness of impecuniousness, and the disgrace of being the poor lady among the rich, and I’d long ago resolved never to fall into that place again. I took care to set aside some of my income against my future, and whenever I heard of an annuity falling vacant—say, an excise tax on wines—I was not above begging prettily to Charles that it might be given to me.
As can be imagined, what I saw as supporting His Majesty and being providential for myself and my son was often not viewed in the same light by my enemies. Pamphlets, broadsides, and other low papers often printed virulent attacks on my person and, worse, on the king, too, for favoring me. Though I never sought to seek these out for myself, I’d enough enemies at Court that they were often left where I could not help but see them or, worse, read aloud purposely in my hearing and passed off as “wit.” This was one such, unsigned, of course, as the slanders most often were:
While these brats and their mothers do live in such plenty, The nation’s impoverished, and the ’Chequer quite empty; And though war was pretended when the money was lent, More on whores, than on ships, or in war, hath been spent.
Not pleasing at all, any more than were the constant gibes by Mrs. Gwyn and her associates. To provoke me and gain the sympathies of the people, she’d styled herself the “Protestant Whore,” to separate herself from me as the Catholic one. It was all very distasteful to me. I never thought of myself as a whore, but as a maîtresse en titre. I held my head high, and ignored their name-calling as beneath my notice.
Yet one other did call me a whore, too, and stung me to the heart. Soon after my son was born, some evil-minded persons saw fit to inform my father. Instead of rejoicing in the birth of his first grandchild, he damned me as a whore, and sent his curses to me as the final message between us. I’d not seen my family in some time, and his treatment wounded me deeply. Since the day I’d left our château years before, I’d believed I must rely upon myself and my wits for my future. With this last letter from my father, I realized now it was a certainty, and forever I put my girlhood behind me.
The French Mistress Page 35
