by Priya Parmar
“Like it?” a voice behind me asked.
I turned to see the king, standing in the doorway, beaming. I could not answer him but ran straight into his open arms.
“So beautiful,” I said into his chest.
“As are you, my love.” He laughed, pulling me into the great pink feather-bed.
Later—nine p.m. (my new bedroom)
“But can you afford it?” I asked him later as we were sitting up devouring the supper Mrs. Lark had brought: a tray of canary wine, cold chicken, fresh salad, and potatoes roasted with rosemary. Charles loves to be generous, but too often it is not within his budget.
He laughed. “Why, how practical you are, my darling. What kind of question is that to put to your king?”
“A very pertinent one,” I persisted.
“True,” he conceded. “My budget is limited, but I can afford to furnish and renovate a small London house—just not London itself. But soon I will not be relying on Parliament for my funding.” He meant the Dover Treaty—not signed and still a long way off.
“Will King Louis be generous?” I ventured.
“My cousin Louis is shrewd and knows he has to offer considerable terms to tempt me into Catholicism,” Charles said solemnly.
I instinctively looked around to make sure no one had heard. The king laughed. “You think there are Protestant spies lurking under the bed? By the way, before I forget, de Croissy, the new French ambassador, is stopping by tomorrow morning. Would you ask Mrs. Lark to make some of her yellow butter cakes?”
“He’s coming here?”
“Why not? We shall have a little court in Newman’s Row.”
I thought of my untrained, noisy servants banging up and down the stairs, my utterly unfinished building site of a house, and my indulged, unruly menagerie. “We shall certainly have an informal court in Newman’s Row.” I giggled. “State visits to my house, good God.”
Even later—four a.m. (moonlight)
“Come and see the best part,” the king said, waking me in the night and handing me my robe. “Slippers, too—it is chilly.” We crept up the backstairs in our nightclothes, trailed by the sleepy dogs. He led me up through the house, past the servants’ bedrooms, and up a little crooked attic stairway. Lifting up a hatch, he handed me up to a rooftop beyond. It was an English garden in miniature, with potted orange trees, climbing roses, pink cabbage roses, larkspur, sweet-william, white lilac, and an ivied trellis railing running along the perimeter.
“Charles!”
“Here.” He tugged my hand, too impatient to let me discover his magical garden myself. “Look.”
It was a telescope, protected by a tiny three-sided wooden gazebo. We spent the rest of the night looking at the starlit sky.
Undated—Newman’s Row
Mrs. Chiffinch told me this morning that the queen knows of this house. We were in the morning room discussing colours and fabrics for the bedrooms when she abruptly delivered this news.
“But she is not angry,” Mrs. Chiffinch reassured me, seeing my horrified expression. “She has come to understand that there will always be some woman, and it is easier for her if it is you.”
“But I was her friend,” I said miserably, setting down the heavy book of fabric swatches.
“Yes, you were, and you behaved badly in that respect, but of all of them, you are the only one who does not urge him to divorce the queen. Unlike Castlemaine, your ambitions stop at his heart. You love him for his own sake, and she of all women can understand that.”
Later (dusk)
I am shaken. I had not expected sympathy. She is right. I do not want to destroy his marriage. She is the queen, as I could never be. There is room for us both.
June 20, 1669—Official Notations for Privy Council Meeting on This Day to Be Entered into the Log-book
Notations taken by Secretary of State Henry Bennet, Earl of Arlington
A sad day for the House of Stuart, Her Grace the Dowager Queen Henrietta Maria has died in her sleep at Colombes in her native country of France. The court will go into deep mourning as of this afternoon. Necessary cloth has been ordered for the public buildings; all royal domestics will be issued black livery. Parliament has approved funds for public mourning.
Letters of condolence arrived from King Louis of France and his queen.
There is some concern that the Monsieur, Phillippe Duc d’Orléans, will claim the late queen’s possessions on behalf of his wife Princesse Henriette-Anne, who has just borne another daughter. Nothing as yet has been decided. There is also the question of the grain of laudanum that Dr. Vallot, physician to the French royal family, administered to help Queen Henrietta Maria sleep that night. The Dowager Queen had previously refused the draught, claiming that such things did not agree with her constitution. When she was yet unable to sleep, she consented. King Louis XIV has ordered a full enquiry into this matter and will send his findings to our Council directly.
Nothing further to report.
Secretary of State Henry Bennet, Earl of Arlington
June 25, 1669—Newman’s Row
“To the left, Lark,” Charles instructed. “Tie it just there.”
We were in the back garden training pink climbing roses to grow over the new curved arbour gate that Grandfather, Charles, and Lark had just finished building.
“About Madame’s letter,” said Monsieur de Croissy, the new French ambassador who was pacing about the garden, trying to draw the king into conversation.
“And then if we start the other batch growing from this side, Your Majesty?” Lark asked, holding up a pretty vine. “It should knit together by summer’s end.”
“Very good!” the king said enthusiastically, his bare hands covered in fresh dirt. “What do you say, sir?” he asked Grandfather, who was sitting in the cool shade of the peach tree. “Another slimmer trellis over the garden door?”
I looked up from my bed of creamy cabbage roses to watch the king working so happily in the company of my family.
“Lark!” Mrs. Lark called from the kitchen door. “Oh, begging your pardon, Your Majesty,” she said, upon seeing the king. “I just finished a fresh pitcher of sweet lemon water; it’s a new recipe, with honey and touch of mint, and I was going to test it out on Mr. Lark.”
“You must try it out on us, Mrs. Lark! It sounds delicious!” the king said, wiping his hands on a clean cloth.
“With some butter cakes,” Mrs. Lark determined. “With lemon-sugar icing.” She was already heading back into the house.
She returned and, spreading out a snowy cloth, laid out a pretty afternoon collation of cakes, cold coffee, and sweet citrus juices. We ate in the slanting sun and talked of this and that: the law banning blood transfusions in France, the newest plays, the stylish new cutaway jackets, and the next shipment of imported lace—everything but government, politics, and the king’s family.
June 27, 1669—Newman’s Row (hot)
Charles is spending most of his days here. He does not care to publicly mourn with the court. He is quiet and thoughtful but not sad. It was a complicated affection, he tells me. He does not miss her but regrets that he did not heed his sister’s pleas and visit their ailing Mother. “I was not at the deathbed of either of my parents,” he told me, “but then my father did not die in a bed.” He picked up a Venetian glass ball and held it up to the afternoon sun. “Did you know I sent a blank letter? Just my signature and nothing else.”
“Blank letter?”
“To Cromwell, from the Hague. Any terms. I left it blank to show that I would sign my name to any terms that would spare my father’s life.” He looked at the blue glass ball in his hand as if he was surprised to find it there.
When I asked about his mother, his description was, at best, unflattering: “She was opinionated, stubborn, and nothing I did pleased her. She has been determined to be miserable every day since the death of my father.” He broke off, hearing his escaping bitterness. This was a man who had trained himself to experience only t
he sweet side of everything. “But, my God…,” he said thoughtfully, as he looked out the window to the meadow beyond, “did she love him.”
Every so often he breaks the quiet with random anecdotes pulled from his past: how she charged him per meal during their penniless exile, how she fed his dogs free of charge, how she passionately loved her husband but never understood her adopted country. He replays his life over and over.
He worries for his sister, now the last member of his immediate family left in France, and is forever urging her to visit, although having just risen from childbed, she cannot. Her grief for her mother is genuine. “There is no one Minette could not love, including our mam,” he said after reading her letter. I just sit by him and stay quiet: It is all I can do.
Note—I asked Rose to sew some mourning clothes for me and the staff, and she has already sent over a stunning black striped satin gown: black on black, very elegant.
June 28, 1669—Bagnigge Wells
Charles and I have returned to the quiet of the country. He was loath to go to one of his official residences for fear of all the fuss and ceremony, so we slipped away here. The Larks accompanied us, and each day we take all the dogs, a duck or two if they are inclined, and Molly on a long walk by the river. Charles is teaching me to fish, although I try not to catch any—it seems cruel. Charles is much preoccupied with his sister’s well-being and happiness and, I suspect, with the brewing treaty betwixt the two countries. I do not try to divert him but let him know that I am here at the end of the path.
June 30, 1669—Official Notations for Privy Council Meeting on this Day to Be Entered into the Log-book
Notations taken by Secretary of State Henry Bennet, Earl of Arlington
The king’s instinct was correct and the Monsieur did indeed try to claim the late queen’s goods—particularly her jewels—for his wife. But the Madame, with the support of King Louis, insisted that what rightfully belonged to England should be returned to the English Crown, and so the queen’s jewels and effects will be sent here.
The king instructed the Council to issue an invitation for the Madame to bring them herself, as a guest of the English Crown, but she has formally refused.
Nothing further to report.
Secretary of State Henry Arlington, Earl of Arlington
August 19
Clean linen again this month. Hold still. Trust. Hope. Another month, and I tell him.
When I Share a Joy
September 12, 1669—Bagnigge Wells (still hot!)
“This won’t work if you stay on the bank, Nell!” Charles called out, lazily floating in the shady water. Ruby and Scandalous looked at me in alarm, concerned that if I go in, they might be required to jump in and rescue me. Charles’s spaniels, all accustomed to water sports, flung themselves into the water with abandon.
“Sit, stay,” I told them. “But how does it work?” I asked, buying time on hard ground and watching the dogs swim round their master.
“Out! Out!” He herded them onto the bank. “Well, we are largely composed of humours that float, and so, on the whole, we float.”
I put my bare toe into the river. It felt cold, but then he looked warm, and the dogs, now shaking off the water and stretching out in the sunshine, looked warm, and so it must be warm. “On the whole?” I asked sceptically. “Ruby, sit.” I did not want her going in the water.
“Well, the odd man here or there doesn’t float, but most do. In any case I am right here to save you. Just go, all at once! No hesitation! One, two, three! There’s my brave girl!” he whooped as I ungracefully tumbled in on my bottom.
I rose, sputtering, to the surface, shocked by the cold—it was not warm at all. Laughing, he caught me in his arms and held me securely as I caught my breath. It was an exhilarating feeling: the chilly weightlessness after the bright day’s warmth. Just then Molly jumped in after me and paddled in circles around us. This was too much for the dogs, and they all began to bark, alarming Molly, who only paddled faster.
“Now, kick your legs and move your arms like this—that’s it!” he cheered, as I began to gently propel myself through the water with Molly on one side and Charles on the other. The three of us splashed about happily and then lay on the sunstriped lawn to dry. I can swim!
Later
“Is that safe?” I asked him tentatively. He was lying on his back, enjoying the golden summer evening light. “For a woman, I mean.”
“Well, you’re a woman and you’re safe,” he answered without opening his eyes.
“Suppose a woman were in a more delicate condition?”
“And what kind of condition might that be?” he asked softly, propping himself up on one elbow to look down at me.
Tuesday, October 1, 1669—Church Street, Windsor
The queen is in residence, and I just can’t stay in the castle—well, won’t is a better word. Refuse is an even better word. Barbara Castlemaine and her brood are also lodged in the castle while Nunsuch is being renovated (again), another excellent reason to live here. This house is matchbox charming and set back on a quiet lane. Charles has hired a full staff, including two coachman, cook, cook-maid, housekeeper, housemaid, lady’s maid, scullery maid, laundry-maid, porter, two footmen, kitchen gardener, flower gardener, and errand boy. The Larks stayed in London to supervise the decoration and look after the animals; Jezebel got up to all kinds of wickedness and has had a family. Grandfather and Mr. Lark have had to build a larger shed for them.
This house is tall but slim and will not hold such a large staff, so I have packed some of them off to London to help ready the house in Newman’s Row, which is still under renovation and showing no sins of being finished anytime soon. Charles drew up wonderful plans for modernising the kitchens, widening the stairway, raising the door frames, breaking through walls to combine small rooms into larger ones and even installing an indoor water closet, but I fear that we will never see the end of the construction and I will be doomed to live forever in a cloud of sawdust. We have still not chosen colours or furnishings for any of the reception rooms, despite Mrs. Lark’s pestering. I want green (verdant and peaceful), and she wants gold (ornate and gaudy); we are at an impasse. Grandfather and Mr. Lark are enjoying the building process enormously and spend hours poring over the plans and debating at length all the technical logistics of this wild endeavour.
Meanwhile, without the distraction of the stage, I am growing increasingly restless. I understand that Charles is determined that I should not overdo it, but at this rate I will have nothing to do. With the exception of his obsessive but warranted care of the queen during her many unsuccessful pregnancies, I have never heard of his expressing such vivid concern when his women are with child, and this is his ninth child! He has not even been to my bed in the last week, saying I need my rest. I hope there are no court beauties up there luring him back at night.
Later—Church Street (two o’clock in the morning)
The queen just left. I read these words and cannot quite believe them.
Tonight:
At eleven o’clock, after Charles had returned to the castle, Jerome arrived with a note from the queen requesting a brief audience. Stunned, I quickly agreed. She arrived within a few minutes, leaving me little time to remove all traces of Charles from the sitting room: his books, maps, boots, clocks, and his velvet hat with the crimson plume…
“Your Majesty.” I curtsied deeply. She was smaller than I remembered.
“Mrs. Gwyn,” she said, refusing the proffered chair, her back willow-wand straight. “I understand you are carrying my husband’s child.”
I nodded, startled by her directness and moved by her great courage.
“And will you be seeking … placement?” Her voice had lost none of its rich Portuguese lilt.
“At court?” In spite of myself, I giggled at the ludicrous thought.
She smiled at my response, visibly relaxing. “It is rumoured that you have requested a place in my household, and after a royal birth…. It has happen
ed … before.” Her mouth turned up in a sardonic smile. In a gesture of impulsive sweetness, she reached out, taking my hand in her own. “I knew it to be false, but I wanted to be sure. It did not sound like you. While you have caused me tremendous hurt, Ellen”—she paused, searching for the right words—“you have never been cruel.”
I squeezed her tiny hand. “Your Majesty…” How to ask forgiveness? She shook her head, my unspoken apology running off her like a raindrop. Her eyes met mine in absolute understanding. She left without another word, lightly climbing into the waiting coach.
I will not tell anyone of her visit. I know she would prefer it, and I very much want to please this brave little woman.
When We Disagree
October 3, 1669—Church Street, Windsor
I have just returned from a tense walk with Charles through Home Park, which is rapidly returning to its pre-war beauty, I am told. It was a walk with a specific purpose, I discovered soon after we set out.
“Hmmm.” Charles uncharacteristically cleared his throat. “As you will not be returning to the stage—”
