Dona Maria came up to say good night, and Catherine kissed her, saying in Portuguese, “Good night to you, querida tia.”
The Condessa looked as though she might have had a good deal to say, were they alone. She understood far more English than she could speak, and had been listening. But she merely answered, “And to you, Alteza,” and followed the others out.
Charles gathered her hand in his long fingers. “Come, sweetheart. Shall we withdraw to your bedchamber, and be entirely at our ease?”
They went in together, followed by Jenny and another waiting woman, both of whom stayed to help her undress.
Catherine thought, Well, we may as well scandalize the servants too, and said to Jenny in Spanish, “Thank you, Jenny, you may also go. We would be quite alone now.”
Jenny curtsied, ushered the other girl out, and closed the door behind them. Catherine knew they would not go far.
The dogs, of course, had trailed them in, and now flopped down together on the rug. Old True was asleep almost instantly, Rogue curled up with his head resting on True’s flank, and mother and daughter Babette and Feliciana sat companionably grinning and chewing on each other’s ears.
Her husband threw himself down on a velvet settee, stretching his long legs out before him. “Od’s fish, but it’s a relief to sit quietly. I’ve been this last hour with some members of Parliament. If I’d known how much of being king lies in listening to self-important people insult one to one’s face in the most deliberate and interminable fashion, I’d have stayed in exile forever.”
Catherine remained standing. “Ah, and you would have been far happier, no doubt.”
He lowered his head and gave her a charming smile up under his lashes. “Do you think to catch me out so easily? Nay, sweetheart, that’s my cue to say: But then I should never have known you.”
He meant her to laugh, and she would have, were her heart not beating with mingled fear and anger. How could it be that she still did not know how far she could trust him? She looked away at the fire, conscious of his watching her.
He didn’t pretend not to know what she was thinking of. He said, more soberly, “Perhaps I should have told you. Believe me if you can, but I honestly didn’t think.”
She thought, Should have told me what? That he is your son? Or that he will be your heir?
She crossed to a side table, poured a glass of wine, and carried it back to him. He took it, with a wary look at her. He doesn’t want another battle any more than I do, she thought. But I must be armed with knowledge.
“Will you tell me now, my lord?”
He made a gesture of impatience, “What is left to tell? Your own eyes have told you who he is.”
“And his mother?”
He drank deeply, set the glass down, stood, and began to pace in his restless way. She sat and watched him. “We met in the Hague,” he said at last, “when I was not so much older than he is now. She was not my first, but I was still young enough to fancy myself in love with her. She was wiser.”
“May I know her name?”
“She was called Lucy Walter. A Welsh gentlewoman. Her family was ruined by the war, and she was making her way as best she could. We were soon separated, I to rejoin the fighting, and she to a more well-heeled protector, and then another. When reports came in of the child, though, it was clear he was mine. But I was in no position to provide for him. You’ve heard all about that time.”
She had. She had drawn the stories out of him, though he was not much inclined to dwell on a past full of grievous struggles, when the present held so many and varied pleasures. She knew how the young prince had sought frantically and fruitlessly throughout Europe to raise an army from among his relations and supposed allies to rescue his father from Cromwell’s forces, and how he had learned he was too late. How he had led a fractious Scottish force to take back his country, and how the attempt ended in disaster and defeat and weeks of living on the run, a wanted man hiding in trees, before he escaped again. She knew of the years abroad with his ragtag army of exiles, never ceasing to work toward his return. And finally, with the strangest ease: Cromwell’s death, the republic’s collapse, the invitation to come home and restore the monarchy.
She nodded, face still to the fire.
He came back to her now and sat beside her. She felt, as ever, his animal warmth radiating through her. A great part of her was tempted to turn to him and stop her racing thoughts with a kiss.
But she withdrew and stood, and went and poured her own glass of wine, and drank. Without looking at him, she said, “You speak of her as though of one in the past. Is she . . .”
“She’s dead. Died in Brussels four years ago, of . . . well, the sort of illness her sort of life exposes one to.”
His voice was flat. She thought, He’s hurt that I’m still asking questions. I must not mind that.
“She led a sad, reckless life, poor lady,” he went on. “Dragged the boy from Cologne to London to the Low Countries, making herself a scandal wherever she went. She was even in the Tower for a bit, suspected for a spy. The boy had no schooling, he was growing up like a wolf cub, and it being widely known who he was, he might have been taken at any time to use against me. We . . . I took him from her. Sent a man, and seized him. I had him sent to my friend Crofts in exile in Paris, who lent him his name. Later he came to my mother’s court. She told me he could scarce write a word.”
Catherine turned, her compassion engaged. “Oh, Charles. The poor boy.”
“I know. I know. I had no home to give him, but I cannot say I haven’t made a sad business of it.” He straightened his back, shaking off melancholy. “Still. Here he is. He’s young; we may yet make something of him. He’s a good lad, and a brave one. He may make a naval officer . . . Well, we shall see.”
He paused, eyes raised to hers. “You do not mind him, do you, Cat? I mean, the fact of him.”
She took a careful breath, thinking, and shook her head. “No, no. There is nothing to mind. Not something that happened so long ago. And he is blameless. I will be glad to be his friend.”
“But? Come, do you think I cannot see that you are troubled? Tell me and let us have it out.”
He was still sitting, but upright and tensely, as though ready to leap up and face whatever he had to. He had, while talking, raked his hands through his hair distractedly, and it was wild and tangled. Babette came over and pawed at his knee; he lifted her up and stroked her as though for comfort. Catherine could see the sorrow beneath his charm, the harried lines in his still-youthful brow. She felt she had never seen it so clearly. Why was she trying to play this careful game with him, holding her own hand close and strategizing for advantage? She wasn’t any good at it. She would rather lay all her cards out, and hazard her stakes on whatever came.
“Why did you tell him to put his hat on?”
This was clearly the last thing Charles expected her to say. “Why did I—what? His hat?”
“In the park. This afternoon.”
Charles was still staring at her, plainly all at sea. She said, “Someone told me—I was told—that only royalty may remained covered in your presence. That it meant he would be your—that he would be your heir.”
There. It was out.
Comprehension dawned on Charles’s face. And then he laughed. He positively roared. Babette squirmed out of his arms and barked, setting all the dogs off. Over the din Catherine protested, “But how can you laugh? Charles, this is serious!”
He put his head in his hands and rubbed his eyes. “Yes, I know, dearest. It is only—” He chuckled, as though against his will, and tried again. “It is only that your face, so serious, about a—about a hat—” And he was off again, leaning back against the cushions.
Catherine stood her ground. When he could meet her eyes again, she said, “Very well, but it seemed to mean something to people. I would not have thought anything of it, otherwise.”
He sobered at last, snapped his fingers and said, “Down!” to the still excit
ed spaniels, and they obediently subsided. He sat thinking a moment. “Od’s blood, I’m a fool. Not what I meant at all. I just wanted to be kind. Do you think he thought . . . ? Never mind. I’ll sort it out. Make sure he understands the position.”
“Which is?” Catherine was already feeling lightheaded with relief. But she wished to hear it stated quite plainly.
Charles rose and came to her, taking her hand and placing it palm down over his heart. He looked down into her eyes. “That he is my beloved son, and will be so known. And that he never can—never will—be king. For we shall have kings, dearest Cat, you and I—enough kings to people all England.”
She reached up and put both arms around his neck. He embraced her, lifting her until her feet were off the floor and she was squeezed nearly to breathlessness. She whispered into his ear, “Perhaps we shall make one tonight.”
And that was how the king and queen came to go to bed at a shockingly early hour on a fair autumn night, and Jenny spent the night sleeping quite cozily by the fire of the outer chamber.
• • •
Barbara sat at her dressing table as her woman, Alice, moved about the room, tidying away her clothes and jewels. Barbara wore a sky-blue satin retiring gown over her linen shift, and her hair lay curling and loose about her shoulders. She could see for herself in the mirror that her beauty had not abandoned her. It was small comfort, just at this moment.
She could not remember feeling any lower, in all her life. There was little enough reason for it. She was a Lady of the Bedchamber, a high position that protected her reputation, kept her in countenance at court, and brought in a stipend she jealously tucked away. So far, Charles’s loyalty in seeing her well supplied with comforts had not wavered. But she had seen what became of mistresses who took too much for granted, when they grew old and lost their looks. She would never allow that to happen to her.
Bitter thoughts. But there she was. She had won the battle, and lost the only war that mattered. Day after day, holding her head up as the little queen disdained her. Night after night, sleeping alone with a maid snoring like a puppy at the foot of the bed. Seeing Charles only in public, acting as though it cost her nothing to smile and bow and banter, as though nothing had changed, when everything had.
The king came no more to her bed.
She slid her gown off her shoulder and eased down her shift, exposing her breasts. She cupped them gently, looking at them in the mirror. Still exquisite, despite her so-recent second babe; thank goodness for the wet nurse. Nothing would be easier in the world than for her to take another lover. Men’s eyes fixed on her wherever she went, from lords at court to actors at the theater. There was even a court acrobat whose elastic physique had caught her eye, and made her wonder how his skills would manifest in the bedchamber. It was no secret her position had shifted, and the subtlest competition was in play for who would succeed a king. She was young. Her very skin ached with longing for touch. Why should she ever lie alone?
And yet.
And yet.
And yet, in all honesty, foolish as it might be, humiliating as it was to admit, even only to herself, she wanted him. Only him. Still him. Wanted him in her bed, and her in his heart. And she wanted the glory and position too, of all the world knowing she was his. That was still a pearl beyond price to her. She was far from ready to resign all hope.
She covered herself. The evening had brought a glimmer. She knew perfectly well, despite Lady Buckingham’s exquisite malice, that Charles had no intention of legitimizing young Crofts. If such a thing were even possible, she herself would have stopped at nothing to seize the prize for their own son. No, that was a false hare started. But Catherine might not know it. Though the little queen had done a passable job of hiding her feelings, Barbara thought she had been shaken. What if she were to quarrel again with Charles? Would he not turn to Barbara for comfort once again? Heaven knew she was not proud, in this way. If he came to her, she would welcome him back with all her heart, and more to the point, all the sensual joy it was within her power to bestow. She caught her breath, picturing it. And then her heart leapt, for there was a scratch at the door.
Her woman looked to her, and Barbara held up her hand to delay her a moment. She bit her lip to bring the color up, tugged her gown down just a bit, and stood to face the door. She gestured for Alice to open it.
And then her heart sank, for through the door came not Charles, but her friend the Earl of Rochester, looking like an angel, though she knew him far from angelic, with his gold hair flowing over the shoulders of his emerald-green jacket. He was followed by the young James Crofts.
Feeling that it would kill her if the keen-eyed Rochester were to guess her disappointment, she summoned a delighted smile and said, “Here is a welcome surprise!”
Rochester bowed elaborately, and gestured to the young man. Both of them were plainly lit up from a night of drinking, though not to any gross degree. The young earl said, “I know you like pretty things, my dear Lady Castlemaine, and so I have brought this pretty thing to be presented to you. It is called Mister Crofts, of all things, and we have agreed so well tonight that he allows me to call him Jamie. Perhaps he would extend to you the same privilege.”
Mister Crofts had not moved from the doorway. He was gazing wide-eyed at Barbara, apparently awestruck. Rochester gave a little push at his shoulder. “Stir yourself, moon-calf, have you never seen a beautiful woman before?”
The youth startled, and hastily made his leg. Straightening, he said, “I beg your pardon, lady. I must confess—I must admit—that is—”
Barbara couldn’t help laughing at his confusion. He flushed and made a heroic effort. “Madam, I will say the truth, which is that of all the beauty I have seen in all the world, nothing can have prepared me for your . . . your goddess-like visage.”
Rochester snickered and Barbara gave him a look before offering her hand to the newcomer. “You are very welcome, although I beg you to use no flattery. Your charming person is all the passport you need with me, Mister Crofts.”
She gestured them to an arrangement of chairs across from her bed. The younger man, in his vinous state, nearly fell down into one before recovering his poise.
“Do please call me Jamie, if you like,” he said, enunciating carefully. “I never liked the name of Crofts, nor the title of Mister, and I hope to change them both for better before long.”
There was a mix of petulance and pride in his voice. Barbara sat and regarded him. She could see a bit of Charles in his face. But his mother must have been very pretty indeed.
Rochester had gone to the table where the wine stood, and came now to hand Barbara a glass. He raised his, and said, “To your extraordinarily glowing health, my lady.”
They drank, and Jamie said sulkily, “None for me?”
Rochester sat, leaned over, and patted his rust-velvet knee. “Oh, I think perhaps you’ve had enough. Don’t they know how to drink in the Queen Mother’s court?”
The youth flushed, clearly embarrassed. Barbara leaned forward, and held out her glass. “Sip from mine, sweet boy, and wish me health with it.”
He stared at her décolletage as though transfixed. She touched the rim of the glass against his full red lip and tipped the wine into his mouth. He swallowed.
“My God,” Rochester breathed. “Barb’ry, you are shameless.”
She sat back in her chair and laughed. “Are you jealous, my dear? You are not a whit less beautiful in comparison. In fact, I think you set each other off nicely. Rose Red and Snow White,” she added, “like the fairy tale. You know. The dark sister and the fair?”
Rochester smiled lazily. “And does that make you the wolf?”
“Don’t be silly, there’s no wolf in that story.”
“Well, the bear, then. Something fierce, wild, and dangerous.”
“Darling Rochester, you say the nicest things! But are you sure it is not you who are the prowling beast?”
“Let us be beasts together,” he purred
. “They always have the most fun.”
The young Mister Crofts was staring back and forth between them, looking dazzled. Barbara was enjoying this immensely. The youth’s open admiration was salving the wound his father had dealt her. She smiled at him. “You must forgive us, Jamie; you see, we are old friends, and may tease with impunity.”
Rochester reached over and flicked one of the youth’s dark curls. “Oh, he minds not, it is no doubt a relief to him just to listen—his wit is spent after the long day he has had.”
“Oh?” Barbara said. She knew that malicious little spark in Rochester’s eye, but couldn’t think what it might portend.
“Yes, for among other great events, he was presented to the queen.”
He needn’t think he could disconcert her so easily, she thought; especially with something she knew already. She turned to the boy. “And how did you like her?”
She had meant it as a banality, expecting some commonplace response. Instead, his eyes narrowed, his nostrils flared, and his light young voice roughened with anger. “I did not, my lady. I did not like her at all, nor can I, nor will I.”
Rochester and she exchanged amazed looks, the young earl frankly delighted at this unexpected entertainment. “Why, what’s this? Not a very gallant speech, my boy.”
“And why should I be gallant? She is nothing—nothing but a usurper!”
“What on earth do you mean?” asked Rochester, fascinated.
Barbara put a hand on his arm. “He’s sotted, Rochester. Kindly take him away and in future do me the honor of not bringing drunk little boys to see me.”
Rochester shook her off. “Nonsense, Babs, let him speak, he’s vastly amusing.”
Of course, that was what she most wanted. Perhaps it was cowardly of her, but she had only wanted to be able to claim she had not encouraged him.
Whitehall--Season One Volume One Page 20
