Whitehall--Season One Volume One

by Liz Duffy Adams

  “What do you think of all this, Mister Winthrop?” the king asked. “Does it stir your curiosity or are you only lured by the world of plants?”

  “I believe all things are in some way connected, Your Majesty.”

  “D’you now? In what way?”

  “Perhaps only that we’re all made of cosmic dust—fallen stars, if you will. Perhaps more. Only time and study will tell us.”

  Mister Evelyn leaned in. “Your field is botany, sir? One of my areas of study is trees.”

  The king clapped Mister Winthrop on the shoulder. “Mister Winthrop shares your passion, Mister Evelyn. Tell him about your figs, young man.”

  “Your Majesty.” Mister Aubrey, a thin man with a hooked nose, approached. His wig sat slightly askew, and his coat needed brushing, but Charles found the philosophers often cared more for the shape of a leaf than the condition of a coat, and took their eccentricities in stride. “I have a proposition for you.”

  “Do tell, Mister Aubrey.”

  “I have been writing a history of the counties of Wiltshire and Surrey, and I’ve found the most marvelous pattern of antiquities in Avebury. I plan to map it once the weather grows fine and I wondered if perhaps, well, if perhaps Your Majesty might like to join me.”

  “Antiquities, you say?”

  “Indeed, sire. Perhaps related to the monoliths in Wiltshire, though one can’t be sure, of course.”

  The familiar kindling of excitement rose in Charles’s breast, and he thought to share the day’s discussions with his intelligent wife. While Barbara had always enjoyed political discussions, and often offered keen insights, he thought Catherine more the scientist of the pair. “Keep me abreast of your plans. I might enjoy such an excursion very much.”

  • • •

  After a restless night, Barbara arose early, donned a dressing gown, and raised her girl to go to the kitchen and alert them that she wanted a tray. Margaret had been admirably attentive since Barbara had settled her with a cloak woven of wool and silk, as well as a pair of new shillings, the morning after the Incident.

  She wandered into her aviary, kept just off her bedchamber where there was light and air for the birds, her bright canaries and cooing gray doves. It was yet early, so she left the volaries hooded and allowed the creatures to sleep, but opened the shutters to allow the milky day in. On the river, a barge loaded with a cow and a horse and tall baskets floated through the purple-tinged mist. The courtyard beyond her apartments was empty save for a lad scurrying toward the kitchens with his arms full of wood.

  She drew her hair over her shoulder and pulled a brush through it. The hectic dreams began to fade, dreams of being chased by hounds through the palace grounds, of Catherine, big with child, smiling wolfishly, of her own belly swelling with a demon.

  An exaggeration. And yet, she worried. Her courses had not come.

  Halt! she told herself. It was unlike her to be so fretful, so weak-minded. It had only been a short time. If she found herself with child, she would only lie with Charles to make the babe his anyway. Done.

  She leaned into the long opening of the window and caught sight of a figure slipping out of a hallway and into the courtyard. The mist cloaked him at first, then parted.

  Charles made his way across the courtyard, hair and coat brushed even so early. The sight of him caught her beneath her breastbone, a sharp puncture that stole her breath. How she missed him!

  “Milady,” Margaret said, dipping respectfully before settling the tray on a small table.

  “Thank you,” she said absently, willing Charles to turn and look toward her window, to see her face watching him move so jauntily through the morning. He disappeared through the heavy doors that led to his own apartments, and Barbara pressed a hand to her heart. When had she lost him so thoroughly?

  But more importantly, how could she win his attentions back?

  • • •

  In his privy chamber a week later, Charles wrote a letter to his sister Minette. His limbs fair hummed from his long walk with the dogs in the crisp morning and his mood was fine. His correspondence with his sister was one of the great pleasures of his days. This afternoon, he spoke of the figs growing in the orangery and of his vigorous walk and the suddenly noticeable shift in how long daylight lingered into the late afternoon. A tip toward spring, and he would welcome the change. It had been a cold winter indeed.

  One of his young courtiers stepped up to his desk. “Forgive my intrusion, Your Majesty. Sir Charles Berkeley wishes a word.”

  Charles set down his pen, hiding a scowl. This would not be good news. “Yes, yes,” he said, wiggling his fingers to gesture the man forward.

  Sir Charles was the Keeper of the Privy Purse, and Charles had only had his weekly meeting with him two days before. “Perhaps a private word, Your Majesty?”

  “Very well.” He nodded and the courtiers departed. Charles did not ask Sir Charles to sit, and he stood stiffly by the mullioned windows overlooking the Thames, where ships and barges moved on their rounds, sails inflating and deflating in the sunlight.

  “Out with it. What trouble now to mar my day?”

  Berkeley worried the brim of his hat. “I’m afraid it is the Lady Castlemaine, sire. She has overspent her allowance and came to me for an advance, which I said I could not grant without your leave.”

  “How much does she ask?”

  “Twelve thousand pounds, Your Majesty. She pled gambling debts from the night of the state dinner, which she said she engaged on your behalf to entertain the Muscovites.”

  To cover his annoyance, Charles pursed his lips and peered out toward the water. He’d warned her repeatedly, and still she wantonly lost at the tables. It was profligate, when the dowry of goods had not yet been sold, the promised gold had never arrived, and when that very state dinner for the enormous party had cost the earth and the entertainments continued to cost blood and soul. The forty days of ceremony they required progressed all too slowly, their prodigious appetites devouring all profit their gifts had delivered.

  And yet, he had neglected Barbara these past months. His most pressing duty was to seed an heir upon his queen. She had bravely kept a cheerful face over the failure of that babe to appear thus far, but the more they lay together, the more likely the chance.

  Barbara had done no ill to be discarded, and he did yet long for her, the spice and voluptuousness she brought, her ready turn of wit, the throaty sound of her wicked laughter. The memory swept along his neck, luring him toward her.

  But he had promised Catherine not to lie with the woman, and for the nonce, he would honor that promise.

  Growling a little, Charles said, “Give the Lady Castlemaine what she asks, but warn her I will not always be so generous.”

  Berkeley bowed. “Of course, sire.”

  Charles dipped his pen, trying to remember where he’d left off. Sir Charles did not move.

  “What else, Berkeley?”

  “Only, er, how shall I rearrange the other costs we are juggling? Shall I—”

  “That would be your task, Berkeley.” He went back to his letter. “And see to it that the Lady Castlemaine is given the gifts we discussed.”

  “The furs and jewels, sire?”

  Charles raised his head. “I hope I do not hear censure in your tone.”

  “No, no. Of course not, Your Majesty.” He bowed his way out.

  As soon as the man was gone, Charles frowned after him. The problems of the treasury would have to be addressed, but he had lived too long in exile to pinch pennies with a mistress he rightfully deserved.

  The treasury would wait. He dipped his pen and wrote to his sister of the marvelous discoveries being made by men of science.

  • • •

  Lady Eleanor disliked nearly everything about the papist services she was obliged to attend with the queen. The incense burned her eyes and gave her a headache. The repetitive prayers, murmured without original intent, the same prayers said for a thousand years—how insulting
to the dear Lord!—she found thoughtless, empty of true passion.

  But the worst were the statues of saints—idolatry, all of them, but especially the Virgin Mary, who was elevated nearly to the status of God. A woman!

  These past days, they had all waited as the queen knelt before the statue and prayed the same prayer, day in and day out. She had explained that the purpose was exactly that repetition, but to Lady Eleanor it seemed very like an incantation, like witchcraft. Wasn’t a spell simply repetitive words, said in a certain way?

  “Will you walk with me, Lady Eleanor?” the queen invited in her musical accent as she emerged from the chapel on the seventh day.

  “Of course, Your Majesty.”

  They pulled their cloaks about them, shivering in the passageway where wind seemed to be captured and run up their skirts like demons. She shivered at the idea, a black creature clinging to her legs, biting—

  “Are you happy here?” the queen inquired. She had trouble making the soft h sound, and it came out as “’appy ’ere?”

  “Yes, Madam. It is a great honor to serve you.” Lady Eleanor half-curtsied for effect, feeling her gut sink. She had not been a good actor in this, and now she would be found out.

  “Have you left someone? A child? A husband?”

  “Oh, no. I am alone. An unmarried woman with only a brother.”

  “You miss home, no?” She tucked her hand through Lady Eleanor’s elbow. Despite herself, she felt elevated by the queen’s attention. “You are not so old, yes—we shall find you a husband!”

  “Oh!” Lady Eleanor stopped in her tracks. She should have known this would arrive. “Please, no, Madam. I—er—”

  The queen paused. “Do you not want a child of your own?”

  Lady Eleanor shivered, imagining herself marooned at court with some drunken courtier, forever locked into a life woven of lies. But the queen wished for a child desperately, and Eleanor inclined her head. “I have not allowed myself to dream of it, Your Majesty. Perhaps some women are meant to tread their paths alone.”

  For a long moment, the queen’s soft gaze rested on her face. “I see,” she said, and they kept walking.

  • • •

  On a blustery afternoon, Barbara sat on a cushion in her chambers, rolling a ball across the rug with her daughter Anne. The girl was nearly three, round of cheek and dark of eye, and she giggled in delight when the ball rolled far past Barbara’s reach and bounced into the wall.

  “Silly girl,” Barbara said fondly as the nurse hurried to retrieve the toy. “I cannot roll it back if you do not get it to me.” She shifted the solid weight of her son Charles in her arms, kissing his head. He gurgled and cooed, finding fascination with his fingers. Drool spilled from his fat little lip and she blotted it with a cloth.

  “Roll it again!” Anne exclaimed. The little girl was both adoring and jealous of her brother, used to having all of her mother’s and nurse’s attention to herself. Charles often joined these regular hours of play, for he was a good, attentive father. In hopes that he might make an appearance today, Barbara had left her hair loose, only tied away from her face with a red ribbon, and wore a simple day gown that showed off her shoulders. It gave her the freedom to play with her children without constraint, and more than once, he’d found the ensemble appealing.

  “Mama!” Anne cried. “Roll it!”

  Barbara spun the ball toward her, thinking of Mass this morning, the litany of the Latin words spilling over her, offering a strange comfort she had not known before. The repetition pleased her, induced a state of calm, and she had begun to look forward to it.

  Odd.

  Her daughter jumped up and down in place, her curls bouncing. “In the summer,” Barbara said, “we’ll play bowls on the lawn outside. Would you like that?”

  “Yes!” The girl leapt to her feet and spun around, then sank down, ball in hand. “Will Papa King come?”

  “Come where, little girl?” said a voice at the door. A trio of dogs raced in, and Anne grabbed her ball, all too aware of what could happen if the dogs took a fancy to it.

  Barbara scrambled to her feet, curtsying as well as she was able with the boy on her hip. “Your Majesty,” she said in a tone meant to be low and pleasing.

  Anne jumped up and ran screeching to her father. “Papa King! Play with me!”

  “Play what?” he roared, and bent down to pick her up, turning her upside down as she screeched, then righting her again on her feet. “Wolf? Bear?”

  “No!” She covered her eyes. “I will be afraid.”

  Charles dropped to his knees and made exaggerated stomping noises with his knees and hands, growling as Anne protested exuberantly. In Barbara’s arms, little Charles chortled over the game, grasping his mother’s finger and kicking his chubby feet.

  The king swept out an arm and scooped his daughter into his embrace. She laugh-screamed and flung her small body at him.

  As she watched, Barbara quelled a pang of missing him—not her lover so much as her long-term companion. They had often conversed for hours at a time about everything—nature and nations, the wives of dukes and the best dishes served at dinner. She was deeply lonely without his company, and though she must have known in some private corner of her mind that she would not remain his mistress forever, she had believed their connection to be true and strong, not so easily displaced while she was yet young and desirable.

  She knew no man ached for a woman who pined for him. Sitting on a stool so that Charles would have a fine view of her creamy décolletage, she lifted her hearty son and braced his feet on her legs. “Say good morning to His Majesty, little one.”

  The baby pushed against her calf with his toes and called out a long series of syllables, making Charles laugh. Holding Anne against his hip, he stood and crossed to sit next to Barbara and the baby, leaning in to offer his finger. “What a strong boy you are, little lad!”

  “Nurse says he’s the strongest babe she’s nursed in a decade,” Barbara bragged.

  “Only a decade?”

  “Papa,” Anne said, reaching up for her father’s chin and turning him. “Look at me.”

  Barbara could not help it—the plea was so direct that she had to laugh. “No, sire,” she said, “look at me.”

  “No, no,” Charles said, reaching for his son, pretending to make the sound of a baby’s voice, “look at me.”

  “Me!” Anne cried, her tiny fingers against his chin.

  Charles kissed her head. “I always want to look at you, my darling Anne. Who could be as pretty a girl as you are?”

  She blinked. “Mama?”

  “Yes, she is,” Charles said, and to her great pleasure, he reached for Barbara’s hand and kissed her knuckles, setting her skin afire. His face gave nothing away, and he only bent over the children once more, playing with them together and apart.

  Lap empty, Barbara continued to watch them.

  “I’ve sent the presents you requested from the Muscovites to your rooms,” Charles said. “The ermine will go to my queen, but you shall have a cloak trimmed with sable.”

  “Perhaps the sable will look fine with rubies,” she said in a thoughtful voice, and glanced sideways at him. “And nothing else?”

  He swallowed. She saw the movement of his throat, but he only gazed at the children. “Perhaps.”

  “Will you come to supper soon, dear sire?” She found she could not summon any guile, and her heart was in her eyes as she added, “I’ll have our favorites prepared.”

  He held the foot of his child in his big hand, touching the baby’s chubby toes one by one. He did not look at her when he said, “Perhaps not for a little while longer. The kingdom awaits an heir.”

  And yet the seed falls on barren soil. She bit the words back, ducking her head to hide her bitter disappointment. To her horror, a tear burned at the corner of her eye.

  Charles reached for her, lifting her chin with one strong finger, in the same tender way he touched his children. “You are the loveliest cre
ature in all the world, dear one. Do not doubt that.”

  The tears built. Absurd, foolish, weak, female tears, welling too high to hide, spilling humiliatingly over her cheeks. The scent of his skin filled her head, oranges and pine and twilight, so unique to him, and her yearning filled her, both wistful and burning, making her fingers tremble so that she hid them in her skirt. She had loved him since she was a girl. She loved him still and wished that she did not.

  “Ah, sweet, sweet love,” he whispered, and leaned in to touch his nose to hers. His thumb brushed her chin. “Please, oh, sweet lady, do not weep.”

  One small sentence escaped her. “Do you not miss our long and playful hours, sire?”

  “Aye.” He made a sound of pain. “It takes all I am, all I have, to resist.” Leaning in closer, he caressed her lower lip with his thumb, very lightly. His other palm circled her neck, tipped up her face. He kissed her, once, twice, and Barbara swayed closer.

  “Patience,” he said roughly, and swallowed. Abruptly, he dropped his hands. “Now I must away. Give me kisses, little beauties.”

  The children and dogs fell on him, playing, and Barbara fought for calm. Fearing she might reveal entirely too much if she lingered, she bent and kissed her daughter’s head, then hurried off.

  • • •

  In the queen’s privy chamber, Barbara played cards with the Ladies Suffolk and Buckingham and young Jamie, who was a great favorite with the maids of honor for the petulant sexuality he exuded, his pretty mouth and long hands. Over the play, he gave her long looks, weighted with meaning. Exasperated, she passed on the bid, flinging her cards face down.

  “Forgive me,” she said, curtsying to the queen, in conversation with Lady Buckingham over the sketches the queen embroidered so exquisitely.

  The queen nodded and Barbara hurried down the passageway to the closet. The hall was dark and cold, and it felt good against her overheated skin.

  Behind her came footsteps. “My lady!”

  Jamie. She turned, willing herself to have patience as he strode toward her in a pale green coat, those lovely legs clad in tight breeches. A flash of his hands, that mouth, Rochester’s skilled tongue—