A Health Unto His Majesty

by Виктория Холт

  Barbara looked about for something that she might throw at him; there was nothing to hand but a cushion; she would not throw that; it would seem almost coy.

  “Oh, Barbara,” said the King, “let another man father this one.”

  “So you would shift your responsibilities!”

  “I tell you I do not accept this responsibility.”

  “You had better change your mind before the child is born … unless you would like me to strangle it at birth and set it up in the streets with a crown upon its head proclaiming it the King’s son.”

  “You’re fantastic,” said the King, beginning to laugh.

  She laughed with him and leaping towards him threw her arms about his neck. In the old days such a gesture would have been a prelude to passion, but today the King was pensive and did not respond.

  In Frances Stuart’s apartment the light of wax candles shone on all the most favored of the gallant gentlemen and beautiful ladies of the Court.

  The King sat beside Frances who looked more beautiful than even she had ever looked; she was dressed in black and white, which suited her fair skin, and there were diamonds in her hair and about her throat.

  From her seat at another table Barbara watched the King and Frances.

  Frances seemed unaware of everything except the house of cards she was building. She was like a baby! thought Barbara. Her greatest delight was in building card houses; and everyone who sought to please her must compete with her in the ridiculous game. There was only one who could build as she did; that was Buckingham.

  They built their card houses side by side. The King was handing Frances her cards; Lady Chesterfield was handing Buckingham his; all the other builders of card houses had given up the game to watch these two rivals. Frances was breathless with excitement; Buckingham was coolly cynical; but his hand was so steady that it seemed that his calmness would score over Frances’s excitement.

  Imbecile! thought Barbara. Is she really so infantile that a card house can give her that much joy? Or is she acting the very young girl in the hope that the King is weary of such as I? We shall see who wins in the end, Mrs. Frances.

  Lady Chesterfield caught Barbara’s attention momentarily; she had changed much since those days when she had first married Chesterfield and had been another simpleton such as Frances would have them believe she was. Simplicity had not brought Lady Chesterfield all she desired. Now George Hamilton sought to be her lover—and he had been Barbara’s lover too—and the Duke of York was paying her that attention with which he was wont to honor ladies; it consisted of standing near them and gazing longingly, at them in a manner which made all secretly laugh, or writing notes to them which he pushed into their pockets or muffs; and as the ladies concerned were not always willing to accede to his advances, there had been much amusement when the notes had been allowed to fall, as though unnoticed, from muff or pocket and left lying about for any to read.

  Barbara thought of Chesterfield, her first lover, her first experience in those adventures which were more important to her comfort than anything else. Chesterfield had been a good lover.

  She realized with some dismay that it was a long time since he had been to see her. She verily believed that he was more interested in another woman than he was in herself; and it was rather comic that that woman should be his wife.

  Ah, but he had turned too late to Lady Chesterfield, who would not forget the humiliation she had suffered at his hands. It delighted her now to be cold to him, to accept the admiration of George Hamilton and to return the yearning gazes of the Duke of York, to set new fashions in the Court such as this one of green stockings which had begun with her appearing in them.

  The King’s attention was all for the fair Stuart; Chesterfield’s for his wife; and Buckingham—for naturally Barbara and Buckingham had slipped into amorous relationship now and then—was also paying attention to the Stuart, although, Barbara reminded herself, it was at her suggestion he did this.

  Three of her lovers looking at other women! It was disconcerting.

  George Hamilton too, she remembered, was paying attention to Lady Chesterfield and hoping to persuade her to break her marriage vows.

  Could it be that Barbara, Countess of Castlemaine, was finding herself deserted?

  Not deserted, never deserted. There would always be lovers, even if she chose one of her grooms—although she would not do that unless he was a very appealing fellow. Yet it was disconcerting to find so many of those who had once sought her favors eagerly looking elsewhere. It was certainly time Frances Stuart was exposed to the King as a hypocrite and humbug. He would find it harder to forgive her infidelity than he ever had Barbara’s, for Barbara’s he took for granted. He knew Barbara; she was like himself. They could not curb their desires; he understood that of her as she did of him. They were not the sort to wrangle if the other took an odd lover or two.

  The building of card houses was over; Buckingham had allowed Frances to win, and now was singing one of his songs set to his own music. He was a good performer and he sang in French and Italian as well as English. His poor, plain Duchess looked on with wistful tenderness as he performed. They were rarely together, but Frances liked husbands and wives to come to her gatherings; she was so very respectable, thought Barbara cynically.

  Now there was dancing; and it was left to Monmouth to partner Barbara.

  A spritely young fellow, thought Barbara, but she had not allowed him to become her lover; she was not sure how the King would feel about that. Monmouth, as his son, would be in a different category from other men; and she was not going to offend Charles more than she could help at this point.

  When they were tired of dancing, Frances called on Buckingham to do some of his imitations, and that night the Duke excelled himself. He did his favorite—Clarendon, carrying a shovel in place of the mace, so full of self-importance, slow and ponderous; and this made the company roll and bend double with merriment; then he did the King, the King sauntering, the King being very gallant to a lady—who, of course, it was implied, was Frances herself. Charles led the laughter at this. And finally the versatile Duke approached Frances and began to make what he called a dishonorable proposal. It was Bennet to the life. The phrases were Bennet’s, slow, flowery and wordy, spiced with those quotations with which Bennet liked to adorn his parliamentary addresses.

  Frances shrieked with laughter and clutched the King in a very paroxysm of merriment—all of which delighted the King mightily; and made of that evening a very merry one.

  The French ambassador who was present was, after the merriment subsided a little, so delighted with the company that he whispered to the King that he had heard Mrs. Stuart was possessed of the most exquisite legs in the world, and he wondered whether he dared ask the lady to show him these—up to the knee; he would dare ask for no more.

  The King whispered the request to Frances, who opened her blue eyes very wide and said but of course she would be delighted to show the ambassador her legs. Whereupon, still in the manner of a very young girl, she stood on a stool and lifted her skirt as high as her knees that all might gaze on the legs which had been proclaimed the most beautiful in the world.

  The King was quite clearly enchanted with Frances’s manners, with her ingenuity and with the grace she displayed.

  The French ambassador knelt and said that he knew of no way in which to pay homage to the most beautiful legs in the world except to kneel to them.

  Then was the whole assembly made aware of how deep was the passion of the Duke of York for Lady Chesterfield, for he said in his somewhat ungracious way that he did not consider Mrs. Stuart’s legs the most beautiful in the world.

  “They are,” he declared, “too slender. I would admire legs that are plump, and not so long as Mrs. Stuart’s. Most important of all, the legs I most admire should be clothed in a green stocking.”

  The King burst into merry laughter, for, like everyone else, he knew that the Duke was referring to Lady Chesterfield who had intr
oduced the green stocking to Court; Charles clapped his brother on the back and pushed him in the direction of the lady.

  Barbara continued to watch this horseplay. She saw Lord Chesterfield’s angry glance at the royal brothers.

  To think, thought Barbara, in rising fury, that I should ever live to see Chesterfield in love with his own wife!

  She looked about her for the man whom she would invite to her bed that night. It would not be the King, nor Buckingham, nor Chesterfield, nor Hamilton.

  She wished to have a new lover, someone young and lusty, who would take the memory of this evening with its warning shadows from her mind.

  The Chesterfield scandal burst suddenly on the Court. It was astonishing to all, for Chesterfield was known as a rake and a libertine, and none would have suspected him of having any deep feelings for a woman, least of all for his own wife.

  Music was the delight of the Court, and Tom Killigrew, one of the leading lights in the theatrical world, had brought with him from Italy a company of singers and musicians who had a great success at Court. One of these, Francisco Corbetta, was a magnificent performer on the guitar, and it was due to this that many ladies and gentlemen determined to learn the instrument. Lady Chesterfield had acquired one of the finest guitars in the country, and her brother, Lord Arran, learned to play the instrument better than any man at Court.

  Francisco had composed a Sarabande, and this piece of music so delighted the King that he would hear it again and again. All at Court followed the King’s example, and through courtyards and apartments would be heard the Sarabande, in deep bass and high sopranos, played on all kinds of musical instruments, but the favorite way of delivering the Sarabande was to strum on the guitar and to sing at the same time.

  When the Duke of York expressed his desire to hear Arran play the Sarabande on his sister’s guitar, Arran immediately invited the Duke to his sister’s apartments.

  Chesterfield, hearing what was about to happen, stormed into his wife’s chamber and accused her of indulging in a love affair with the Duke of York.

  Elizabeth, laughing inwardly, and remembering that occasion when she had first discovered that the husband she loved was in love with the King’s mistress, merely turned away and would neither deny nor admit that the Duke was her lover.

  “Do you think,” cried Chesterfield, “that I shall allow you to deceive me … blatantly like this?”

  “My thoughts are never concerned with you at all,” Elizabeth told him.

  She sat down and took up the guitar, crossing those plump legs encased in green stockings for which the Duke had displayed public admiration.

  Chesterfield cried: “Is he your lover? Is he? Is he?”

  Elizabeth’s answer was to play the first notes of the Sarabande.

  She looked at him coolly, and she remembered how she had loved him in the first weeks of their marriage, how she had sought to please him in every way, how she had dreamed of a marriage as happy as that enjoyed by her parents.

  And then, when she had known that Barbara Castlemaine was his mistress—that woman of all women, that blatant, vulgar woman of whom there were so many stories current, that woman who had lost count of her lovers—when she had allowed herself to imagine them together, when she had seen how foolish she had been to hope for that happy marriage, quite suddenly she had ceased to grieve, she had come to believe that she would never care about anything anymore. It had seemed to her that in loving there could only be folly. The Court was corrupt; chastity and fidelity were laughed at even by the kindly King. Her feeling for her husband died suddenly. She had stood humiliated as a simple fool; and she would be so no longer.

  Then she had discovered that there was much to enjoy in the Court; she had found that she was deemed beautiful. Gradually this understanding had come to her, and it was amusing to dance, to flirt, to astonish all by some extraordinary costume which, on her beautiful form, was charming. Like any other beautiful woman at Court she could have her lover. The King’s brother now sought her; mayhap soon the King himself would.

  As for her husband, she could never look at him without remembering the acute humiliation he had inflicted on a tender young spirit which had been too childlike to bear such brutality.

  One of her greatest joys henceforth would be to try to inflict on him a little of the torture he had carelessly made her suffer. She had never thought to accomplish it; but now the perverse man was, in his stupidity, ready to love a wife who would be cold to him forever more, although he had turned slightingly away from her youthful love.

  That was life. Cynical, cruel. The Sarabande seemed to explain it far better than she could.

  “I ask a question!” cried Chesterfield. “I demand an answer.”

  “If I do not wish to answer you, I shall not,” she said.

  “So he comes to hear the Sarabande! What an excuse! He comes to see you.”

  “Doubtless both,” she said lightly.

  “And that brother of yours has arranged this! He is in this plot against me! Do you think I’ll stand aside and allow you to deceive me thus?”

  “I told you I do not think of you at all. And I do not care whether you stand aside or remain here. Your actions are of the utmost indifference to me.”

  She was very beautiful, he thought, insolent and cold, sitting there with her pretty feet and a green stocking just visible below her gown. He often wondered how he could have been such a fool as not to have recognized her incomparable qualities; he had been mad to prefer the tantrums of Barbara to the innocence of the young girl whom he had married. He remembered with anguish her jealousy of his first wife. If he could only arouse that jealousy again he would be happy. Yet he knew that he would never arouse anything within her but cold contempt.

  There was no time to say more, for at that moment the arrival of the Duke of York with Arran was announced. The Duke was flatteringly attentive to Lady Chesterfield and it was clear that he was far more interested in her than in her guitar.

  Chesterfield refused to leave the little party to themselves, and stood glowering while Arran instructed the Duke in the playing of the famous Sarabande.

  But, before the lesson had progressed very far, a messenger arrived to say that Chesterfield’s services as Lord Chamberlain to the Queen were required in the royal apartments, as the Muscovite ambassadors were ready to be conducted to her.

  Furious at being called away at such a time, Chesterfield had no choice but to comply with instructions and leave Arran as chaperone for Lady Chesterfield and the Duke. When he arrived in the Queen’s presence chamber, to his complete horror, he found that Arran was there. The Duke and Lady Chesterfield must be alone together, in her apartments!

  A mad fury possessed Chesterfield. He could scarcely wait for the audience to end. He was convinced that a trick had been played on him and that he had been cunningly removed that the Duke might be alone with his wife.

  So great was his jealous rage that he went straight to his apartments. Neither the Duke nor Lady Chesterfield were there; and the first thing his eyes alighted on was the guitar; he threw it to the floor and jumped on it again and again till it was broken into many pieces. Then he set about searching for his wife, and the first person he found was George Hamilton, his wife’s cousin and admirer; and to him Chesterfield poured out the story of his miserable jealousy.

  Hamilton, believing with Chesterfield that the Duke must certainly have succeeded with Lady Chesterfield where he had failed, nursed his own secret jealousy. He could not bear the thought of anyone’s enjoying those favors for which he had long sought; he would prefer to lose sight of the lady rather than allow her to enjoy another lover.

  “You are her husband,” he said. “Why not take her to the country? Keep her where you will know that she is safe and entirely yours.”

  This seemed good sense to Chesterfield. He made immediate arrangements and, by the time he saw his wife again, he was ready to leave with her for the country; and she had no alternative but to fall
in with his wishes.

  So they disappeared from the Court and, in accordance with the light-hearted custom of the time, witty verses were written about the incident, and what more natural than that they should be set to the tune of the Sarabande and sung throughout the Court?

  The Duke of York began pushing notes into another lady’s muff. But Barbara could not forget that yet another lover had deserted her.

  Catherine was happier during those months than she had been since the days of her honeymoon. At last she was to bear a child; she saw in this child a new and wonderful happiness, a being who would compensate her for all she had suffered through her love for the King. She pictured him; for, of course, he would be a boy; he would have the manners of his father; yes, and the looks of his father; the kindliness, the affability and the good nature; but he would be more serious—in that alone should he resemble his mother.

  She saw him clearly—the enchanting little boy—the heir to the throne of England. She built him as firmly in her imagination as, in the days when she was awaiting her marriage, she had pictured Charles. She found great happiness in daydreams.

  And indeed the King was charming to her. He seemed to have forgotten all their differences. He declared she must take the utmost care of herself; he was solicitous that she should not catch a chill; he insisted on her resting from arduous state duties. It was pleasant to believe that he cared, for her sake as well as for that of the child.

  They rode hand in hand in the Park, and the people stood in groups to watch and cheer them. She was quite pretty in her happiness, and she heard the people confirm this to one another—for they were not a people to mince their words—as she rode forth in her white-laced waistcoat and her crimson short petticoat which was so becoming, with her hair flowing about her shoulders. Behind her and the King, rode the ladies, and of course Lady Castlemaine was there, haughty and handsome as ever, but just a little out of humor because she had not been invited to ride by the side of the King; and surely a little subdued, for previously she would have pushed her horse forward and made sure that she was seen riding near the King and Queen.