With All My Heart

by Margaret Campbell Barnes

  “Early this morning she was overwhelmed and wept,” vouchsafed Charles, though he knew well enough that her tears, like his own, had been the outcome of long tension and relief.

  “As to that, Sir, the weeping may have eased her,” King assured him, “for it must have carried away some of the rheum from the head.”

  And certainly when Catherine roused again, although she was still light-headed, she seemed to be living in a happy world of fantasy where only one thing worried her. “The boy, Charles,” she whispered anxiously. “I am sorry for your sake that he is so ugly!”

  “Ugly!” refuted Charles stoutly. “You do but confuse his looks with what Mam used to say about mine. He is a fine boy, Kate.”

  “And like you?”

  That was almost too much for him. “If only it were so!” was all that he could think, demanding of God why this ultimate joy, like so many lesser ones, must be snatched from him. But with working face he managed to mumble some kind of assent.

  “Charles — the — Third,” murmured Catherine, unaware in her weakness of the hollow jest she offered him in speaking the very words which could have altered his whole life and given his reign and restoration strength.

  With healing sleep the fever and the rash abated. Slowly she grew stronger. Gradually the bitter realization that there were no children became an accepted fact in her mind and in her life — a fact of which she seldom spoke. Where Charles had feared lamentations, he found himself respecting her reticence. And because be shared her suffering and knew so much of hope defeated he seemed, during those first dark days, to be always in her rooms. Shone the sun never so brightly on the sleighing in Hyde Park, on the grassy rides at Windsor or on his new Pell Mell court between Whitehall and St. James’s, the King’s prowess and wit were wanting there until all was well with his barren little Portuguese wife. “I must write and tell Minette that you are sufficiently recovered to watch a Court ball with me,” he would say, hurrying away to his cabinet de travail to catch the Paris mail. Or he would take her out driving, or to watch the orphan children at Christ’s Hospital in Newgate Street at their lessons and help him pick out some of the brighter boys for his project of providing properly trained officers for his Navy.

  One day when it was too wet for Catherine to go out he brought young Jemmie to cheer her, hoping that graver issues might have burned out all but her liking for the lad; and although the first sight of him, radiating Stuart charm, was as gall and wormwood to her, the irrepressible Mr. Crofts himself soon quite unwittingly put the matter right. For when Abbot Aubigny, congratulating the Queen upon her recovery, claimed that it was kissing the holy saint’s bones that had cured her, Jemmie — unable to contain himself — contradicted him, red faced and roundly, “An’ it please your Grace, ’twas no reliquary, but the King. Seventy miles he rode in ten hours, and most of it on borrowed nags!”

  Charles burst out laughing and clapped an arm about his shoulders. And — Catholic as she was — Catherine could not but love the lad for it; all the more so when, under his father’s amused eyes, he installed himself beside her chair to entertain her with a vivid description of the splendid Thanksgiving service which had been held for her recovery in St. Paul’s. “And there was his Majesty beating time to the music with his prayer book and looking so mighty pleased that all men observed it,” Jemmie told her eagerly.

  CHAPTER XI

  MIGHTY PLEASED the King was; although his wife’s failure to produce a Protestant heir had plunged him deeper into a sea of political troubles from which James’s open adherence to the Church of Rome did not help him to emerge.

  But for the moment, knowing her to be out of danger, he was pleased too, to be free from sickrooms and swooning and to enjoy his own life of varied interests and to. see his ships again. Every day in all kinds of weather he was down the Thames to the Nore or round to Spithead, reviewing his fleet, discussing with James and his other Admirals the range of guns whose wicked muzzles would soon be belching fire through the wreath-ports, talking to Secretary Pepys about shot and victualling, insisting that all foreign shipping in the Channel must dip pennants to his own. For war it was to be. War against the hardy Dutch.

  “There is such rivalry that it is they or us, and it is my endeavour to make my country the most prosperous in the world,” he wrote to his sister in Paris. “This place New York which we have just taken from them is a town of great importance to trade; and now my good Robert Holmes has beaten them out of their very castles in Guinea, which pleases me inordinately; though what I shall say to the Dutch ambassador God knows! ’Tis too late for aught but a salvo of broadsides. So it behoves you, ma chere Minette, as a good Exeter born woman, to keep Louis neutral! Though if I be forced to war I stand ready with as good ships and men as ever were seen, and leave the success to God.”

  And before the Fleet sailed, knowing his wife’s passionate interest in seafaring matters, he sent for her and his mother to come aboard, and enjoyed himself hugely showing them over the “Royal Charles” and impressing the French ambassador with the efficiency of the British Navy so as to leave him with no doubt as to which side it would be safer for Louis to be on. There were high spirits throughout the flag ship and over wine and laughter in the wardroom one of James’s irrepressible young officers read aloud to the Queen his ditty to sweethearts left behind: —

  “To all you ladies now on land

  We men at sea indite;

  But first would have you understand

  How hard it is to write ...

  Our paper, pen and ink and we

  Roll up and down our ships at sea ...”

  And then there was hilarious betting as to when and where the Dutch admiral,’ Opdam, would put out. to sea. It was a cloudless day for Catherine even if her indefatigable husband did catch a well deserved chill through leaving off his wig and waistcoat in the mid-May heat; and she was particularly pleased because the pompous little ambassador was seasick and she was not.

  But her happiness was always precarious. She saw little of Charles these days, and missed him sadly. During the hectic anticipation of war, whenever he was at leisure he seemed to be engaged in some sport or other, or supping with Barbara Castlemaine again although everyone knew she had a new lover, or at the Duke’s playhouse or his own. And on the few occasions when Catherine had pestered him to take her thither she was honest enough to show her distaste for William Wycherley’s lewd plays, and too unsophisticated not to be shocked at the sight of brazen young women flaunting their comely legs in jigs before all the company. “A prim little convent bred kill-joy,” dissolute beauties whispered behind the fluttering fans which she herself had made fashionable. And poor Catherine was utterly wretched, hating the easy way her husband sat there among them all, laughing with the rest at ribald jokes, obviously adored for it by the populace and allowing women of doubtful reputation to lean across to speak to him in the royal box.

  “They are all so gay and thoughtless; and that is how he likes women,” she thought. “So I must try to be more gay.” But how, when one was often tired and felt so accountable to God?

  Back in the palace against a background of careless chatter, she patted her thinning hair to rights before a Cupid wreathed mirror. Horrified by her own pallor, she leaned forward to peer more deeply. Illness had certainly taken its toll. The eager freshness of youth had gone from her eyes, and through building up her strength with rest and nourishment she was putting on weight which did not suit her petite figure. “My hair has been coming out in handfuls!” she cried out involuntarily.

  Softened from displeasure by her distress, Charles came and stood behind her, his eyes, sleepy and bantering, meeting hers in the glass which reflected all the rich treasures of his room. “Your poor lovely hair!” he sympathized, lifting a strand to kiss. But instead of springing instantly round his finger — “making him love’s prisoner” as he used to say — it lay lank and lifeless across his palm. Reason enough, perhaps, for his beginning to neglect her again? Th
at, and the difficulty she found in suppressing a convalescent’s irritability.

  “I shall have it all cut short and curled up close round my head like a play actress,” she declared, jerking it from him. “Then perhaps you will come and sleep with me sometimes!”

  But it seemed impossible to provoke him. Could it be that, in spite of his. tears so short a while ago, he did not really care? In his kindness was he just making allowances for her? Or was it simply that he was so accustomed to women being jealous over him? “You will never look like an actress, my Catalina, however hard you try,” he told her imperturbably. “And look at my own hair! If it is of any comfort to you, people say that since your illness I am going grey.”

  Removing his wig, he bent his head accommodatingly so that she might see; and instantly she was pressing against him, smoothing it tenderly with both hands. “Oh, beloved, forgive me! How could I speak to you so, who did so much for me? And be so intent upon getting well that I did not even notice?” With one of her quick, Southern movements she stood back the better to behold it. “But it is distinguished and adorable, your hair! And if there is a sprinkling of grey at either temple I shall always remember that it grew that way through anxiety for me.”

  “Not entirely,” he confessed dryly; and stood there petting her absently, thinking of a hundred and one worries which beset him and of which she was blessedly ignorant, until James came to remind him that Sir John Evelyn was waiting upon him to make arrangements for the reception of the wounded.

  As he moved across the room, Catherine stood looking anxiously after him. “Do you think that he has aged?” she asked of her brother-in-law.

  “Aged? Charles? Strong as a horse! Always has been,” answered James bluntly, his mind full of how he would catch Opdam with the wind against him off the Texel.

  “But he caught that chill and has some grey hairs at thirty-five,” persisted Catherine, her own more serious ailments forgotten.

  “And small wonder, what with squeezing money out of the Commons for equipment, Castlemaine’s tantrums and this nasty business Buckingham and Bristol are hatching!”

  “What business?” enquired Catherine, taken aback by his tactlessness.

  “Oh, there is nothing they can do,” he told her with uneasy evasiveness. “But they are all mighty concerned because there is no Protestant heir to put us Catholics out of the running.”

  Though what could be their disappointment, Catherine wondered, compared with Charles’s and her own? But she must try not to meddle as Henrietta Maria had done. So instead of pursuing the subject she bade James be seated and asked perfunctorily after his Duchess.

  “She is far from well, Catherine. The doctors are anxious about her.”

  “I am sorry, James. Has she taken to her bed?”

  “No. She has great determination of character; as you know. I am but now come from St. James’s and left her and my two small girls and Jemmie sitting on cushions on the floor playing ‘I love my love with an A’ or some such foolish game.” His face softened at recollection of the domestic picture, for, after all, his marriage had turned out well. But there was something of more pressing importance to speak of. “Anne says that nephew Jemmie is getting spoiled,” he said grimly.

  “It is not good for him to be always at Charles’s heels. He goes everywhere with him now,” agreed Catherine.

  Looking up from beneath knitted brows James saw his brother and Sir John Evelyn approaching, but before rising he leaned forward and laid a long spatulate finger on her knee. “It is not good for us either,” he warned. “As Catholics we are both in the same boat.”

  Catherine had no opportunity of asking him what he meant, but when she remonstrated with Charles in private about spoiling the boy she began to understand that the Yorks’ resentment was not without reason. “We must get him married — though no doubt you think marriage has done little to improve me!” he laughed indolently.

  “But he is barely sixteen,” she said, ignoring the jibe.

  “And the bride I have chosen for him is less.”

  “You have already chosen one? And pray who is she?” bridled Catherine, feeling that at least she might have., been told.

  Charles wandered to the fireplace and picked up one of his spaniels, fondling her long silky ears. “That charming Buccleuch child who out-danced us all at the masked ball.”

  “You mean the little Countess Anne who is in my household?”

  Charles nodded. “I have heard from Lady Wymess, her mother, and am arranging for them to be married in the Chapel at Windsor when we are there for St. George’s Day,” he told her, a thought too casually because he was also arranging for him to be made a Knight of the Garter.

  “But they are no more than children!”

  “Probably neither of them is such a little innocent as you were,” grinned Charles.

  “In years, I mean,” she replied with dignity, avoiding his mocking eyes. “In the name of the Blessed Mother, surely you will not let them —”

  “Oddsfish, what do you take me for, Kate? Of course, she shall go home to her people once we have seen them bedded — with her nightshift sewn round the edges if you like! My lusty young cub can learn to wait — like his betters!” There was an edge to her husband’s voice to which Catherine had not the clue. But he went on stroking the goggle-eyed little creature in the crook of his arm, and added negligently enough, “ ’Tis a good match for a bastard. And I love the boy.”

  “That is evident to all the world,” retorted Catherine, at her tartest. “But is it a good match for the Buccleuchs?. They are a rich family, I understand, and proud.”

  “Not so proud as to object to a dukedom,” Charles assured her cynically. “If they provide the cash all the more reason why I should behave handsomely about a title, and I propose to make Jemmie Duke of Monmouth.”

  Catherine felt anger, hot and uncontrollable, rising within her. “The equal of your brothers!” she cried.

  “By no means,” countered Charles calmly. “You are ignorant of our topography. Monmouth is a Welsh title.”

  “As Castlemaine is Irish? So that is what you give your by-blow families.” It was so infuriating that what to her seemed monstrous left him, by reason of the habits of his associates and up-bringing, without apparent shame.

  “It is all that I can give them,” he shrugged. “Clarendon and Parliament and all manner of legalities would have to be invoked to give them English ones.”

  “Then — Clarendon is against this match,” declared Catherine shrewdly, driven by a foreboding of she knew not what and wondering if she could induce him to interfere.

  “Ned becomes more of a doddering old nuisance every day. It is time he gave over the reins.”

  “Oh, Charles, how can you! When he has served you so long and faithfully.”

  “No one can say of me that I forget my friends. He would have been thrown out long ago had I not stood by him and borne with his intolerable diatribes.” Nettled at last, he set down his dog, preparing to depart. “But there comes a time when every man, if he live long enough, grows past his task. I pray that I shall not live long enough for that to happen to me!”

  And with whatever good cause she might resent the honours heaped upon her consort’s bastard, Catherine found it impossible to bear personal animosity towards Jemmie himself. That very evening she was dancing with him as usual. She adored this new liberty of English dancing, and Jemmie was almost as expert as his father — and as good natured about teaching her the latest steps. And so Charles found them, leading the coranto, when he returned to the Long Gallery from a Council meeting!

  When all the company would have stopped, he called to them to finish the movement, and stood watching with Buckingham, Shaftesbury and other Counsellors grouped about him. And coming suddenly upon his son leading that galaxy of elegance, so tall and gallant of bearing, so gravely conscious of the honour of partnering the Queen, an overmastering wave of pride and frustration must have risen in him.: “Bravo!
Bravo!” he cried, the moment the music stopped; and when “young Mr. Crofts” swept his hat across his heart and then almost to the ground in the most modish of French bows, Charles strode across the floor to the attractive couple and, with an approving hand on his wife’s shoulder, before all that bare-headed company, took the beplumed hat and playfully, yet of intent, placed it on the lad’s handsome head.

  Catherine heard the gasp of amazement that rose all round them like a rustle of silk. Allowing Jemmie to be covered in their presence was tantamount to acknowledging him one of the family. Thrilled yet discomforted, the boy himself flushed to the brow, while she felt the smile freeze on her lips, the blood drain from her cheeks. Across her young partner’s shoulder she could see the smirking, meaning glances exchanged between Buckingham’s party in the doorway, and close to her the warm happiness of Charles. Though she felt affronted as though he had struck her she managed to control herself and made no scene, even dancing with him civilly when he asked her.

  “A year ago I could not have done it,” she thought, passing with chin well up between the ranks of her enemies when the dancing was done. And back in her chapel she fell on her knees to thank God for that measure of grace. “I begin to be a person — self-contained and inviolate.”

  But she congratulated herself too soon, for her own particular devil of hastiness was not yet mastered. For after the crazy act of the King’s who could stop the whispering campaign that, since the Queen appeared to be barren, he meant to make Jemmie his heir? Or be surprised at the Londoners for seizing on so choice a morsel of gossip? Or blame the boy himself if, inflamed by Shaftesbury’s subtle hints, he began to pretend — perhaps even to believe — that his unremembered mother had been married to the King? And, strutting from his chambers in the Cockpit like a bantam, offered to split with his scarcely flushed sword any man who dared to deny it.

  Although all sober citizens laughed at him, so furious was Catherine when she heard of it that she went straight to her husband’s apartments, spurning all Chiffinch’s frenzied attempts to announce her, and invaded the King’s private little work room where no one else dared to disturb him.