His Last Mistress: The Duke of Monmouth and Lady Henrietta Wentworth

by Andrea Zuvich

  Over the past five years, she had attracted numerous admirers from the noblemen at court, including major-general Lord Feversham, who very nearly married her, but whilst her face and kind disposition tempted them, her paltry dowry was insufficient motivation for them to continue their pursuit. The Earl of Thanet was different; he found in Henrietta all the qualities he could ever want for in a wife, and he needed no large dowry to persuade him further. In truth, she would make any man an excellent wife and companion, for she had been brought up well to be the virtuous woman she now was.

  Virtue in the court of the Merry Monarch was some feat, for beautiful women at court could wield considerable influence over the powerful men of the land in exchange for their sexual favours. Beauty was power. Henrietta knew this, but did not wish to be used and discarded as so many had been. No, she wanted a good husband with whom to have children, grow old with; a man who would enjoy spending time with her and their family in Toddington Manor, and wherever else they had a home.

  So many things at Court had changed since she was that fourteen year old girl who played Jupiter, the Duke of York’s exquisite daughter, Princess Mary, had been forced to marry Prince William of Orange, and was now living in the Dutch Republic with him; Sarah Jennings had eloped with John Churchill; and the Duke and Duchess themselves had been exiled first to Brussels and then to Scotland.

  The Duke of Monmouth, she had heard, had fought heroically in Flanders in a campaign, and then gloriously defeated Scottish rebels at the Battle of Bothwell Bridge. He had even extinguished a bad fire at Southwark, and was celebrated for it. The men under his command loved him for he was highly conscious of their needs. Quick with his sword, and a steady shot with both flintlock pistols and muskets, he was both a hardened soldier and a talented lover.

  Although Henrietta knew he had a terrible reputation with women, she could not forget that exhilarating sensation that had passed between them when he had reached over and moved a lock of hair away from her face that night. He had been the only man who had touched her, and when she was alone, she would remember keenly every detail of his face, the warmth with which he had spoken to her, the light in his captivating eyes, his smile.

  As for the Duke, having been so casually rejected by a woman he wanted, he threw himself into his military work, he bedded the various unknown women who visited soldiers in his camps, and all the while, he thought of her. Though they were in the same circles at court, he never chanced to see her, and so she drifted, like an apparition, into the ether of his mind.

  Chapter 3

  The Duke of Monmouth leant back upon a stone pillar as he sat on a sturdy ledge. He looked down upon the bustle of courtiers below. The Palace of Whitehall was busy, and smelly, as it was an unusually hot May morning. The ladies strolled about in their colourful frocks, cooling themselves with their beautiful, ornate fans. All this Monmouth could admire well from above, beads of perspiration dripping from his brow as from the brow of every peruked man in the vicinity; down like hot wax dribbling down the sides of a melting candle.

  The Earl of Shaftesbury having just left a meeting with others like himself who were determined not to allow James, Duke of York to remain Charles’s heir, noticed Monmouth and sat beside him. The men nodded to each other, as they had known each other for many years. Shaftesbury looked decidedly tired – so unlike his normal energetic nature. The old man coughed wearily.

  “Are you ill, Shaftesbury?” asked the Duke, putting a hand on the old man’s shoulder.

  “Aye. I am an ill, old man, and not as strong as I once was. My fight for the Exclusion Bill is taking its toll upon my health. I feel sure I shall die from the whole insufferable business.”

  “I pray you will not. I depend upon you, Shaftesbury, to fight my cause.” Monmouth crossed his arms and looked to the patchy grey-blue sky above. “I fail to understand why my father hasn’t named me as his heir. Everyone wants him to. Far better to have a Protestant son on the throne than a Catholic brother.”

  “He’s just being stubborn, like every Stuart before, and every Stuart after him, I daresay.”

  Monmouth grinned at this probable truth.

  “Oh, have you not heard?” asked the Earl, “John Wilmot is dead.” Wilmot, the notorious Earl of Rochester, was a poet and one of the most enthusiastically debauched members of King Charles’s Merry Gang.

  “I had not heard. Well, may God have mercy on his soul…He was only thirty-two, was he not?”

  Shaftesbury nodded, and turned to look at the courtiers mingling below. “Wilmot had a very bad end. Blind, nose ravaged and face deformed from the syphilis, and sitting in a pool of his own piss. He even returned to Christ at the end. I never would have thought he’d do that – such an avowed atheist such as he was and all.”

  “Wilmot’s mind was ever-affixed to his cock and not much else, though he was good for a bawdy line or two. It is tragic, really, for he was always so confident, unafraid of anything.” Monmouth gave a sad chuckle, “This proves that none of us know how we will meet our end.”

  “Ah, but do not forget that Wilmot was always with the whores, as I have heard you have been sampling of late. Be warned, whores carry disease…”

  “There is no need to lecture me about that, Sir, for I do not have syphilis. Do not be troubled, I shan’t be a mad King Monmouth.”

  “Shh! Do you want to be thrown into the Tower?” The Exclusionists, of which Shaftesbury was a major advocate, had had a tumultuous few years.

  But Monmouth thought not upon what the old man said, for his attentions were fixed elsewhere. “I pray you,” he asked Shaftesbury, pointing to a lady who walked in the courtyard below, “Is that not Lady Henrietta Wentworth?”

  Shaftesbury peered over and nodded. “Indeed it is – and promenading with her betrothed, the Earl of Thanet, I see. Lord Feversham was to marry her, but he changed his mind upon learning that she has little money.”

  The young lady was carrying a posy of pink roses and lavender sprigs as she walked with a young man by the fountain. Monmouth saw her smile at the fortunate Earl as she sat by the fountain, and he was consumed with irrational jealousy and pain.

  “She is a jewel far richer than a mountain of coin could bring. Betrothed, you say? Oh, wretchedness! And she is even more beautiful now than when I first saw her at the masque,” he added, wistfully.

  Shaftesbury narrowed his eyes to get a better view. “She is decidedly average to my eyes! The lady is exceedingly virtuous – and well known for it, too. You’ll have no luck, there, nay, not even you – o beloved of all ladies.” He chuckled and nudged Monmouth in the ribs.

  The Duke shrugged. “I know that all too well, for I pursued her after the masque and she wouldn’t have me. The maids informed me that she had burnt all the letters I had sent her. I see now that it was fate - for I should have known that she was then too young to be plucked.”

  He sighed, half with yearning and half with frustration as he stared at her, while she continued her conversation with the Earl. “Alas, I have no time for another attempt at a chase, for I am off to the West Country for a while soon.”

  Shaftesbury’s face grew dark with concern.

  “I pray you will not do anything that would put you at risk.”

  The times were dangerous, as the past few years had been troublesome, with widespread hysteria caused by Titus Oates who maliciously invented what came to be known as the Popish Plot, which sent people into paranoia about Catholicism. Oates swore that Catholics in high places in the government, even Queen Catherine herself, was involved in plots and conspiracies against King Charles, that they schemed to murder him and return England to popery. As a result, many innocent Catholics had been executed, including the Duke of York’s secretary, Coleman. Even Monmouth’s popularity had waned at court compared to what it had been a decade earlier.

  “Fear not, for I am much loved there.”

  It was common knowledge that the West Country was staunchly Protestant, more so than other parts of
England, and Monmouth was adored there. Many would even die for him, if need be.

  “Even so, you are the future of this country, so take care. If we are to fight the future that a James II will bring, you must be wary.”

  “I shall be, Shaftesbury, I shall.”

  Richard now stood beside where Henrietta sat by the fountain, and as she looked up at her fiancé, her eye caught sight of the Duke of Monmouth, who stood helping an old man arise from his seat. She was surprised to see him assisting anyone.

  “Henrietta? Have you heard anything I have just said?”

  “Forgive me, my lord, but I think I recognise yond gentleman who is conversing with that old man up there.” She gestured towards the balcony with a little nod of her head.

  Richard turned and looked up. His face fell. “Ah, yes, the Duke of Monmouth with that old trouble-maker Shaftesbury.” He turned to her, “You recognise the Duke, you say?”

  “Aye, my lord, for he danced in Calisto – that masque I performed in several years back.”

  The Earl of Thanet shifted uncomfortably where he stood, for Monmouth was the ideal at court, and no man could compare beside him. He didn’t particularly relish the thought of his betrothed paying attention to the handsome rake.

  “A more worthless villain I ne’er laid eyes upon!” Richard exclaimed. “He has been pursuing Lady Grey, so much so that her husband, who has long considered Monmouth his friend, has sent her away in great haste.”

  “I suppose Lord Grey has reason to do this?”

  “Monmouth, not content to have a wife and mistress, is always looking for another to warm his bed. No man’s wife or lady is safe around him. Be on your guard, my Henrietta, for I would not wish for his lusty eye to fall upon you.”

  She remembered well what Margaret Blagge had said. “Oh! It already has and I denied him, naturally. This I did when I was fourteen, I am almost twenty now, so rest assured that were he foolish enough to look again, he would find only disdain and scorn.”

  This was good, but he continued on. “Hmm…‘tis a shame that such a man is still welcomed at court, when if he was anyone else and not the son of a King, he would have been rotting in a gaol or hanged at Tyburn by now.”

  “I can see well that you do not like him, but gaol, hanged? Why, whatever for?” she enquired, smiling, genuinely curious as to why the Duke deserved such punishment.

  “Murder. Why, Monmouth is a murderer, of course. It was several years ago now that he took umbrage to some poor man who criticised him and the King’s foolish friends, and he ran him through. They say he laughed as he thrust his sword into the man’s heart and watched with savage glee as he died.”

  “The more I learn of that man the more I despise him!” she uttered, horrified.

  “And before that had Sir John Caventry’s nose slit right to the bone.”

  “Good Heavens, why?”

  “Caventry merely made a poor joke regarding the King’s appetite for actresses, or actors, some such about that, I do not remember the details exactly, but Monmouth took such offence on behalf of his father that poor Caventry had no hope!”

  “And was nothing done about the beadle? Did Monmouth not get punished at all for that or for the other crimes?”

  “The only reason he escaped the fate he should have received for murdering that beadle is that his dear father the King pardoned him! But that was ages ago - though he’s been in trouble again only recently with the Exclusionists, who want to name him as heir after the King’s death. Some would prefer a Protestant bastard to the King’s Catholic brother, the Duke of York. He is not as favoured at court as once he was.”

  “And who would you support, Richard?” she asked.

  “I would support the true and rightful king, whomever he may be.” It was truly a politicians’ reply.

  The Duke, having said goodbye to Shaftesbury, looked down towards Henrietta again, only to find her glaring up at him with utter disdain.

  Chapter 4

  Henrietta Wentworth sat in the corner of the drawing room with various papers before her. There were other courtiers in the room, several ladies played card games, and Henrietta remembered how the exiled Duchess of York, Maria of Modena, had often been coerced into gambling, though she had been brought up to believe it sinful.

  Henrietta was not overly fond of card-games, preferring to retreat into her own little world of astrology and romance.

  “I had no idea that you were skilled in prognostication,” said a man, whom she had not realised had been standing by her side for a few moments.

  She looked up, and there he was, the Duke of Monmouth, smiling down upon her in his characteristically affable manner. She gave an involuntary frown as soon as she registered him, and looked down at her papers again.

  “I am no prognosticator,” she replied coldly, “All of our destinies have already been mapped out, and it takes little skill to read the signs.”

  “And where, pray, can we find these signs?”

  Why was he asking? “Why, everywhere, Your Grace. From the moon and the stars to the tides – there is a kind of magic all around us.”

  He laughed.

  She frowned again. “Your Grace mocks me.”

  “Nay, I do not!” he exclaimed, flashing his brilliant smile again, “I know full well what my father would say about this, ‘tis all.”

  “His Majesty is a known sceptic about such matters…”

  “As am I.”

  “Undoubtedly.”

  “We are living in the modern age now, my dear Baroness, these wheels and charts belong in the past. I wonder what you would make of the newer concepts of our age.”

  “The past is not so very different from the present. Do you mean to say that everyone was wrong because they believed in these? The Greeks, the Romans, and countless other civilisations - do you honestly mean to say they were all mistaken? Do you mean to say that you do not believe in predestination, in Providence?”

  He looked at her intently, so much so she felt her cheeks blaze. She was so different from the other ladies at court that he couldn’t help but be fascinated by her. She quickly realised she had spoken with too much passion, no doubt the cause of his silence.

  “I pray you’ll look at this,” she said, calmly. “This is my horoscope.” She showed him a sheet of paper upon which were scrawled her date of birth and many strange symbols that he had never before seen.

  “And these are unique to every individual?” he asked.

  “Well, it is according to one’s date of birth. I, for instance, fall under the sign of the Lion, or Leo.”

  “Fascinating. I wonder…may I borrow these?” he asked, tenderly, and with such a smile, that she felt it would be impossible to refuse him. She placed them into his elegant outstretched hands.

  “If you wish, Your Grace, you may.”

  He folded the charts back up and took out his black pocket book and slid them into it.

  “What do you keep in that pocket book?” she asked.

  “Oh, this? All sorts, really. Songs, poems, little things that I find of interest here and there, directions, general musings.” He took the book and put it back into his inside pocket. And flashing her with his affable smile, he left the room.

  ***

  Several weeks passed, and Henrietta saw nothing of the Duke, who had gone on progress to the West Country. There, he had received a jubilant welcoming, as if he were the Prince of Wales, and next in line to the throne.

  “God bless King Charles and the Protestant Duke!” many exclaimed as he rode by, waving and smiling at them all. Ladies threw flowers at his horse’s feet, and cheered with alacrity as he continued from one town to the next.

  He rested at White Lodge in Hinton Park, where a sickly young woman named Elizabeth approached him and, flinging herself towards him, managed to touch his arm.

  “God bless your greatness!” she cried, kneeling on the hot ground in awe of him, believing that by touching him, her illness would go away, for he was t
he son of a god-anointed King.

  He smiled warmly at the woman, “God bless you.”

  ***

  She had just put a spoonful of creamy Spanish pap into her mouth when there was a tap on her shoulder.

  “Why, Baroness Wentworth, I believe, good e’en to you.”

  She tensed immediately for she recognised the dark, velvety voice. She covered her mouth with the linen napkin and swallowed the creamy dessert as fast as she could and turned around. She met his gaze at which the Duke gave her his typical bow with a flourish of his hand.

  “Good e’en, Your Grace,” she finally managed to say, without choking.

  “Please allow me to say how lovely you look this evening.” She was wearing her favourite dark green dress; the ruffles of her white shift peeked out from the bodice and a little past her elbows.

  “Why, thank you, Your Grace.” She gave him a quizzical look – of all the ladies at court, ladies much more beautiful and desirable, ones that would gratefully accept his attentions – why on Earth did he choose to speak to her again?

  “You are well?” he asked.

  “Perfectly well, I thank you, Your Grace. And you?”

  “Excellent, I thank you, I have only just returned from my progress in the West Country, such excellent, good people they are there, not like these flatterers here at court. But I have a confession to make, I have been studying the charts you so kindly lent me and I think perhaps I owe you an apology – for not giving due credence to what you explained and also for keeping your charts for so many weeks. I do hope you will forgive me.”

  Although she had been slightly irritated at not having her charts for some time, she nodded, “I forgive you.”

  “Thank you. I came to say that I think there may be something in it after all. And, you can see here, I’ve had a chart of my own done.”