by Jean Plaidy
“Hurry!” cried Lucy. “My mirror! My comb! Ann … quick! Jemmy, you must go away. Who is it, I wonder?”
“If it is my father, I shall stay,” said Jemmy. “If it is Sir Henry, I shall stay too. He promised to bring me a pony to ride.” He leaped off the bed. “He may have brought it.”
The maid said that it was neither the King nor Sir Henry Bennett. It was an elderly gentleman whom she did not know and who would not give his name.
Lucy and Ann exchanged glances. An elderly gentleman who had never been here before? Lucy liked young lovers. She grimaced at Ann.
“I should put a shawl over your shoulders,” said Ann, placing one there.
Lucy grimaced again and pushed the shawl away so that the magnificent bust and shoulders were not entirely hidden.
Edward Hyde was shown into the room. He flinched at the sight of the voluptuous woman on the bed. The morals of the Court—which he would be the first to admit were set by his master—were constantly shocking him. He thought of his daughter, Anne, and was glad that the Princess of Orange was taking her away. He thought: What I must face in the service of my master! And his thoughts went back to that occasion when, seeking to join Charles in France, his ship had been taken by corsairs, and he, robbed of his possessions, had been made a slave before he finally escaped.
“It is my lord Chancellor!” said Lucy.
Edward Hyde bowed his head.
“This is the first time you have visited my apartment,” she went on.
“I come on the King’s pleasure.”
“I did not think that you came on your own!” laughed Lucy.
The Chancellor looked impatient; he said quickly: “It is believed that we shall not be here in Cologne much longer.”
“Ah!” said Lucy.”
“And,” went on Hyde, “I have a proposition to make. Many people remain here because they dare not live in England. That would not apply to you. If you wished you could return there, set up your house, and none would say you nay.”
“Is that so?”
“Indeed it is. And it would be the wisest thing you could do.”
“How should I live there?”
“How do you live here?”
“I have many friends.”
“English friends. The English are as friendly at home as in exile. The King has promised to pay you a pension of four hundred pounds a year if you return to England.”
“It is for Jemmy,” she said. “He wants Jemmy to be brought up in England; that’s it, I’ll swear.”
“It would be a very good reason for your going.”
“London,” she said. “I wonder if it has changed much.”
“Why not go and find out?”
“The King …?”
“He will not be long in Cologne.”
“No,” said Lucy sadly. “He will go, and he will take the most gallant gentlemen with him.”
“Go to London,” said the Chancellor. “You’ll be happier there, and one day, let us hope, all the friends you have known here will join you there. What do you say? Four hundred pounds a year; and you have the King’s promise of it as soon as it is possible. A passage could be arranged for you. What do you say, Mistress Barlow? What do you say?”
“I say I will consider the offer.”
He took her hand and bowed over it.
“The serving girl will show you out,” she told him.
When he had left she called Ann Hill to her.
“Ann,” she said, “talk to me of London. Talk as you love to talk. Come, Ann; sit on the bed there. How would you like to go to London, Ann? How would you like to go home?”
Ann stood still as though transfixed. She was smelling the dampness in the air on those days when the mist rose up from the Thames; she was hearing the shouts and screams of a street brawl; she was watching the milkmaids bearing their yokes along the cobbled streets; she was seeing the gabled houses on an early summer’s morning.
And, watching her, Lucy caught her excitement.
At the Palais-Royal, Henrietta Maria and her daughter were awaiting the arrival of Mary of Orange. The Queen felt happier than she had for some time; the royal family of France, although they had so long neglected the exiled Queen and her daughter Henriette, were preparing to give Mary of Orange a royal welcome.
“This is an honor of which we must not be insensible,” said Henrietta Maria to her youngest daughter. “The King, the Queen, and Monsieur are all riding out to meet Mary at Saint-Dennis.”
“It is Holland they honor, Mam, not us,” Henriette reminded her mother.
“It is Mary, and Mary is one of us. Oh, I do wonder what she will be like. Poor Mary! I remember well her espousal. She was ten years old at the time, and she was married in the Chapel at Whitehall to the Prince her husband, who was a little boy of eleven. It was at the time when your father was forced into signing Strafford’s death warrant; and the day after the marriage the mob broke into Westminster Abbey and … and …”
“Mam, I beg of you do not talk of the past. Think of the future and Mary’s coming. That will cheer you.”
“Ah, yes, it will cheer me. It will be wonderful to see her again … my little girl. A widow now. Oh, what sorrows befall our family!”
“But there is joy coming now, Mam. Mary will soon be with us, and I know her visit will make us very happy.”
“Hers was a Protestant marriage.” Henrietta Maria’s brow darkened.
“Please, Mam, do not speak of that. She will soon be here with us. Let us be content with that.”
They heard the shouts and cheers as the party approached.
Mary was riding between Louis and Queen Anne. Philippe was on the other side of his brother. This was indeed a royal welcome for Mary.
So the first time Henriette set eyes on her sister was a very ceremonious occasion; but there was time in between the balls and masques, which the royal family of France had devised for Mary’s entertainment, for them to get to know each other.
Henriette discovered Mary to be warmhearted and delighted to be with her family again. She was merry and quick to joke, and in that she reminded Henriette of Charles; she talked continually of her little boy who was now five years old—her little William of Orange, such a solemn boy, a regular Dutch William! She spoke sadly of her husband. She had been loath to marry him, she told Henriette as they sat alone. “So very frightened I was. I was younger than you, Henriette; think of that! But he was frightened too, and far shyer than I was, and we soon learned to love each other. And he died of that dreadful pox. It was a great tragedy for me, Henriette, in more ways than one. I could not then offer your brothers the hospitality which I had shown them hitherto; but more than that, I had lost a husband and protector … the father of my little Dutch William.”
Henriette shed tears for her sister’s sorrow, but more often she was joining in her sister’s laughter.
Each day there was some entertainment for Mary’s pleasure. Even young Philippe gave a ball two days after her arrival. It took place in the Salle de Gardes, and Philippe himself had spent much time and trouble ensuring that the illuminations should be of the brightest. In the tapestry-decorated salle, it was King Louis who opened the ball with Henriette. Mary, of course, did not dance, as French etiquette, dictated by Queen Anne, decreed that widows should not dance at great balls, and only on private occasions should they be allowed to do so.
Louis composed a ballet for her pleasure. It was founded on the story of Psyche, and never, declared the courtiers, had the King danced with greater perfection. Chancellor Seguier gave a fête in her honor, and the galleries which led to the ballroom were lighted with three hundred torches.
Mademoiselle, who was still banished from the Court, invited the Princess of Orange to her country residence of Chilly where she sought to outdo in splendor all the previous entertainments which the Princess had seen.
Mademoiselle, resplendent in jewels, was a dazzling hostess.
“Why, Henriette,” she sa
id to her cousin on that occasion, “how thin you are! Worn out, I dare swear, by all this unaccustomed gaiety. You must be rather sad at Colombes and Chaillot and the Palais-Royal. So very quiet it must be for you!”
“And you too, Mademoiselle, here in the country.”
“Oh, I know how to entertain myself. I have my own little Court here, you see, and I have heard that I shall very soon be invited back to Court. I shall go at my pleasure.”
“I am glad of that, Mademoiselle,” said Henriette. “I know how unhappy it must have made you to feel the King’s displeasure.”
“It is not Louis. It is his mother. What jewels your sister has! They rival anything I see here. And Henriette, there is something I would say to you. You should not, you know, go in to supper before me. I should take precedence over you.”
“My mother says that is not so; and you know how important it is that everyone should walk in the right order.”
“In the old days the Kings of Scotland gave place to the Kings of France. Your brother … if he had a crown … would be a Scottish King, would he not?”
“But also a King of England …”
“My dear Henriette, you really should step aside for me to go into supper before you.”
“My mother would never allow me to. Nor would Queen Anne.”
Mademoiselle pouted. “Such fusses!” she said. “And over such small details. The Queen gives too much thought to such matters. Well, we shall see who will have precedence. Mark you, I think it would be a different matter if your brother were a ruling king.”
“In the eyes of the French Court he is still a king.”
“Lately, I have wondered. But enough of this. Enjoy yourself, Henriette. My poor child, it must be enchanting for you. You only go to the little private dances at the Louvre now, don’t you?”
Mademoiselle left Henriette and returned to her guest of honor.
“And how do you like the Court of France, Madame?”
“I am in love with the Court of France,” Mary told her.
“It is very different from that of Holland, is it not?”
“Indeed yes. Mayhap that is one reason why I have fallen so deeply in love with it.”
“You do not love the Court of Holland?”
“I will tell you this, Mademoiselle: as soon as my brother is settled in his kingdom, I shall go and live with him.”
“Ah! When will that be?”
“I pray to God each night,” said Mary vehemently, “that his return will not be long delayed.”
“You think you would live in amity with Charles?”
“Any woman could live in amity with Charles. He is the sweetest-tempered man alive.”
Henrietta Maria heard them as they talked of her son, and her eyes sparkled with intrigue. Mademoiselle might be temporarily out of favor at the Court, but she was still the richest heiress in Europe; and badly Charles needed money.
“Ah!” she cried. “I hear you talk of this poor King of England. So you wish to hear news of him, Mademoiselle?”
“Her Highness offered it without my expressing the wish,” said the insolent Mademoiselle.
“He is foolish,” said Henrietta Maria, “in that he will never cease to love you.”
“And wise,” said Mademoiselle, “in that he does not allow this devotion, which you say he has for me, to interfere with his interest in others.”
“He bade me tell you how sorry he was that he had to leave France without saying goodbye to you. Why, Mademoiselle, if you were married you would be your own mistress.”
“But the King, your son, would not give up any of his if I were!”
“You would do exactly as you pleased. He is, as his sister tells you, such a sweet-tempered person. It is impossible to quarrel with him.”
“And you, Madame, have achieved the impossible!”
“It is because he is unhappy that we have quarreled. If you married him he would be so happy that he and I would be reconciled.”
“If the King cannot live happily with you, Madame, I doubt whether he could with me.”
Mademoiselle’s brilliant eyes were turned on Louis who had begun to dance.
Henrietta Maria followed her gaze. She could scarcely hold back her anger. It was ridiculous. Mademoiselle was eleven years older than the King of France and Henrietta Maria meant Louis to marry her own Henriette.
Henrietta Maria knew that she must shelve her immediate desires—Charles’ marriage with Mademoiselle and Henriette’s with Louis. Her daughter Mary was as amiable as her brother and as eager to please and live peaceably with her family. She attended the Anglican church every day; but perhaps it was possible that Henrietta Maria might save her for the true Church.
“Dearest daughter,” she said, “I want you to come to Chaillot with me tomorrow. I am sure a rest in the tranquil atmosphere there will do you so much good.”
Mary smiled at her mother. Charles was right about her, she thought. She was the most affectionate of mothers when her children obeyed her. But, thought Mary grimly, she shall never make a convert of me.
“Yes, Mama,” she said, “I will with pleasure come to Chaillot, but I shall not go to Mass there. As you know, I always attend the Anglican church.”
Henrietta Maria frowned. “One should never shut one’s ears and one’s heart, Mary. It is well to listen to both sides.”
“That is true enough, Mama. So I hope you will attend the Anglican church with me, as I shall come with you to Chaillot.”
“That is quite impossible!”
Henrietta Maria’s whole body seemed to be bristling with indignation. Then her eyes filled with tears. “I always think,” she said, “that everything would have been so different had your father lived.”
Mary was filled with pity. Poor Mother! she thought. It is sad. She lost her husband and she loved him dearly; she must continually be haunted by the fear that she was instrumental in bringing him to his end. That is why she so fiercely maintains her grief. All her children will disappoint her, I fear. Charles has quarreled with her. She has sworn she will never see Henry again. James—her favorite—will bring sorrow to her, I doubt not, for he was mightily taken with Anne Hyde when they met. And what will Mother say to a marriage with Anne Hyde, Charles’ Chancellor’s daughter? But perhaps it will not come to that. Let us hope that she will not disown James as she has Henry, and doubtless would Charles if she dared. I disappoint her because I will not turn Catholic. No wonder she dotes on our little sister. Henriette seems to be the only one who is able to please her. Now I foresee many arguments; she will call Père Cyprien and the Abbé Montague to deal with me. Dear Mother! I am so sorry. But I cannot give up my faith even to please you.
But those arguments did not take place, for within a few days news came that Mary’s little Dutch William was ill, and the smallpox was feared.
She was beside herself with grief, and left at once for Holland.
Charles was riding to Breda. Another move—and who could say how long he would stay at Breda?
It was more than five years since he had set foot in England. Five wandering years! How many more would he spend—an exile from his kingdom? He was accustomed now to dreaming dreams, making plans which became nothing more than dreams. “I have had so little luck since Worcester,” he told his friends, “that I now expect none.”
He had said goodbye to Lucy and his son. They would be in London now. He did not care to think of London; but he hoped Lucy would fare well there. But Lucy, he assured himself, would fare well in any place. She would always have lovers to provide for her. How was he going to pay the four hundred pounds a year which he had promised her? He had no idea. His purse was empty. “I am a generous man,” he often said. “I love to give, and if the only things I am able to give are promises with little hope of fulfilling them, then must I give them.”
Lucy had said a sad farewell to him … and to others; she had wept to leave him … and to leave others.
He had swung young Jemmy up in h
is arms, and he knew then that he dearly loved the boy. If he had been the son of himself and Mademoiselle or Hortense Mancini or the now-widowed Duchesse de Châtillon—someone whom he could have married—he would have been well content. It was a pity such a fine boy as Jemmy must be a bastard.
“What will you do in London, Jemmy?” he had asked.
“Fight for the King’s cause!” had answered the sturdy little boy.
“Ah, my dear boy, you will best do that by keeping those fine sentiments to yourself.”
“I shall do it with my sword, Papa. Dead … dead … dead … I’ll cut off Cromwell’s head.”
“Take care of yourself, my son. That is how you will best serve your King.”
Jemmy was not listening. He was fingering his sword and thinking of what he would do in London.
“You’ll have to curb our young Royalist, Lucy,” Charles told the boy’s mother. “We have talked too freely before him, I fear.”
So they had gone, and here he was riding on to Breda.
His sister Mary joined him in the little town. She had left the French Court in haste on hearing news of her son’s illness, but now cheering messages were reaching her. Her little William was merely suffering from an attack of measles, and not the dreaded smallpox as had been feared.
Mary, released from fear, was full of gaiety. She declared she could not come near Breda without meeting her favorite brother.
They embraced affectionately, and Charles made her tell him in detail all that had befallen her at the Court of France. He was particularly eager for news of Minette.
“I wonder who loves the other more—you or your little sister,” said Mary.
“Tell me—is she well?”
“Yes—well and charming; but she grows too fast; and life at the Court is not very happy for her and our mother. Mademoiselle makes herself unpleasant, demanding precedence whenever they meet.”
“A curse on Mademoiselle!”
“I thought you wanted to marry the woman.”
“Mam wanted it, you mean, and as for myself, I would marry her, I dare swear, if she would have me. I’m not enamored of her, but her fortune is too great to be turned lightly aside.”
