by Jean Plaidy
She was not plump like most Court beauties, who looked so much alike, who were ready with the catchwords of the moment; she was ethereal, dainty and slender; her laughter was gay yet innocent; her wit was growing sharp. All the Stuart charm, which had been latent, was suddenly apparent. She danced with enthusiasm; she was as gay as any; she had grown vivacious and amusing. This was a new Henriette.
“By God’s Body!” declared Buckingham. “She is incomparable, this little Princess. Having seen her, I find it difficult to see perfection in other women.”
But all his practiced gallantry, all his polished charm, failed to move Henriette. She saw him as a rake and a libertine; Charles was as bad, she knew; but Charles was her beloved brother, and nothing she discovered about him could alter her love for him. But she was not ready to fall in love with a pale shadow of her brother. In love she demanded different qualities. There was one who possessed all that she would demand in a lover. He must be good to look upon, but he must be of high integrity; he need not be supremely witty, but he must be good-natured and kind at heart. She had met such a one, but she must not think of him, for he was not for her.
So she amused herself by listening to Buckingham’s protestations of affection, flirting with him while making it perfectly clear that his desires concerning her would never be fulfilled.
“‘Od’s Fish!” said her brother in high amusement. “You are leading poor old George Villiers a merry dance.”
“Then it will do him much good to dance, as he has doubtless made others dance.”
“I am sorry for poor George.”
“I am sorry for his wife.”
“I doubt not that Mary Fairfax can look after herself.”
“To think it is only three years since she married him! How sad she must be to see him pursuing other women!”
“Three years!” cried Charles. “It is an eternity … in marriage.”
“Would you not ask for three years’ fidelity in a wife?”
“Dear Minette, I would not cry for the moon!”
“You are all very cynical here, and you, Charles, set the pace.”
“That may well be. But don’t fret for Fairfax’s daughter. She was promised to Chesterfield, you know, and after the banns were published she eloped with Buckingham. We might say ‘Poor Chesterfield!’ There were those to say it once. Nay! Do not waste pity on others in this game of love, Minette. Only take care that there is none to say ‘Poor Henriette!’”
“Charles, I am reminded that I must marry soon.”
“It is a good match, Minette. There is none I would rather see you marry, now that you cannot have Louis.”
“I am unsure.”
“We are all unsure at such times, dearest.”
“I cannot understand why Philippe so suddenly should want to marry me.”
“You are very attractive, Minette, as well as being the sister of a King—one who has now a throne. You are a worthy match for Philippe, as he is for you.”
“I wish I could love Philippe.”
“Some would say ‘That will come.’ But we do not allow fictions to exist between us, do we, Minette? No. You should not think of love in conjunction with husbands. I do not, in connection with wives.”
“You are being cynical again, Charles.”
“There are some who turn from the truth when it is not pleasant and call it cynicism. Do not let us be of their number, Minette. Face the truth and you will find that if you study it well you may discover that there is some part of it which is not as unpleasant as you thought it.”
“Must I marry Philippe, Charles?”
“It would be unwise not to.”
“But could I not wait awhile? I am young yet.”
“Mademoiselle de Montpensier told herself she was young yet, and now she is … not so young.”
“She would give much to marry you now, Charles.”
“And you see she comes too late. Do not follow Mademoiselle in that, Minette. Marry Philippe. We shall not be far apart then. We shall visit each other often. It is the best marriage you could make.”
“Is it what you wish?”
“I dearly wish it.”
“Then I will marry Philippe.”
“And I will give you a handsome dowry—40,000 jacobuses and 20,000 pounds, that you may not be a beggar when you come to your husband. I wish all the world to know that, though I am the most inconstant man in the world, there is one to whom I am constant forever—my sweet Minette.”
“Thank you, Charles. But, I pray you, let us talk no more of my marriage. Let us be gay and happy while we are together.”
So she danced and was happy; she forgot Henry; she forgot the Duchess of York; she forgot that soon she must return to France where she must marry one royal brother while she loved the other.
The King insisted that his mother and sister should not leave England until after the Christmas festivities. Christmas was celebrated with more gusto in England than in any other country, and this year’s celebrations promised to be more exciting than ever, for under the rule of the Protector such revelries had been considered a sin. All Englishmen were going to make England merry once more; they were determined on it, and during that December there was high excitement in the streets of the capital.
The Princess Mary had thrown herself into the preparations with enthusiasm. There were to be ballets and masques.
“We must not fail Charles,” she said to Henriette, “for he wishes his Court to rival that of Louis. We can help him achieve this, I am sure, although the English do not dance with the grace of the French.”
Henriette agreed. She began feverishly planning the ballet. There would not be Louis to dance so gracefully, to enchant the spectators with his commanding presence; but she fancied they could give the English Court something it had never seen before.
As she and Mary sat together talking of the costumes they would wear, and the dances they would arrange, the verses which would have to be compiled, Mary said suddenly: “You look sad, sister.”
And Henriette said in a rush of confidence: “It is this talk of the ballet. It reminds me of others. It reminds me that soon I must go back to France, and that …”
“Is it your marriage of which your are apprehensive?”
“Yes, Mary.”
“We all are when our time comes. Our marriages are arranged for us, and we have nothing to do but obey. Oh, Henriette, you are more fortunate than many. At least you will not go to a stranger.”
“Mary, sometimes I think that Philippe is almost a stranger.”
“But you have known him from childhood.”
“Yes. But it seems I knew a different Philippe.”
“It is because he seemed then but a boy to you, and now he is the man who is to be your husband. I remember my own marriage. I was very young, but in time I came to love my husband.”
Henriette turned to look at her sister. “It is such a comfort to have a family,” she said. “I often think what a wonderful life ours might have been if everything had gone well for our father, and we had all been brought up together … Charles, James, you, Elizabeth, Henry and myself. I never knew Elizabeth. I saw very little of Henry … and now they are both dead.”
“The rest of us must be good friends … always,” declared Mary.
“And be happy together,” said Henriette. “James is not very happy now, is he, Mary?”
Mary had put her hand to her head. She said: “I feel too tired to talk further, sister. I think I should like to rest awhile.”
Henriette felt saddened, suspecting Mary was making excuses. Mary was as obstinate as their mother, over the affair of Anne Hyde.
Mary stood up. She swayed slightly and it occurred to Henriette that she really was feeling ill, so she helped her sister to bed and told her attendants that their mistress wished to rest.
“You have had too much excitement, Mary,” she said. “You’ll feel better in the morning.”
But in the morning Mary was not b
etter; and the news spread through Whitehall. The Princess of Orange was smitten with the smallpox, that dreaded disease which, so recently, had carried off her brother.
Henrietta Maria was beside herself with anxiety. Henry dead. Mary ill. Smallpox in the Palace. Frantically she commanded her daughter to prepare to leave at once.
“Who will nurse Mary?” asked Henriette.
“Not you! You are to leave Whitehall at once. That is the King’s command. I shall send you to St. James Palace, and there you must remain.”
The King himself joined them. His face was grave. He took Henriette into his arms and kissed her solemnly.
“It is as if there is a blight on our family,” he said. “First Henry … now Mary. Minette, I want you to leave Whitehall at once.”
“I think Mary would wish to have some of her family about her.”
“Mary is too ill to recognize her family, and you, my dearest, shall certainly not come within range of contagion.”
“You are to leave at once,” commanded Henrietta Maria. “I have arranged for you to leave in twenty minutes.”
“And you, Mam,” said the King, “must go with her.”
“My place is at my daughter’s bedside, Charles.”
“Your daughter is sick. This is not the time for your conversions.”
“A sickbed, Charles, is the place for conversions.”
“Mary is very weak. She has been bled many times. Several of my doctors are with her. She is in no state to listen to your religious advice.”
Henrietta Maria looked sternly at her son, but she knew him well enough to recognize the obstinate line of his mouth. Here was the little boy who had refused to take his physic. He was slack; he was easygoing; but suddenly he could make up his mind to stand firm, and then none could be firmer.
For a few seconds they glared at each other, and she gave way.
He was too good-hearted to make his victory obvious. He said: “Stay and look after Henriette, Mam. We should never forgive ourselves if aught happened to her.”
“It may be you are right,” agreed the Queen.
And she was thinking: Later, when Mary is a little better, I will talk to her; I will make her see the truth.
She left with Henriette and in the Palace of St. James eagerly they awaited the news.
It came. The Princess of Orange was improving. The doctors believed that the bleeding had proved efficacious.
Henrietta Maria made her youngest daughter kneel with her.
“Let us thank the Blessed Virgin and the saints for this recovery. It is a miracle that she is now on the road to good health. My prayers have been answered. I said: ‘Holy Mother, I cannot lose two children … and so soon. I cannot lose them both in so short a time, and both to die heretics.’ And, Henriette my child, my prayers have been answered. ‘Give me my Mary’s life,’ I said, ‘and I will give you her soul!’ When she is well enough … a little later on, I will go to her and tell her that her life has been saved through prayer, and that she owes her soul to God.”
Henriette, kneeling with her mother, was not listening to the Queen’s words. The tears ran slowly down her cheeks.
“Thank God,” she murmured. “Thank God we have not lost Mary too!”
The King was at Mary’s bedside. She had asked for a cordial that she might have the strength to receive the sacrament.
Charles could not keep back his tears. He knew that Mary was dying.
Only yesterday they had believed her condition to be improved, but they realized now that they had been too quick to hope.
“Charles,” said Mary. “Are you there, Charles?”
“I am here, Mary.”
“You should not be. It is dangerous.”
“I am a tough fellow, Mary.”
“Oh, Charles … my favorite brother …”
“Don’t talk,” he said. “Keep your strength to fight for your life.”
“It is too late. The fight is over. You are weeping, Charles. Pray do not. We are an unlucky lot, we Stuarts. We don’t live long, do we? Elizabeth, Henry, and now Mary. Only three left now. Three and poor Mam. Father went … long ago.”
“Mary, I beg of you, save your breath.”
“I’m not afraid of death, Charles. I regret dying only because of my boy. Charles, be a father to him.”
“I will, to the best of my ability.”
“My little Dutch William. He is a solemn boy.”
“Have no fear. All shall go well with him.”
She lay breathless on her pillows. Her glazed eyes looked up at him. “Charles … Charles … you should not be here. And you the King!”
“I have seen so little of you, Mary. I cannot leave you now.”
“There will not be long for us to be together. I was cruel to James’ wife, Charles.”
“Do not think of that now.”
“I cannot help it. I wish so much that I had been kind. She was my maid of honor. She was a good girl and I … in my pride, Charles …”
“I know. I know. You thought no one good enough for royal Stuarts.” “You are fond of her father, Charles.”
“Aye! A good friend he has been. I am fond of his daughter too.”
“You will have her recognized. Charles … you will make our mother understand how I feel now. Any day her time may come too. Don’t let her feel as I do now. It is a terrible thing to have wronged someone and to come to your deathbed without setting that wrong right.”
“I’ll set it right, Mary. Think no more of it. I shall speak to Mam. I’ll set that matter right. And Anne Hyde shall know that at the end you were her friend.”
“Thank you, Charles. Thank you, my favorite brother.”
He could not bear to look at her. He dashed the tears from his cheeks. They were giving her the sacrament, and she took it eagerly.
Afterwards she lay back on her pillows and quietly she died.
That Christmas at Whitehall was a sad one, and arrangements were made for the return to France of Henrietta Maria and her daughter, for Philippe was urgently requesting that his marriage should be delayed no longer.
The King sought his mother in private audience soon after Mary’s death; his face was stern, and Henrietta Maria was quick to notice the lines of obstinacy about his mouth.
“Mam,” he said without preliminary ceremony. “I have come to ask you to accept James’ wife as your daughter-in-law.”
The Queen set her lips firmly together. “That is something I find it hard to do.”
“Nevertheless you will do it,” said the King.
She looked at him, remembering the stubborn boy who had taken his wooden billet to bed and refused to part with it, not with tears of rage, as most children might have done, but with that solemn determination which made him hold the piece of wood firmly in his small hands and look at those who would take it from him as though he was reminding them that he would be their King one day. He was looking at her like that when he said: “Nevertheless you will do it.” She remembered that he had settled her yearly allowance and that she depended upon him for much. She knew that she would have to give way.
He was ready, as ever, not to humiliate her unduly. He did not want acknowledgment of his triumph. He merely wanted peace in his family. He said: “The rumors concerning poor Anne have been proved to be false. James loves her. They have a child whom I have proclaimed heir-presumptive to the crown. There remains one thing; you must receive her.”
Henrietta Maria still did not speak.
“In view of all that has gone before,” Charles continued, “it will be necessary for you to make public recognition of her. We are too unlucky a family not to be happy when we can be together. Fate deals us enough blows without our dealing them to each other. Mary realized that. On her deathbed she wept bitterly for the hurt she had done Anne Hyde. There will be a farewell audience at Whitehall before you leave, and during it James shall bring his wife to you. You will receive her, and do so graciously. I would have it seem that there has nev
er been ill feeling between you.”
Henrietta Maria bowed her head; she was defeated.
But she knew how to accept defeat graciously—in public at least, and when Anne Hyde was brought to her, she took her into her arms and kissed her warmly, so that it was as though there had never been aught amiss between them.
The next day they left for France. As their ship tossed on the stormy seas, Henriette grew frightened—not of the death which the roaring winds and the angry waves seemed to promise, but of marriage with the Philippe who had become a stranger to her.
The visit to England had been a connecting bridge between childhood and womanhood. She had known it, and she was afraid of what was waiting for her.
Tossing in her cabin, she felt that her body was covered in sweat as she lay there, and suddenly it seemed to her that she was not in a boat at all. It seemed that she was flitting from one scene to another, and always beside her were the two brothers, Louis and Philippe. Philippe was embracing her, laughing slyly at her because she had believed he loved her; and Louis was turning away from her, looking with eager eyes at Madame de Soissons, Madame de Beauvais, Olympia and Marie Mancini—and dozens of others, all beautiful, all voluptuous. He was turning away from her, refusing to dance, and she was afraid because Philippe was waiting to seize her.
“Charles!” she cried. “Charles, save me, and let me stay with you.”
Charles was somewhere near, but she could not see him, and her cries for help could not reach him.
Her mother was calling to her. “Henriette, my dearest. They have turned the ship. Thank God we have come safely in. You had a nightmare. We are back in England now. The Captain dared not continue the journey. My child, are you ill?”
Henriette closed her eyes and was only vaguely aware of being carried ashore. For fourteen days she lay at Portsmouth close to death.
But she did not die. She refused to be bled as her brother and sister had been, and her malady proved not to be the fatal smallpox but only measles.
