by Nina Mason
“True,” said Gemma, “but I am still surprised to hear you defending him and his whore so strenuously.”
“He is devoted to her, and she to him,” Maggie returned emphatically. “They have been involved these seven years and have had two children together, so it is clearly much more than a passing fancy. He also has no other paramours and, when he was forced to send her away to Ireland, he suffered her absence as cruelly as I now suffer Robert’s—all of which, when combined, convince me my father’s love for Lady Sedley is genuine.”
“That may well be,” Gemma said, “but affection makes adultery no less of a sin.”
The heartlessness of her reply made Maggie bristle. Yes, adultery was wrong, but so was separating two people deeply attached to one another. If Robert had consented to marry the woman King Charles chose for him instead of her, Maggie had no doubt she would have agreed to become his mistress. For she had loved him since that day he came to her rescue after she’d twisted her ankle in the woods, and she would much rather be the mistress of a man she passionately loved than be wed to a man toward whom her heart would forever remain indifferent.
Maggie’s thoughts jumped back to the masquerade ball, when Lady Sedley shocked everyone by showing up out of the blue. The next day, the queen confronted the king about it when he and Maggie were walking together in his privy garden. Mary Beatrice, to Maggie’s mortification, screamed at her husband like a common shrew: “Is it possible you are ready to sacrifice a crown for your faith, and cannot discard a mistress for it? Will you for such a passion lose the merit of your sacrifices?”
Ever since, the queen had been sulking. At the last two state dinners, she had picked at her food before stalking off, selfishly obliging her attendants to go hungry. She also made herself disagreeable by speaking not a word to the king—or to anyone else.
Truth be told, Maggie was beginning to lose respect for her step-mother. Such childish behavior was unbecoming a women in her exalted position. Was this the true face behind the obliging mask Mary Beatrice had worn hitherto? Maggie was beginning to believe it was—and to see why her father preferred his mistress’s sharp wit and brutal honesty to his wife’s jealous manipulations.
But alas, pressures were being brought to bear upon the king by his priests and ministers to give up the Countess of Dorchester, as he’d lately entitled his beloved. In a private conversation, His Majesty had shared with Maggie that his priests blamed the affair for the queen’s failure to give him an heir—and, to his daughter’s horror, he thought they might be right. Father Giffard, the dean of the royal chapel, had gone so far as to threaten to withhold Holy Communion until he broke with the lady.
Maggie, who loved her father despite his faults, said, “I do hope you will not yield and give up the countess. For without her love and faithful counsel, I fear you will become more susceptible to the machinations of those who would use you to advance their own aims.”
“Do not trouble yourself on that score, my dear,” he replied with a smile that crinkled his deep blue eyes. “For I have no intention of giving her up—and told my meddlesome ministers as much in no uncertain terms. I also advised those knaves not to concern themselves in future with matters that in no way relate to them. I will listen to my spiritual advisers on the subject of my sins, because I must for the sake of my soul, but not my political advisers, who have no bloody business advising me on matters of divinity.”
Returning her thoughts to the present, Maggie pasted on a pleasant smile to hide her annoyance at Gemma’s severity. “To that, I can only respond by quoting our Lord thusly: ‘Let he who hath not sinned cast the first stone.’ Now, let us talk no more of my father, for I fear that continuing in this vein will only provoke my anger and dampen my spirits. Instead, I suggest we turn to more pleasant diversions, like your naughty new book. How do you find it so far? Is it as wickedly ribald as you’d hoped?”
Gemma met Maggie’s gaze with a twinkle in her eyes. “It’s even better. Just listen to this: ‘The thing with which a man pisseth is sometimes called a prick, sometimes a tarse, sometimes a man’s yard, and other innumerable names’” She looked up from the page. “Before I go on, I should probably explain that the contents are presented in the form of two dialogues betwixt a young virgin of admirable beauty and her worldlier cousin, who has been sent by a suitor to arouse the girl’s interest in surrendering her maidenhead. In the first conversation, the cousin—Frances is her name—explains the fundamentals of the amorous arts to Katherine, the ingénue. In the second, Katherine relays to Frances, in great detail, all she experienced whilst making the beast with two backs with Roger, the aforementioned and aptly named suitor. Frances continues thusly in her description of the male organ: ‘It hangs down from the bottom of their bellies like a cow’s teat, but much longer, and is about the place where the slit of our cunt is through which we piss.’” Gemma looked up from the page, her emerald eyes alight with excitement. “Are you blushing yet, duchess? Are you shocked senseless? What say you?—shall I fetch the smelling salts or go on reading?”
Maggie was a bit shocked by the vulgar language, but, at the same time, eager to hear more. “Pray, do continue.”
“Gemma, clearly excited, returned her eyes to the page. “The cousin goes on thusly: ‘Besides, they have two little balls made up in a skin something like a purse; these we call bollocks; they are not much unlike our Spanish Olives, and above them, which adds great grace to this noble member, grows a sort of downy hair, as doth about our cunts.’” Here she paused for a breath and to turn the page, then continued. “To this description, the virginal maid replies thusly: ‘I very well apprehend what you say, but to what purpose have men all these things? Surely they serve some other use besides pissing.’”
So diverted was Maggie by this crass discourse, it was all she could do not to laugh out loud. In many ways, it reminded her of the anatomy lesson Robert had given her on their wedding night. Except that he had used the proper Latin terms for the reproductive parts, not the baser ones of which this author was clearly so fond.
“Now, the older cousin says, ‘Yes, marry does it, for it is this very thing which giveth a woman the delight I all this while have been talking of. For when a young man hath a kindness for a maid, he kneels down before her (when he hath gotten her alone) and tells her he esteems her to answer his love; if her silence continues, and she looks upon him with languishing eyes, he usually takes courage, throws her backwards, flings up her coats and smock, lets fall his breeches, opens her legs, and thrusts his tarse into her cunt, lustily therein rubbing it, which is the greatest pleasure imaginable.”
Whilst reading the above, Gemma was so mirthful, she had to pause several times to titter into her fisted hand. “Oh, duchess. Do you not find this naughtily titillating?”
“I do indeed,” Maggie responded with a smile, “and should like to hear more.”
“I am pleased to hear it, for you will surely enjoy what she has to say next.” Gemma cleared her throat. “First, the virgin tells her cousin she understands not how a man can put his limp member into a maid, whereupon, the elder cousin rebukes her with these words: ‘Oh, thou art an ignorant girl indeed. When a man has a fucking job to do, his prick is not then limber, but appears quite another thing. It’s half as big and long again as it was before. It is also as stiff as a stake, and when it’s standing so stiff, the skin on the head comes back and it appears just like a very large Heart Cherry.”
Looking up from the page once more, Gemma turned to Maggie with an impish grin. “Well…what do you think of it so far?”
Maggie fought a smile. “I think it quite ribald, but also comical in its way.”
Surprisingly, Gemma looked disappointed. “Are you not even the slightest bit provoked?”
“Only by how poorly the author expresses himself.” Maggie, who was only jesting, endeavored to hide her mirth. “Perhaps if you read on, I could formulate a more complete opinion.”
Gemma gave her a slanting look. �
�Why, you wicked little vixen. I do believe you are teasing me.”
Maggie smiled demurely and lowered her gaze. “You have caught me, though I was serious about his over fondness for verbosity. Perhaps if you skipped the preliminaries and got right to the meat, I would find it more…stimulating.”
Gemma, looking playfully put upon, stuck her nose in the air. “I have half a mind to put the book away, to punish your mockery.”
“Pray, do not be cross with me.” Maggie set a hand on her friend’s thigh. “I was only having a lark and meant no offence.”
“I accept your apology, provided you promise to be serious from now on.”
“Must I? ’Tis difficult to keep a straight face when one is confronted with the thrusting of pricks into cunts.”
They both dissolved into laughter just as the hackney drove through the palace gates and into the cobbled courtyard, where a group of guards were marching in formation. Maggie and Gemma got out there and walked past the guard-change parade to the eastern entrance through which the state apartments could be accessed.
Back in her rooms, Maggie dismissed the chambermaid after eliciting her promise to return at nightfall and, with her fussing son in her arms, she made herself comfortable on the settee as she prepared to nurse him.
Gemma, with The School of Venus still in her hand, parked herself in the adjacent chair. “Would you like me to read to you whilst you feed your son?”
“By all means,” Maggie replied with a smile. Listening to Gemma read would help to keep her mind from drifting to more disagreeable subjects.
As wee Jamie attached and began to suck, Gemma said, “Shall I start with the instruction or the relation?”
“The relation, methinks.” Maggie was curious to know how the virgin’s account of her first time would compare with her own. She had been a virgin on her wedding night, although not a complete neophyte, thanks to the erotic titles she’d borrowed from Robert’s library.
Gemma’s eyes suddenly lit up. “Oh! I have a splendid idea. We could take turns reading the text out to one another. You could read the lines of the inexperienced girl, whilst I read the part of her worldlier cousin. What do you say? Does that not sound like an amusing way to pass the hours until nightfall?”
While shopping, they had agreed to wait until dark before making their way to the closet overlooking Lady Fitzhardinge’s bedchamber. It was now just past three o’clock.
“It does indeed,” Maggie said, then, with a playful smile, added, “provided, of course, I can bear the author’s overblown prose.”
Gemma asked, “Shall I wait until you’ve settled the child?”
“Yes, I think that would be best.”
Maggie looked down at her boy, who was still the picture of health. Motherly affection swelled her heart. In a few more days, he would fall ill, whereupon she would stay by him day and night, just as she’d done when Robert had smallpox. She’d come close to losing him. Too close.
As she shifted the baby to the other breast, she thought of her husband in Scotland. Where was he now? What was he doing? Who was he with? Did he think of her as often as she thought of him? His dear letter suggested he might, though perhaps not quite as frequently, as he had more to occupy his time than did she. She was, nevertheless, satisfied he turned his mind to her with sufficient regularity.
Bring him home to me, Heavenly Father. Bring him home to me and his son.
At length, the baby’s sucking grew feeble and his eyelids fell closed. In another minute or two, he would be sound asleep. When his mouth detached and his body went limp, she took him into the bedroom and set him in the cradle. Then, returning to the parlor, she reclaimed her seat on the sofa.
Gemma gave her a smile. “Are you ready to begin?”
“Indeed, I am,” Maggie replied with a smile of her own. “But perhaps it would be easier if we sat side by side.”
Agreeing, Gemma rose from her chair and took the seat beside Maggie on the settee. They took turns reading the first several passages of dialogue, which primarily consisted of greetings and comments about the marked improvement in Katherine’s health since her deflowering by Roger.
“You are more airy a great deal than before,” Frances remarked to her protégé in Gemma’s voice, “and they that live to see it, will one day find you as cunning and deep a whore as any in the nation.”
“Truly, cousin,” Maggie read, looking on. “I was a little shamefaced at first, but I grow everyday bolder. My fucking friend assures me he will instruct me that I shall be fit for the embraces of a king.”
The last line dampened Maggie’s previously high spirits, for it reminded her sorely of her father’s mistresses, the first of which had been her own mother, Lady Denham. It also put her in mind of her disagreeable near-assignation with King Charles. Early in their lives together, Robert had been called to court to account for marrying her against the former king’s wishes. Charles had wanted Robert to marry a lady he had his eye on for a mistress. To punish her husband’s insubordination, Charles demanded a night in bed with his bride. Maggie had come as close to fulfilling his request as having the royal scepter parked at her introitus. Thankfully, they’d been interrupted before the deed was done. For, as they later learned, the king was her uncle.
She considered telling the story to Gemma, but then changed her mind. She was having too good a time reciting her naughty lines to spoil the day with unpleasant reminiscences. Discarding her melancholy, she returned her attention to the amusement at hand.
“He is a man of his word, and you need not doubt what he promises,” the apothecary next read. “What advantage have you now over other wenches in receiving so much pleasure, which enlivens thee, and makes thee more acceptable in company.”
Maggie skimmed the page for her answering dialogue. Finding it, she read: “I tell you what: since Mr. Roger has fucked me, and I know what is what, I find all my mother’s stories to be but bug-bears, and good for nothing but to frighten children. For my part, I believe we were created for fucking, and when we begin to fuck, we begin to live, and all young people’s actions and words ought to tend thereunto. What strangely hypocritical ignorants are they who would hinder it; and how malicious are those old people who would hinder it in young people, because they cannot do it themselves…”
They kept at the back-and-forth until, at length, they were interrupted by a knock upon the front door. It was a footman with their evening meal of raw oysters, boiled eggs, and game pie. As he brought in the food, the pie’s appetizing aroma made Maggie aware of both the lateness of the hour and her considerable hunger.
The knock had startled wee Jamie out of his slumber, causing him to cry. Maggie brought him onto her lap and shook the silver and coral teething rattle she kept pinned to his gown. Diverted by the tinkling of the tiny bells, he soon quieted. Now all drool and smiles, he took the rattle from her hand and put it in his mouth. Delighted by her son’s good nature, she bent to kiss the crown of the white-lace cap he wore.
When the meal was ready, she took him to the table and kept him on her lap whilst she ate one-handed. It was awkward, but manageable. The footman filled their glasses with claret before posting himself nearby. Aware of his presence, Maggie exchanged smiles and glances with Gemma as they ate, but said very little.
She had not been brought up in a grand house where servants were treated like pieces of furniture. She was mindful they had ears with which to hear and mouths with which to spread malicious gossip. She did not want herself and Gemma to be the objects of the sort of rumors being circulated about Princess Anne and her maids of honor.
In fact, she found the idea rather mortifying. There was already too much talk around the court about Robert’s unorthodox tastes. When younger, he’d been a courtier to Charles II—the Merry Monarch, so called—and had not been as careful about his habits as he ought to have been. Still, his reputation had weathered the storm. Hers, she feared, would not be quite as resilient, and her father had troubles enough without
her indiscretion adding to them.
A thrilling streak of concupiscent heat went through Maggie as she looked across the table at Gemma, who was salting a boiled egg. She wanted to ask her friend if she knew the name for what they were doing, but held her tongue. She would wait until they were alone, perhaps in the closet whilst spying upon Lady Fitzhardinge.
Maggie also bit her tongue on the topic of Lady Churchill, whom she cared for not in the least. She picked up her wine and took a gulp, remembering the night Robert had told her all about the self-important wench. Sarah’s father, Richard Jennings, was a Member of Parliament, and her sister, Frances, had been a maid of honor to Anne Hyde, the mother of Maggie’s legitimate half-sisters, Anne and Mary.
“Frances left the court following her marriage to Richard Talbot, a Catholic gentleman better known as ‘Lying Dick,’” Robert had imparted. “Sarah did not enter the court until several years later, when as a girl of thirteen, she became a maid of honor to Mary Beatrice shortly after her marriage to your father.”
That had been a few weeks before her father’s coronation. They had only just arrived at Whitehall then and were supping in the privacy of their own apartment. Robert had sent the servants away so he could tell her who to befriend and who to avoid in their new society.
“In time, Sarah and the Lady Anne, who was five years her junior, became bosom friends,” he continued. “When Sarah was seventeen, she married John Churchill, who comes from an old but destitute family. Interestingly, he was a former lover of the Duchess of Castlemaine, a notorious mistress of your uncle’s, and a suitor to Catherine Sedley, your father’s long-time mistress.”
The Churchills’ marriage, Robert went on to disclose, was kept secret so Sarah could keep her position at court. A year later, pregnancy forced her to give it up. After losing the child in infancy, she returned to court as Lady of the Bedchamber to Princess Anne, who, at the time, had just married.
