by Nina Mason
Jealousy jabbed at Robert’s heart. Though Maggie had terminated their affair, they still saw each other frequently. Hardly a day went by, in fact, that Gemma did not appear at their door with her tonics to improve Maggie’s chances of carrying to term. He presumed from this she was doing her best to maintain her friendship with his wife. He also presumed she knew naught about the Blessed Virgin’s forecast.
Suddenly feeling unwelcome, he rose from the chair and stepped around Gemma and the bed to give her the space and privacy she required to perform her exams. He went to the fireplace and, whilst Gemma did her business, fingered the treasures Maggie kept upon the mantel. A porcelain shepherdess the queen had given her for her last birthday, a silver box he’d bought her for their fifth anniversary, and the miniature portrait of her father that was left with her on the doorstep of the convent by her mother’s husband. His wife had been Lady Margaret Denham, the Duke of York’s first public mistress. She died giving birth to Maggie—a secret known only to her lover and husband. Everybody else believed she’d been poisoned. Comically (or, perhaps, tragically), the Duchess of York, who by all accounts was as jealous of her husband’s paramours as was his second wife, was suspected of having done the deed—when, in fact, it was the duke who had killed his mistress by putting a child in her womb.
The thought was a knife to Robert’s heart. Childbirth killed so many women. So bloody many. Why had God made something so natural and necessary so difficult and deadly? Was it meant to be the counterbalance to the pleasures of sexual congress? If so, he could not understand why the suffering was reserved for the fairer sex alone. The priests, of course, claimed the trials of childbirth were womankind’s punishment for Eve’s sins in the Garden of Eden, but Robert believed that hokum about as much as he believed placing a knife under the bed would cut the pain.
Not in the least, in other words.
Behind him Maggie moaned through another contraction. The sound of her in distress roused his pity and his anger. He balled his fists, wanting to strike out. Unfortunately, his desired target was too far away and invisible.
It was all for naught. All for naught! She was suffering to bring forth a child they could not love. They had not even named him for fear they would grow too attached.
Tears of rage stung his eyes. To temper his feelings, he ran his thumb over the king’s painted face. James was younger then and not yet king. He seemed more likeable back then, though perhaps he was not. Still, Robert had trouble reconciling the way James seemed then with the way he seemed now. Was it the power that had corrupted his soul or had he always been a cruel man? There was no way of knowing. Still, he could not understand how a man who loved his mistresses with such passion could be so cold-hearted in other arenas.
Robert bit his lip and placed the portrait back on the hook of its display stand. The cessation of Maggie’s moaning let him know the contraction had passed.
“How close is she?” he asked without turning round.
“An hour or two away yet,” Gemma replied. “She may make swifter progress once she is on the chair, however. Will you help me move her to it?”
“Of course.”
He turned around to find Maggie sitting up in the bed. His love for her rushed through him like a strong wind. Even when pale and sweating he thought her the most bewitching creature in existence.
He went over and helped her to the edge of the bed. “Put your arms about my neck and I shall carry you over.”
“There is no need for that,” she protested. “I am perfectly capable of walking.”
As she stood, clear liquid gushed from between her legs. Frightened, Robert turned to Gemma. “What has happened? Is that usual?”
“Quite so,” Gemma assured him. “’Tis naught but her waters breaking, a natural part of the process. Nothing to be troubled about in the least.” She came over and put her arm around Maggie’s waist. “While I help her to the parturition chair, please fetch her a towel, a fresh nightgown, and a glass of wine.”
Robert collected the towel and nightgown from within the chamber and gave them to Gemma. The wine was in the front parlor, so he went to get it. When he returned, Maggie was stark naked and seated upon the birthing chair whilst Gemma wiped dry her legs.
Guilt stabbed him, sudden and sharp. Why should she be made to suffer such agonies whilst he walked about unaffected? It seemed most unfair.
As he made his way over, he fixed his gaze on Maggie’s swollen belly. A dark stripe ran from her pubic hair to her navel, which stuck out like a ganglion. Higher up, her paps looked as heavy as udders. As he recalled nursing from her in secret at her father’s coronation, desire fluttered in his cods.
He stood by with the wine whilst Gemma helped Maggie on with the fresh gown. A loud boom from outside shook the floor, giving him such a jolt, he nearly dropped the glass. Another boom followed, then another.
Gemma looked at him in alarm. “What the devil was that?”
“Cannon fire,” he said, and handed Maggie the wine.
Gemma grew pale. “Is the palace under attack?”
“I doubt it,” he said. “More than likely, it’s the Tower cannons, announcing the birth of the queen’s child.”
“Perhaps now, people will believe she really was pregnant,” Maggie offered.
“Do not count on it, dearest.” He set his hand lightly upon her shoulder. “As I told you before, people will believe what suits them, however much evidence is presented to contradict their assumptions.”
“Yes,” Maggie said, looking up at him with concern in her eyes, “but surely they will not believe her pregnancy was faked when they see the child with their own eyes.”
“Mark my words,” he said, “they will only say the child is an imposter.”
“I fear he speaks rightly,” Gemma put in. “The other day, in my shop, I overheard two patrons saying they would not put it past those filthy papists to pass off a foundling as a prince, if it suited their wicked purposes. I was astounded, and deeply offended, but bit my tongue. If my Protestant customers should learn of my closeted Catholicism, they would withdraw their patronage and I would starve.”
“We would not let that happen,” Maggie told her sweetly. “If ever you are in want of money—or anything else we can provide—you need only ask.”
“That is very good of you duchess,” Gemma said, smiling warmly. “Fortunately, for the moment, I require no more than your friendship.”
“We will, of course, compensate you for your midwifery,” Robert quickly added. “I do not expect charity when I can well afford to pay for your services.”
“Keep your money, Your Grace,” Gemma said. “I have no need of it and would feel guilty taking it from you.”
“I do not understand,” Robert said. “What reason could you have to feel guilty?”
Gemma’s cheeks reddened and she lowered her gaze to the Persian carpet. “I…well, to be truthful, I regret what I asked in trade for your son’s engraftment. It was greedy, selfish, and sinful of me, and I abhor myself whenever I think of it. Not the event itself, mind you, for that I must own was a genuine treat, but how it was arranged. You have both become so very dear to me…and I now loathe myself for having behaved in such a self-serving manner.”
“Dear Gemma, do not concern yourself so,” Maggie said amiably. “Unrequited love is a poison that can drive even the sanest person to the brink of madness. I did not mind sharing my husband with you that one time. If not for you nursing him so well through his amnesia, I might have lost him forever.”
“Oh, duchess,” Gemma said, clearly moved. “You are always so kind and generous.”
“That she is,” Robert agreed wholeheartedly. “That she most certainly is.”
Maggie had another contraction. As Gemma helped her through it, Robert, feeling out of sorts, went into the parlor and sat on the sofa. The cannon boomed again, further jangling his nerves. Had the queen had a boy, as she believed she would? Perhaps if she had not been so certain about the
sex, the Protestants would not have been so quick to believe her confinement a subterfuge.
He raked back his hair with his fingers, his thoughts shifting to the statue that spoke to him in Wales. Had the Madonna appeared to the queen as well? Was that how Mary Beatrice had learned the sex of the child she would conceive?
It seemed possible, especially if the infant was indeed male. Suddenly curious, he got to his feet and returned to the bedchamber where Maggie still labored. Pausing in the doorway, he watched the two women interacting. They seemed very at ease with each other and utterly unaffected by his absence. He felt mildly hurt, but pushed the petty feeling away.
“Will you be all right if I step out for a few minutes?” he asked his wife. “I thought I would go and enquire after the sex of your new sibling.”
Maggie met his gaze across the room. “Do you question the queen’s intuition?”
“I only wonder if intuition is the source of her knowing.”
Maggie squinted at him. “What else do you suspect as the cause?”
“Think about it, Rosebud. The king and queen went to Wales before we did. I cannot help but wonder if they, too, met the lady in the garden.”
Maggie’s eyes flew open. “Glory be! Do you really think they might have?”
“What are you two talking about?” Gemma looked from husband to wife and back again. “What lady? Which garden?”
“Did I not tell you?” Maggie asked, making Robert fear what she planned to say next. “We met a gypsy woman in the garden of the shrine to St. Winefride. She placed her hand on my belly and predicted the sex of the baby. Robert thinks the queen might have met her, too, and that it might explain how Her Majesty was so certain all along that she would have a son.”
Robert smiled at her quick thinking and clever cover story. “Shall I go and find out if she was right?”
“Do,” Maggie urged. “For I should like to know, too.”
Mary Beatrice was not at Whitehall Palace, having opted to return to St. James’s for her confinement. The halls of Whitehall, thus, were deserted but for the servants.
Robert made his way to the stables and asked a groom to saddle his horse. While he waited, he wondered if the Madonna had disclosed more to Mary Beatrice than the sex of her future child. If so, what might it have been? He considered various possibilities until the groom brought Tiberius.
He thanked the lad and gave him a guinea before springing into the saddle. Reining the horse toward the gates, he dug in his heels and clicked his tongue. Tiberius set off at a jarring trot. By the time Robert passed the guard house, he was posting quite comfortably.
The trip betwixt the two palaces was short and pleasant. The sun was hot on his shoulders, but a cool breeze offered welcome relief.
Steering his horse through the gate, he rode past a parade of guards and around to the side entrance to the state apartments. Dismounting, he tied Tiberius to the iron fence, and hurried inside. The halls were crowded and noisy. He tried to catch someone’s eye, but all were chattering away to their companions. For a moment, he felt like a ghost, floating unseen.
He climbed the stairs two at a time and made his way to the queen’s rooms. There was a crowd of courtiers mingling outside. Seeing Mulgrave amongst them, he flinched. He looked around for someone to ask. Spotting Lady Fitzhardinge near the door, he elbowed his way over to her.
Her face lit up when she noticed his approach. “Lord Dunwoody, how good it is to see you. You are well, I hope.”
“Very well,” he said hurriedly, “but greatly pressed for time. The duchess is in labor, you see, and I—”
Lady Fitzhardinge, looking tickled, cut him off. “Is she? How wonderful.”
Remembering the vow in the letter she’d passed him, he asked, “Was Princess Anne present at the birth?”
“No, she is away in Bath just now,” the countess replied. “There were, however, several other Protestants and ladies of quality in attendance, as well as the dowager queen.”
“Perhaps now the Whigs will begin to accept the child truly exists.” He smiled as he remembered Maggie’s comments about fairies and spirits. “Has the sex yet been declared?”
“Oh, yes. The child is male, as the queen uncannily predicted all along.”
He expected no other answer. “Thank you, Lady Fitzhardinge. That is what I came here to learn, and now that I have obtained the report from your good self, I shall return to Whitehall to share it with my wife.”
“She is extremely fortunate to have such a devoted husband,” the countess said, beaming at him. “Please give her my best regards and wishes for an easy and successful birth.”
“I shall, I shall,” he said. “Now, if you will kindly excuse me…”
As he endeavored to take his leave, someone tapped on his shoulder. Turning, he found the king’s page standing before him. The young man dipped into a respectful bow. “How pleased I am to find you here, Your Grace. I was just about to set off for Whitehall in search of you. His Majesty would like a word in private. He awaits you in his chambers.”
Robert was beyond astonished. What could the king possibly want with him on such an auspicious occasion? He had a son, a Catholic heir to the throne. James should be kicking up his heels, not holding “closets” in his privy chambers.
As Robert followed the page, his astonishment solidified into dread and sank into the pit of his stomach like a stone. Whatever the king wanted to see him about so urgently was unlikely to be good. He worried his lip as he futilely dredged his mind for a reason.
“Did His Majesty happen to mention what he wished to see me about?”
“No, Your Grace,” said the page. “He only said to bring you to him as quick as may be.”
By the time they reached the king’s rooms, Robert was a nervous wreck. He was sure he was in for a hiding, but could not think why. As far as he was aware, he had done nothing that should have displeased the king in the least.
His Majesty, clad in a velvet suit and curly blond periwig, was pacing the floor when the page brought Robert in. His face was drawn and pale and his expression extremely grave. Looking around, Robert saw that they were not alone. Another man occupied a chair by the fireplace—a man he knew to be Sir Edward Petre, the king’s much-hated Jesuit confessor.
Robert bowed to the king. “Your Majesty. May I congratulate you on the birth of your new heir?”
The king looked right past him to the page, who remained in the doorway. “Shut the door as you leave us, and do not let anyone near enough to overhear what is being said within.”
Now Robert was more curious—and more worried—than ever. What could this be about? What could warrant such secrecy and involve Sir Edward Petre? He still had not the slightest notion.
The page bowed and took his leave, shutting the door behind him. When his footsteps had faded, the king, still looking grim, said to Robert, “How is Margaret? Has she yet begun her labor?”
“Yes, sire. She is well along. The midwife expects the child in another hour or two.”
“I pray to Heaven the child is male.”
It seemed an odd wish—for why should the king care so much about the sex of his grandchild?—then again, everything about this meeting seemed rather strange. He thought about telling His Majesty he knew for a certainty Maggie would deliver a boy, but since he could not explain how he’d come by the knowledge, he decided to keep it to himself.
“I would be just as happy with a daughter, sire. All that matters to me is that the child is born in good health.”
“Yes, yes,” the king said impatiently. “But it must be male to suit my purposes.”
Robert, distressed by the statement, furrowed his brow. “Forgive me my impudence, sire, but what purposes might those be?”
His Majesty turned to his confessor, who remained seated by the fire. “Show him, Sir Edward.”
The order sounded ominous. Robert looked at the Jesuit, noticing only then the sizeable gilt-and-enamel jewelry casket on his lap. As he
drew closer, Sir Edward lifted the lid to reveal the contents. Shock stabbed Robert’s heart when he saw the box held a tiny newborn infant. A tiny male newborn infant. The child’s stillness and bluish pallor made it clear he was dead.
A shiver went through Robert as everything clicked into place. This was the moment the Blessed Virgin had referenced. This was how he would sacrifice his son for the good of mankind.
“You want my child, to replace yours, which has perished?”
“I told you he was clever,” His Majesty said to Sir Edward, “as well as devoted to his king and his faith. Now, we shall see just how far Dunwoody’s allegiance extends.”
His words shocked Robert, though not to half the extent they might have if he’d had no inkling of what was coming. He knew not what to say and thought it wisest to hold his tongue until he recovered his equanimity.
“No one else knows the child has died,” said the king. “Not even his mother. He was born alive—God be praised—so the witnesses will swear his legitimacy.”
Robert swallowed hard. “How do you suggest I explain this plan to my wife? I can hardly give our child away without telling her why I have done it.”
The king’s fiery blue gaze burned into his. “If you trust her enough to speak truthfully, then, tell her the child will be king one day and that she is aiding a holy cause. Tell her whatever you must to gain her accord. But do it quickly, man, before anyone begins to suspect something is amiss with the prince.”
His son would only be king one day, Robert thought bitterly, if James managed to hold onto the crown, the odds of which grew slimmer by the day. Though, to be fair, His Majesty might yet turn public opinion in his favor. Robert rather hoped he would. While the man was far from a model monarch, at least he was making an effort to repeal the laws that excluded Catholics from public and military service. His heir to the throne might have a chance to further that cause and, as an added bonus, alter the line of succession.
’Twould be worth if for no other reason than to keep those two-faced bitches Mary and Anne off the throne.
The benefits, unfortunately, did not make the decision any less heart-wrenching. “I know not what to say, Your Majesty.”
