Jasmine shook her head. “I would not even ask,” she told her daughter. “The Kiras have served us faithfully for more years than I have on this earth. If Cromwell will not allow Charlie to draw on his English funds, and Mazarin, by virtue of his treaty with Cromwell, has stopped the flow of his French funds, we cannot attmept to circumvent these orders and endanger the Kiras. My funds are available, and I shall make note of every penny you spend, Charlie. When your funds are released to you once again you will repay me. Agreed?”
“Agreed, madame,” Charlie replied, raising his goblet to his mother in salute.
“It is so nice to have a man in the house again,” Autumn said happily. “I had not realized until now how important a man’s presence is.”
The summer deepened, and a month after Charlie’s arrival at his sister’s home, Autumn gave birth to a second daughter on the twenty-fifth of July. Marguerite Louise de la Bois was a plump, good-natured infant, with her father’s dark black curls and dark blue eyes that Autumn suspected would one day be the amber of her sire’s. There was a great deal of a to-do made over the king’s daughter, much to her older sister’s irritation.
“She isn’t half as interesting as you are, ma petite chou,” Charlie Stuart said, picking up his niece and walking off into the gardens with her to show her the empty bird’s nest he had found.
“I am a big girl,” Madeline said. “Baby Margot smells, Oncle.” She giggled. “I do not pee my nappies. I do not wear nappies anymore,” she announced triumphantly, pulling her skirts up to show him.
Charlie burst out laughing. “Madeline,” he advised her, “a lady does not show a gentleman her treasures unless he is her husband.” He pulled the little one’s skirts down and pointed. “Look, ma petite, here is the bird’s nest I told you about.”
Autumn could not resist nursing her new baby for a month. Then Margot, as the baby was quickly nicknamed, was given to her wet nurse, the wife of one of the vineyard workers who had weaned her own baby in preparation for her duties. Her name was Giselle, and having borne four sons she doted on this wee girl who was the king’s daughter. It was soon obvious that Giselle would not only wet nurse Margot but care for her as well. Marie, Madeline’s nursemaid, was happy not to have the extra work of a baby as her little mistress was very active now and required much supervision. The only free time Marie seemed to have was when her little mistress was with the priest, learning her letters, or sleeping.
The king surprised them on the fifth of October, arrriving with the Comte de Montroi to see his daughter. Seeing the Duke of Lund, he raised a quizzical eyebrow.
“May I introduce my brother, Charles Frederick Stuart, the Duke of Lundy, your majesty. He is known in the family as the not-so-royal Stuart. He is visiting with us and stood as Margot’s godfather, along with Guy Claude. I hope your majesty approves.”
The king held out his hand and Charlie quickly took it and kissed it. “You are most welcome in France, cousin,” Louis said, “for we are cousins by virtue of your paternity.”
“I am honored that your majesty would acknowledge it,” the duke said, and he bowed again. Their kinship was quite distant, he knew.
“You will join us at Chambord,” the king told Charlie. “Your mother and sister are coming in two days’ time, are you not, ma bijou?”
“We are,” Autumn said, curtsying prettily to the king.
“You have given me a beautiful daughter,” the king told her.
“She looks like you, sire,” Autumn replied with a smile.
“Then Mademoiselle de la Bois should grow up to be quite a beauty. I shall choose a husband for her at the proper time, madame,” the king said. “Do you plan to raise her yourself?”
“Of course! It is not the custom of the women in my family to foster out their children to others. Where I go, my daughters will go. They shall grow up here at Chermont, sire.”
The king smiled approvingly. He took his daughter from the arms of Giselle and walked about the salon with the infant for a few moments. Margot, usually quite vocal, was silent in her father’s arms. Finally the king kissed the baby’s little head and handed her back to her nursemaid. “She has charm and knows how to listen,” he announced. “Those two qualities are most valuable in a woman.” Then he turned away from his daughter and said, “In two days’ time, madame.” He kissed Autumn’s hand and then Jasmine’s, bowing to Charlie before he departed.
When the king had gone the Duke of Lundy said to his sister, “You have done well, sister. Will you have more children by him, or do you plan to remarry?”
“I do not know if I will remarry, but I suppose I might one day if I can find love again. For I shall not, Charlie, wed for any other reason, just as you taught me. I loved Sebastian. His death still pains me greatly, but I have survived. As for giving the king more children, I believe that would be ill advised. He will marry soon and does not need a bevy of illegimate offspring annoying his queen who, if the rumor is correct, will be the Spanish Infanta. The Spanish are not as open-minded about royal bastards as are the French and the English.”
They went to Chambord to join the king and his party, and once again Autumn was placed in the bedchamber next to the king. More sure of herself this year, she greeted the gentlemen with charm and assurance. She was congratulated on the birth of her daughter and much admired by all for her sparkling personality, and wit. The king had not lost any of his desire for her.
“I cannot believe a year has passed since we last made love,” he told her as they lay abed. The fingers of one hand caressed her breasts, moving down her belly to tease at her Venus mont.
“You are as passionate as ever, Louis,” Autumn told him, and then, leaning over, she kissed his mouth.
“There has been no one since our last sweet idyll?” he said.
“Of course not!” she said indignantly.
“You were, of course, full with my daughter,” he remarked. “Will you give me another child, Autumn, ma bijou?” he asked.
“It will be as God wills, monseigneur,” she replied piously. The king, she knew, was very devout. It would hardly do to tell him that she would not give him any more bastards. She sighed softly.
“You are sad, ma bijou. Why?” he demanded.
“I imagine this will be our last idyll, Louis, as you must marry soon. I will admit to enjoying your company,” she told him, turning his thoughts from children to himself.
“It is unlikely I will bring my queen to Chambord,” he said. “A man must have a place for himself alone where he may play. I shall always look forward to having you join me when I come, ma bijou. I may not, however, be able to come every year.”
“And perhaps you will prefer another companion,” Autumn said wickedly. “I am told Mademoiselle Mancini is quite in your favor.”
“When I am in Paris, oui,” he admitted. “Are you jealous?”
“Perhaps,” she answered him, and thought, God’s blood, I have become such a coquette. I am not in the least bit jealous. The king may be my lover, but I am not in love with him. Why should I care about Marie Mancini? God help me but I say these words to flatter him.
His fingers slipped between her nether lips and, finding her bouton d’amour, began to play with it. “You need not be jealous of the Mancini, ma bijou,” he murmured against her ear, his tongue teasing at the interior of it. “She is nowhere near as beautiful as you are, and her passions are not nearly as great as are yours.”
“Then, why,” Autumn demanded of him, “is she said to be your mistress, Louis?”
“Because she is,” he replied. His fingers moved with determiniation. “Her uncle thinks to keep me amused with his niece while he and my mother negotiate a princess bride for me. They feel Marie is a harmless diversion, and that a man of my years needs a mistress to keep him out of trouble.” He swung himself over her and, seating himself upon her hips, began to fondle her round breasts. “Sacrebleu, ma bijou, these are the most delightful little love apples you have for me to play with, c
herie.”
Autumn shifted her weight slightly. She hadn’t realized until now how much she had missed his passion. She wanted him inside her. She liked the feel of his weight upon her, and his lance thrusting and thrusting until she was mindless with the pleasure he could provide. She whimpered softly and slipping, her arms about his neck, drew him down so that their lips were just barely brushing. “Make love to me, Louis. I have longed for you so!” And that was true. She had longed for his touch, his hot desire.
The king pushed himself slowly into his mistress, smiling at her long, audible release of breath. “Ah, ma bijou,” he murmured, “I have missed you also!”
“I hope you are as enthusiastic this year as you were last, Louis, ma cher,” she daringly told him, “for I am quite randy, I fear!”
The king laughed aloud at this admission. “I am, I believe, even more enthusiastic, ma bijou,” he told her. And then he proceeded to show her exactly what he meant, much to Autumn’s delight.
The king returned to Paris in early November. “Until next year,” he told Autumn, kissing her lips a final time before he rode off, and she smiled up at him, nodding.
The Comte de Montroi had been released from the king’s service so he might marry and look after his own holding. His wedding day was set for December 1 and, bidding Autumn and her companions farewell, he hurried off home to prepare for the arrival of his bride.
“Bring her to Archambault at Christmas,” Jasmine said. “The de Savilles will welcome you both, and we will be there.”
“I will,” Guy Claude said. Then he looked at Autumn and said, “You will not change your mind, cherie, and marry me?”
She shook her head with a small smile. “You are so damned gallant, Guy Claude. I thank you, but no. I am not yet ready to settle down again, and it will take someone very special to fill the hole in my heart that Sebastian left, I fear. May we remain friends?”
He kissed both of her hands. “Always, cherie.” he promised. Then he was gone.
The winter set in again with its gray days and bursts of snow. At Christmas they went to Archambault to celebrate with the family. Phillipe de Saville was as gallant as ever and welcomed them warmly. Madame de Belfort and Madame St. Omer were delighted to see Charlie again. He flattered and teased the two ladies, giving them a most enjoyable time. The Comte de Montroi arrived with his bride, and the new comtesse was immediately drawn into their little group. She was a pretty young woman with a sweet smile, and she obviously adored her bridegroom.
“Treat her well, Montroi,” Madame St. Omer said sternly. “She is, I am certain, far better than a rascal like you deserves. I like you, madame la comtesse. You are always welcome to Archambault.”
The winter passed slowly. A letter arrived from Glenkirk from Patrick, who was unaware that his brother was with their mother. Charlie’s children were well, and growing quickly. He was worried about his brother’s daughter, Sabrina, approaching her seventeenth birthday. She was, Patrick wrote, as wild as any colt. Frederick, now fourteen, and William, who had just had his tenth birthday, were far more manageable.
“Patrick must send the girl to me,” Jasmine said. “She faces the same difficulty that Autumn faced at that age. There is no fit society with which she may associate. I cannot have my granddaughter gowing up like that, Charlie. She is your daughter, a duke’s daughter.”
“A Stuart,” he reminded his mother. “It would be too dangerous to get her out of either England or Scotland now. Just a little more time and the king will certainly be restored. Then I shall reclaim my children and my home. You will come back to Queen’s Malvern, Mama, and teach Brie all she needs to know about being a proper lady. She has time, and her dowry will gain her any man she wants,” Charlie said.
“That, my son, could be the very problem you want to avoid,” his mother warned. “If the king is not restored within the year, you must arrange for Sabrina to come to France.”
Spring came, and the vines began to show signs of life once more. Shortly before Margot’s first birthday, word came of a great battle, called the Battle of the Dunes, that had been fought near Dunkirk, between the French army and their Cromwellian allies against the Spanish and their allies the English royalists, led by Prince James, the Duke of York. On the fourteenth of June the French, under Marshal de Turenne, defeated the Spanish, led by the renegade French Prince de Conde.
A peace was signed. The French gained Roussillon, Artois, and several isolated strongholds along their northern border with the Spanish Netherlands. The Treaty of the Pyrenees also called for a marriage between King Louis and the Spanish Infanta, Maria-Theresa. Cromwell had been promised Dunkirk, but he died on September 3 of that year, and the promise was not kept.
Almost immediately upon Cromwell’s death, King Louis publicly declared for his cousin, King Charles II, and supported General Monck, who sought the king’s return. Richard Cromwell had neither his father’s magnetism nor the strength of character to hold together the anti-Royalists. It would require some months of negotiation, but King Charles was going home to England, and almost immediately his supporters, who had been scattered, began returning to his side for that glorious day when they would return to their native land with him. But not quite yet.
In his excitement King Charles proposed marriage to Princess Henrietta Catherine, sister of his brother-in-law, the Prince of Orange. When by November it was observed that Charles’s prospects were not quite realized—and possibly might not be unless the negotiations proceeded better—the betrothal was forgotten. Henrietta Catherine married John George of Anhalt-Dessau. The king was regretful, but he moved on with his life. Like all of Europe he observed the almost supernatural calm that seemed to blanket England after Cromwell’s death. But then came the reality that Richard Cromwell, or Tumbledown Dick, as he became known, could not manage the government.
His supporters wanted Charles II to return, but the time was not yet right. There was dissension among the Royalists over everything. Scandal broke when it was discovered that Sir Richard Willys, one of the founders of the Sealed Knot Society, a Royalist organization operating secretly within England during the Cromwell years, had been a double agent. That he had managed to get away with his duplicity for so long was both amazing and frightening. The timing of this revelation was bad, and it delayed the king’s return. A small Royalist force led by Sir George Booth attempted a rising at harvest time. It was quickly put down, and hopes for the king’s restoration were brought low, though not entirely extinguished.
Charlie had left Chermont to rejoin the king. He returned at Christmas to tell his mother and sister what was happening. There was only one man in all of England who the king trusted to aid him in his restoration. This, Charlie told them, was General George Monck. Monck was a professional soldier who belonged more properly to the generation of King Charles I. He had governed the Cromwellian forces in Scotland, and ruled fairly. He was a man who believed in order and efficiency.
Monck had not profitted from the confiscation of either Royalist or church lands during the Cromwell years. He had taken no part in the death of King Charles I, neither signing the arrest warrant, sitting in judgment, nor condemning the king to death. This was very important to King Charles II, who had no forgiveness in his heart for his father’s murderers. If England was not to find itself enmeshed in another civil war, General Monck decided, the monarchy would need to be restored. His brother, a clergyman in Cornwall, acting as his intermediary, set about to make it so.
“I will remain with you until spring,” Charlie informed his sister. “The king was so discouraged this October that he considered seeking his fortunes in Spain. We have now convinced him otherwise, and he will wait for General Monck to make his move.” He looked at his sister. “Did you see your king this year, little sister?”
“Of course,” Autumn laughed. “He came in October but was very sad. The cardinal and the queen have separated him finally from his little friend, Marie Mancini. Marie, it seemed, thought she mig
ht circumvent her uncle’s wishes and trap the king into marriage. He was really quite fond of her, for she is clever, intelligent, and witty, I am told. I have heard it said, even from Louis, however, that her features are quite common and coarse. Like a tavern wench, it is said.”
“The king’s wedding is set for next summer,” Charlie noted.
“I know,” Autumn replied. “Louis says that Mama and I are to come. I do not know, though, if it would be proper under the circumstances.”
“If you receive an invitation, you will have to go,” her brother responded. “You cannot refuse a royal command.”
“I think the cardinal and Queen Anne will oversee the guest list, and it is unlikely we shall be invited,” Jasmine said to her children. “It is also a moot point as to when we shall see King Louis again, now that he is to be married. He will certainly not come to Chambord next year, but a few months after his marriage. What I look forward to is the possibility of going home. Of seeing India and Henry and their families. We have been away so long.”
“What of Patrick?” Autumn asked her mother. “And Glenkirk?”
“I want to see all my children,” Jasmine said, “but I do not know if I can go back to Glenkirk.”
They were not, as the Duchess of Glenkirk anticipated, invited to the king’s wedding to the Spanish Infanta. The English king, Charles II, was restored to his throne on the thirtieth of May in the year 1660. Charlie had returned to his cousin’s side and was already in England. He wanted his mother and sister to return as well. Autumn wisely waited until the harvest, and then departed Chermont, her children and servants in tow.
“When will you return, madame la marquise?” Lafite asked his mistress. “When will the petite mademoiselle return?”
“I will be back,” Autumn promised him, “and so will my daughters, Lafite. They are, after all, French, and is not Mademoiselle d’Oleron mistress of this estate? And Mademoiselle de la Bois, King Louis’s own child? We will return.”
Intrigued Page 33
