The Countess and the King: A Novel of the Countess of Dorchester and King James II

by Holloway Scott, Susan

  But of far greater importance to me at that moment was that he’d a long, elegant face and merry dark eyes that seemed to hold some secret jest, that he spoke quickly and decisively in a manner that I found most attractive, and that when I in turn spoke to him, he listened as if what I said were the most fascinating words he’d ever heard. In short, I was beguiled by him, and he by me, and if the duchess chose to keep us both waiting for all eternity (or at least the rest of that particular day), then neither of us would have been displeased.

  “I have come to believe Her Highness does not truly exist, Miss Sedley,” he said, “and I vow it would seem to be your experience, too. Why else should she not wish to see such amusing persons as ourselves?”

  “Ourselves, and all these others, too,” I said, making a graceful sweep of my hand to include the good twenty or so in the antechamber who, like us, were made to wait on Her Highness’s whim. “How I wish I were a duchess myself, so as not to be made to languish like this. It is not at all fair that gentlemen might rise through their own industry. Consider yourself, already made captain.”

  He bowed in happy acknowledgment. “Fortune smiled upon me,” he said modestly. “That, and my superior officers.”

  “But you must also have been hugely brave, to have risen so far at so young an age,” I insisted. “At such a pace, sir, you’ll be a general before you are thirty.”

  “Only if the foolish ministers do not sue for peace,” he said with a melancholy sigh. “Without war there is little chance for glory.”

  I nodded, for his sake willing to ignore the common popular sentiment that the current Dutch war had cost too much and accomplished too little, and the sooner it was ceased entirely and a peace made with the Dutch, the better. “But still you must have hopes of advancement based on your record.”

  “There are no guarantees,” he said with the melancholy that always clung to younger sons. “My father believed His Highness might help me, considering his military interests, but now the duke seems so much in disfavor that his notice might be more a hindrance than a help.”

  This was sadly true, and I thought of how my own father had warned me to keep myself from the unfortunate taint of the Duke of York. While Mary Beatrice’s natural sweetness had earned him a small measure of forgiveness, her religion had not, and the marriage had done more to drag him lower in public esteem than otherwise. Parliament remained furious, and was determined that the duke should feel their displeasure. As the leader of those members most critical of the Court, Lord Shaftesbury in particular declared that the duke had lost his right to sit beside the king in the place reserved by custom for the Prince of Wales, but must instead be demoted to a bench with other, lesser dukes. There was even a motion before the House of Lords to debar Papists entirely from the succession.

  “I judged the duchess might have more influence with the king,” the captain continued. “Or she might, if she’d but see me.”

  “She’ll see you, I’m sure of it, and thus see your qualities, too.” It grieved me, having him so downcast, and I was determined to cheer him however I could. “If I were only a duchess, too, I’d be your champion, and present you myself.”

  He smiled. “That would be a pretty thing for us both, wouldn’t it?”

  “It would,” I declared fervently, wishing such a favor truly were in my power to grant. “Why, I would do most anything to be made a peeress.”

  “Anything, Miss Sedley?” He chuckled, amused by my bold talk, as gentlemen usually were.

  I dipped my chin, the better to glance up at him from beneath my lashes. “I said most anything, sir. I’ve my limits.”

  “What lady doesn’t?” he asked. “But it cannot be so difficult as that. Truly, all you need do is to wed a duke or other grandee.”

  I shook my head and sighed mightily. “Believe me, Captain Grahme, I should much rather try my luck against the loathsome Dutch than marry a lordling. What would that title be worth to me once it and I were buried away together in the country by my wedded husband?”

  “Then that gentleman would be an ass, Miss Sedley,” he declared, sweeping his laced hat over his bent leg, “and undeserving of your company.”

  “But you, sir, have earned it with that pretty scrap of nonsense.” I slid farther along the bench to make room for him to join me, patting the polished wood by way of invitation. “Pray, join me. There’s no telling how much longer we must wait.”

  “Miss Sedley, I am honored.” He sat close beside me, taking care to arrange the hilt of his sword so as not to tangle with my skirts, and I smiled happily up at him. Like many young soldiers, he didn’t bother with a wig, but wore his own hair, dark and thick and flowing over his shoulders. If anyone were to be honored, it was I, to have such a handsome fellow for company.

  I smoothed my skirts over my legs, thankful that though I’d taken care with my dress for the sake of the duchess, my splendor instead would be for the benefit of Captain Grahme. I wore a gown of green thrown silk from Florence with deep embroidered cuffs not unlike his own (the newest fashion from Paris) and trimmed with alençon lace as white and thick as the snow in the park. I’d pearls hanging from my ears and more around my throat. I carried a small fur muff on my wrist, too, for show and for warmth, for I’d learned it was often cold enough inside Whitehall for my breath to show.

  “My plan is less taxing than marriage, Captain Grahme,” I confided. “I intend to find such favor with Her Highness that she’ll recommend me to His Majesty for a peerage on my own merits.”

  Skeptical, he cocked a single brow. “Forgive me, Miss Sedley, but there is only one path for a lady to win His Majesty’s favor to that degree, and that is by traipsing up the back stairs to his private bedchamber.”

  “Captain, please.” I frowned at him with mock severity. “I said I should succeed on my merits, not my back. I’ve planned my campaign with care, too, studying how best to please Her Highness, if only she would deign to acknowledge me.”

  We sighed in unison, glancing once again at the closed door to Her Highness’s rooms with the two palace guards with their halberds before it.

  “I’ve heard the duchess is a learned lady,” he suggested. “I’ve heard she’s a rare taste for poetry.”

  “Poetry!” I exclaimed, and began to laugh, raising my muff to my face. Tucked in my pocket for safekeeping was a handwritten poem by Lord Rochester that he’d been circulating among trusted friends. It was, however, hardly the sort of verse to win Her Highness’s favor, even though she was mentioned by name within its lines. Lord Rochester had expanded his jest about Signior Dildo into a minor epic, cataloging the good signior’s employment by a number of well-satisfied ladies at Court, including those of the highest rank. It was very wicked, yet hugely amusing and neatly done.

  “You laugh, Miss Sedley,” the captain said, puzzled, yet clearly wishing to share my amusement. “Most ladies pine and sigh over poetry.”

  “Not a poem such as I’m remembering.” Impulsively I drew the sheets from my pocket. “This is the work of a noble gentleman of my acquaintance, though I’ve sworn not to tell his name, from fear he’d be punished for his talent.”

  I unfolded the sheet and handed it to him.

  His eyes widened. “Faith! ‘Signior Dil—’ ”

  “Hush, sir, hush. You mustn’t read it aloud!” I said, giggling and glancing nervously about at the others in the room. I was already daring greatly by sharing the poem with him, and I’d face certain disaster both at Court and with Father and Lord Rochester if it became more widely known through my doing. “To speak it aloud would ruin us both.”

  I suppose if Captain Grahme had been an exceptionally honorable gentleman—there were a rare few of them scattered about the Court—then he might well have been outraged by the cheerfully scurrilous piece in his hands. He might have torn it in disgust, and denounced me as the wickedest jade in Christendom for having shown it to him.

  He might have done all those things, and worse.

 
To my considerable relief, he did none of them. Instead his greedy gaze fair devoured the slandering words, while his lips curved in a delighted, incredulous smile. Reassured, I let myself share his amusement, leaning in to his shoulder to read the poem with him.

  You Ladyes all of Merry England

  Who have been to kiss the Dutchesse’s hand,

  Pray did you lately observe in the Show

  A Noble Italian call’d Signior Dildo?

  The Signior was one of her Highness’s Train

  And helpt to Conduct her over the Main,

  But now she Crys out “To the Duke I will go,

  I have no more need for Signior Dildo!”

  He laughed heartily, then smothered that laugh behind his hand. “S’blood, Miss Sedley, how did you come by this? What gentleman is the author?”

  “I told you, I’m sworn not to tell.” Eagerly I leaned closer, his long hair brushing against my bare wrist. “Here we are, among all the others come to kiss the duchess’s hand.”

  He grinned at me with charming wickedness, and I thought of how there is nothing like a shared secret to bind two people more closely together.

  “We must be sure to take notice of this signior,” he said. “Perhaps he’s the reason you and I have seen so little of Her Highness.”

  I giggled, leaning closer over his arm. “There’s much more. Turn to the next sheet and see the part about Lady Cleveland, and—”

  “Miss Sedley.”

  I started with surprise. The duchess’s chamberlain had called several other names besides mine, but mine was the only one I heard, and when I looked to the chamberlain, I was equally sure that he was staring only at me in stern disapproval.

  “You’ve been called, Miss Sedley,” Captain Grahme said. “Go, and bonne chance.”

  I smiled my thanks to him, but also was quick to take the poem from his hands, tucking it deep inside my muff for safekeeping. Composing myself as best I could, I hurried to join the other ladies.

  I’d sat dawdling for so many days that it seemed my admittance through those heavy doors fair flew by, and before I’d quite realized it, I was spreading my skirts and sinking low in a curtsy before Her Highness. She held out her hand for me to kiss as a proof of my loyalty, then motioned for me to rise.

  Mary Beatrice was even more beautiful than I’d realized before. Her apartments were among the most desirable in the palace, with a fine view overlooking the ice-dappled river, and the bright sunlight that streamed in through the windows flattered her clear, pale skin and quick, dark eyes. She wore no paint, nor did she need to, and her only jewels were a pair of ruby drop earrings that matched her wedding ring. Still unaccustomed to our English winter, she sat in a cushioned armchair close before the fire with rich furs wrapped over her gown for warmth. Her ladies sat around her like bright flowers, a cluster of young faces that I’d no time to sort one from the other, and frantically I tried to think of what to say that would set me apart from them. Why was it that I’d had so much time to prepare for this moment, and now that it had come, I’d neither a thought in my head nor a word on my lips?

  “Miss Sedley is the daughter of Sir Charles Sedley, Your Highness,” an older lady was saying behind me. “Sir Charles is an intimate friend of His Majesty. He is also a gentleman of many talents, and has written both a play and poetry that have pleased His Majesty.”

  “Miss Sedley.” Perched on the edge of her chair, the duchess smiled shyly, and it was a surprise to realize that she might be equally eager for me to like her. “Do you like books, too?”

  “Oh, yes, Your Highness,” I said, relieved she spoke English, for in my excitement I’d forgotten all my carefully practiced Italian. But there was one thing I did remember Captain Grahme saying, and I used it now. “Yes, Your Highness, I do enjoy reading, most especially poetry.”

  “Poetry!” Mary Beatrice sighed happily, clasping her hands together over her breasts. “I love the poetry, too, Miss Sedley.”

  “Indeed, Your Highness.” I smiled, relieved I’d succeeded this far, and already thinking of pleasant ways to thank Captain Grahme for his advice. “So do I. How could one ever weary of poetry?”

  “Per favore, Miss Sedley,” she said, again with the eagerness that was almost begging. “Please. I must learn the English poets. Would you speak a favorite English poem for me now?”

  If my thoughts had fled before, now they came rushing back in a dreadful haste, and with a dreadful single-mindedness, too. The only poem I could recall was Lord Rochester’s, the only lines I could remember the ones that pertained to Her Highness:

  But now she Crys out “To the Duke I will go,

  I have no more need for Signior Dildo!”

  Unaware, Her Highness smiled at me expectantly. How fortunate that she could not read my thoughts! “You have many favorites, yes? It is hard to choose?”

  “Forgive me, Your Highness,” I said, my cheeks afire with my secret, growing misery. The folded pages of the poem seemed to burn like a scorching brand in my muff, ready to destroy my career at Court before it had even begun. “As you say, there are so many from which to choose.”

  Still she waited, as did her ladies around her, and if I could have summoned a yawning cavern to appear in the floor of Whitehall Palace to swallow me and my mortification whole, I would have gladly done so. But instead of some mythical cavern, what came to my rescue was my own dear father. Seemingly from nowhere, a scrap of one his poems came to my mind, lines I could recall and recite without fear.

  But I am tied to very thee,

  By every thought I have;

  Thy face I only care to see,

  Thy heart I only crave.

  All that in woman is adored

  In thy dear self I find—

  For the whole sex can but afford

  The handsome and the kind.

  The lines had been written by Father to honor some nonexistent woman, a Celia or Chloris who was more a convention than an inspiration; at the time, he’d been contentedly wallowing among various actresses at the playhouse. But as I recited, I realized I could also turn the words into a kind of paean to Her Highness. Thus, when I came to the final lines, I held my hands outstretched before the duchess, my palms open in honor of her eminent goodness, or rather, her handsomeness and kindness. It would have made Father laugh aloud to see his idle conceit employed to such effect, but I likewise believed he would have been proud of me, too, and my quick-witted idea—and laughed uproariously when I told him the reason for it.

  But best of all was how it pleased Her Highness. She sighed with pleasure at the sweet words, and her ladies around her sighed, too, in a breathy, romantic echo.

  “Very pretty, Miss Sedley, very prettily spoken indeed!” she said, and I do believe there were sentimental tears brightening her eyes. “Do you know the author?”

  “I am most honored, Your Highness,” I said, adding a small dipping curtsy in acknowledgment. “As for the author, I know him well. Those lines were writ by my own father.”

  Her Highness gasped—with wonder, I suppose. “What a devoted daughter you are, Miss Sedley, to speak his poem to me, and how fortunate Sir Charles is in you! Come, come, sit here near me, and tell me how it is to have a poet for a father.”

  I smiled, and took the place beside her that the other ladies grudgingly made for me. Through wit and the aid of two gentlemen, I’d made a fair beginning. But I also knew that what Captain Grahme had offered me—a French wish for good luck—had likely been the most useful gift of all, and I meant to return it to him as soon as I could.

  I HAD ALWAYS BELIEVED THE EARLY months of a new year to be the dullest. The festivities of Twelfth Night were done and the Yule log of Christmas nothing but a charred hulk at the back of the hearth. Farmers had little to bring to the city markets from the country, and as a result the food even at my father’s table became lean and uninteresting. A deep snowfall could make the streets impassable by coaches, and there was no question of toiling along a snowy street by fo
ot, ruining shoes in the slush and dragging petticoats and cloaks heavy with crusting ice. People tended to keep as much to their own fires as they could, and there was a marked paucity of dances and other amusements.

  One read novels, wrote letters, played cards, scratched pictures into the ice on the windows, and wondered whether it was in fact possible to perish of boredom.

  But none of that was the case in the winter of 1674. To be trapped by snow inside Whitehall Palace was hardly the same as being locked away with only Lady Sedley and her servants for grim company.

  Because I held no true position in the Duchess of York’s household—such as a maid of honor or a lady of the bedchamber—I’d no real responsibilities, either. All I was expected to do was be handsomely dressed in costly style (for even ladies without great beauty were still expected to be ornaments to the Court) and to be amusing, and to oblige and entertain Her Highness however she required. I was considered part of her train, and much like the other kind of dragging train on a gown for Court, my presence was for no real purpose than to make a grander show. It was rather like being a perpetual guest at a dinner without end. Father had served the king in this way for nearly fifteen years, whether telling jests, drinking through the night, riding to hares, or playing tennis, and thus it seemed to me to be entirely natural to spend my days and nights anticipating the whims of a lady even younger than I was myself.