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

by Holloway Scott, Susan

  “Dorinda, please, please spare my eyes,” Sir Carr wailed, relishing the unfamiliar joy of making others laugh. “Oh, Dorinda, oh!”

  “Hush, Sir Carr, cease your crying,” I scolded with exasperation, as if he were no more than a petulant child. “Hush, and spare the rest of us the pitiful sight of a gentleman begging.”

  Now the laughter was for me, but Sir Carr refused to cede the attention yet. “Oh, oh, Dorinda, have mercy! Better to turn me to stone outright like the Medusa you are, and spare me my suffering!”

  I sighed impatiently for effect, for in truth this exchange was now amusing me no end. “Why should you aspire to be made into stone, sirrah, when your wit is already more weighty than lead?”

  “You scorn me, Medusa!”

  “Medusa, Medusa,” I said wearily. “This night I’ve paid a prodigious amount to a prating, prancing Frenchman, a coiffeur, to dress my locks, and the best you can say of his work is that it calls to mind an ancient head covered in snakes?”

  That drew more laughter still as well as a smattering of applause, as any reference that denigrated Frenchmen was bound to do. But it had served its purpose, and won my audience for me. Better yet, I’d seized Dorinda away from Lord Middlesex and made her my own, boldly turning the name from an insult into a kind of raucous banner for my own use.

  His courage fading, Sir Carr glanced uncertainly back to Lord Middlesex, a wordless appeal that didn’t escape me. He’d wandered away from His Lordship’s original poem and lost his way by mentioning Medusa (or perhaps Cupid and Medusa and Gorgons really were jumbled together as one in his overweening mind). Now he returned to it, doubtless recalled to his original purpose by the stony glance of Lord Middlesex.

  “Turn your blazing face from my sight, oh, Dorinda,” he said, covering his eyes again. “Do not blind me, and deny me forever the sight of real beauty.”

  “Then best cover all the looking glasses in your own house, Scroope,” drawled Lord Rochester from within the crowd. “Your own monkey’s face is pretty fair blazing, too.”

  Even the king laughed at that, thumping his palm on the arm of his chair to show his approval, and in desperation, Sir Carr tried another gambit altogether.

  “By real beauty, I mean such as that of the fair lady who possesses my heart.” He’d spotted the lovely Carey Frazier in the crowd, and to her mortification he now covered his breast with his hand and bowed low in her direction. “To be deprived of a sight such as that fair one would steal away my very reason for being.”

  I saw how unhappy this tribute made poor Mrs. Frazier, now the teasing target of those around her, and I resolved to speak not only in my own defense, but hers as well.

  “If beauty alone could steal away your being, Sir Carr,” I said, “then surely beauty would, and thus be spared the nuisance of your possession.”

  “Possession, Dorinda?” Lord Rochester asked, his voice rising with studied incredulity. “Possession implies completion, which in turn requires less toil by the heart and more from the cock. Oh, I do not believe that beauty has been much troubled at all.”

  The king roared with laughter at that and the rest roared with him, while Sir Carr was left to stand helpless, his face livid.

  “Well spoke, my lord Rochester,” I agreed, adding a graceful curtsy of acknowledgment. “Perhaps Sir Carr would wish to borrow one or two of my Black-Guard Cupids to assist him about his love’s work. They’re sturdy, upright fellows, equal to any task.”

  The laughter rose again, nearly drowning out Sir Carr’s reply.

  “You go too far, Mrs. Sedley,” he sputtered. “By all the heavens, you are as vicious as your father and as mad as your mother.”

  I drew in my breath sharply at that. My father could defend himself (and doubtless would), but my poor mad mother did not deserve to be drawn into such a contest. No one but I cared, of course, and the jeering laughter continued, with my mother lost in the general mockery of Sir Carr’s manhood. I couldn’t expect it to be otherwise. Once unleashed and set free, witty satire for amusement’s sake is an impossible beast to contain, especially before an audience that was well eased by drink. Our ravening Court was not known for its kindness. The best (and perhaps the only) defense was to attack again, and with a careless little shrug to show my contempt, I smiled slowly, knowing I’d every ear in the hall bent toward me.

  “You say I’m as vicious as my father, Sir Carr?” I said, as if mulling his judgment. “And as mad as my mother?”

  “Every bit, you damned jade,” he said, his own anger raging onward, confounded all the more by my show of calm.

  “Here now, Sir Carr,” the king said, surprising me as my champion. “Recall that Dorinda here is a lady, else you’ll have Sir Charles to answer to as well as his daughter.”

  “Thank you, sir,” I said, curtsying toward His Majesty with as much grace as I could. The king deserved my thanks: he’d unwittingly just set one last arrow in my bow, and it was most excellently sharp. “But at least I know that my father, though vicious, and my mother, though mad, were lawfully wed at my birth. Can you say the same, Sir Carr?”

  “To the devil with you,” he muttered, and threw himself so sharply away from me that he nearly staggered from the force of it. It was rusty old gossip that claimed Sir Carr’s father had not been his mother’s husband, so old that had not Sir Carr reacted with such violence now no one would have cared. But, as I’d suspected, he could not show any humor regarding his own history, and borne by his fury, he pushed himself into the crowd, shoving aside any who stood in his path. It was a grievous lapse for him not to wait for His Majesty’s leave first, and an even worse one for him to show his back as he fled.

  But the king was not a monarch who would fuss over protocol, especially not whilst laughing at Sir Carr’s distress. Instead he asked that the music begin once again, and was chuckling still as he led Lady Mazarin (who was dressed in a woman’s gown, doubtless to please Her Highness) to the head of the next set.

  I, meanwhile, was swept up in a sea of well-wishers determined to compliment me on my wit and composure. I smiled and laughed, relishing my time in the glow of attention. But when Father came toward me, I saw at once that though his mouth was curved in his habitual smile, there was no happy content to be found in his eyes.

  “Why did you do that, Katherine?” he demanded as he took me by the arm to lead me from the crowd to a small corner of quiet against the wall. “What demon possessed you, Daughter, to perform such a wanton, bold display?”

  “It was only a frolic, Father,” I protested. “Sir Carr began it, and I finished it. That was all.”

  “A frolic,” Father repeated with dismay. “Have you forgotten everything I have told you, every warning and advice I have given you?”

  I pulled my arm free. “It was only Sir Carr, Father. It signified nothing.”

  “What it signified is a great deal of trouble for you,” he said sternly. “Sir Carr spoke with Lord Middlesex’s support.”

  “I know,” I said. “I saw him there, behind the king.”

  “ ‘Behind the king’; how blithely you speak it!” he exclaimed, incredulous. “Does that mean nothing to you? Where you stood, and who was there to watch your antics?”

  I sighed impatiently. “I was before His Majesty and the rest of the royal party, and everyone else that could squeeze into the Banqueting House this night. But it’s not as if I displeased the king, Father. You heard him laugh, and defend me, too.”

  “His Majesty also laughs when Nelly Gwyn dances jigs before him, and spins on her toes so her skirts fly above her garters,” he answered grimly. “You are not Nelly Gwyn.”

  “I know I’m not Nelly.” I looked up at him with the old coaxing slyness, one rascally Sedley to another. “But I am your daughter. Now tell me true, Father. I’d wager that you laughed along with His Majesty.”

  I saw he had; the corners of his mouth twitched even now with merriment and shone bright in his eyes, and there was admiration there, too, enough
to make me grin.

  “I knew it!” I crowed happily. “Faith, Father, I knew you’d—”

  “Hold now, Katherine, hold,” he cautioned, and the merriment vanished again. “In this, I’m of little consequence. What of Colonel Churchill? Have you forgotten the duty you owe to him? I cannot believe he would wish his future wife to stand before the Court to trade lewd insults with another gentleman and make the king laugh.”

  “Oh, Father,” I cried softly, swept by sudden, panicking remorse. If I’d been possessed, it had been not by demons, but by Dorinda herself. How could I have become so delighted by my own little performance that I’d forgotten John entirely? How could I have forgotten the promises I’d made? “I must go to him at once. I must find him and explain.”

  “What you must do is beg for his forgiveness, and pray that he grants it,” he said with concern, and my fears rose. “At least I did not see him in the hall during your little exchange. Of course, he shall hear of it—by morning everyone in London will—but if he didn’t witness it for himself, perhaps you’ll be able to persuade him your intentions were innocent.”

  My heart sank. How could I profess even a hint of innocence when I’d been making bawdy jests about cockstands and upright fellows?

  “Quickly now, Katherine, go find him,” Father urged, giving me a hasty kiss on the forehead for luck. “It’s best he hears it all from you first.”

  I hurried away, searching for John’s golden hair and scarlet coat in the crowded hall. Now the compliments I received on my wit felt empty and ill deserved, and I brushed them aside with scant acknowledgment. The heady pleasure I’d felt earlier was gone, replaced by a sick and guilty dread of what might happen next. What if my few moments of giddy fame tonight cost me my betrothal? I was almost certain John would not understand, no matter how much I explained, and sadly Father was right. My only hope would be to pray for forgiveness, and pray I did.

  Still I could not find John, and with growing concern I asked one of his fellow officers if he’d seen him leave. The young lieutenant smiled and pointed toward the passage that led to the hall. This was a common place for people to repair when they wished for quiet conversation away from the music and dancing, and quickly I made my way along the shadowy passage, searching for John among those clustered beneath the infrequent wall sconces. I’d nearly reached the end when I heard his familiar dry chuckle from beneath the far side of the staircase, and eagerly I turned to join him.

  And stopped. There beneath the staircase was John, and with him was Sarah Jennings. Her arms were looped familiarly around his shoulders as she lay back in the crook of his arm, while he was kissing her ardently with his hand covering the full swell of her breast. I’d already guessed that she remained in love with him, but to discover them together like this, in such fond embrace, left me no doubt that he still loved her as well.

  “Sarah, Sarah, my life,” he muttered, kissing the slender column of her throat. “My own love.”

  I must have gasped aloud or made some other sound that caught her attention, for even as he was kissing her, she opened her eyes and looked over his shoulder. Her gaze met mine, and she smiled, slowly, her rich triumph complete.

  “My life, my own love”; John had never once called me that. I turned and staggered away, my eyes full of tears, and my heart—ah, after that moment, my poor shattered heart would never be the same.

  Chapter Thirteen

  WHITEHALL PALACE, LONDON

  April 1677

  The best that could be said of the end of my betrothal to John Churchill was that it was not as public a humiliation as it could have been. There was no spectacular quarrel at a ball, no wailing or fainting or threats of duels by outraged family. While my attachment to John likely ended that night at the duchess’s ball when I discovered him with Sarah Jennings, the thing straggled and dragged through the winter like a torn petticoat trailing through a muddy street.

  John, the cur, at first tried to pretend that nothing was amiss and that we’d continue exactly as we had. For the next month I tried to believe him, but my trust in him was gone, and with it my love had died as well. Willful blindness is a sad, sorry affliction, but the cure can be sudden enough. Once I’d seen Mrs. Jennings in John’s embrace, I began to see a great many other things as well. She may not have loved him more than I, but she did love him more fiercely, and she was determined to fight for him in ways that I would not. Public fits of temper, withholding favors, and threats of every kind were all part of her arsenal, and while I might have had the approval of Sir Winston and Lady Churchill, Mrs. Jennings had gone further and made an alliance with Her Highness to help win John away from me.

  It also became achingly clear that my fortune alone had made me a prize in his eyes, and that there was little else about me that pleased him. When word came that Mrs. Jennings’s brother had died and she’d come into possession of a small inheritance (though a pittance compared to mine), the final impediment to their match was removed and the last withering hope of ours gave way. Mr. Savile ended his matchmaking negotiations with Sir Winston, John gave himself openly to Mrs. Jennings, and I—I was once again cast aside.

  I had always been skeptical of marriage for how it seemed to benefit the husband much more than the wife. Now I resolved against it entirely, and swore to Father I wouldn’t wed at all. As can be imagined, he was not pleased, and urged me to keep to my hunt. I insisted I was only seeing matters as they were: that I was nearly twenty, twice passed over, and with little wish to risk my heart again in love’s games. Perhaps Lord Middlesex had been right, and my Cupid did have all the luck of a Black-Guard boy.

  By way of consoling me, Father relented in his stand against me as a maid of honor, and when a place fell open in the queen’s household, he submitted my name for consideration and pressed hard for my acceptance. But the queen was a pious, genteel lady, and sent word through others that she feared my bold manner and humor would disrupt the peace of her household. She already had Carey Frazier to deal with as a maid of honor, a challenge enough to respectability. Thus my application was rejected, and another, quieter lady chosen. While Father was furious on my behalf, I was almost relieved. I doubted the queen would have suited me any more than I would have suited her.

  Alas, my relief was misinterpreted by others who wished me ill, and I was said to have scorned the place as beneath me. Now haughtiness was added to my other dubious qualities, and if bitterness grew in me as well, who could fault me for it?

  Another sour lesson in the emptiness of matches and marriage soon presented itself not just to me, but the entire country. While for many months England had stood by in peace, the French under Louis had relentlessly continued their attacks upon the United Provinces, led by the Dutch William of Orange. For most Englishmen, this was inevitably perceived more as a conflict between Papists and Protestants, with the English king once again leaning uncomfortably close to his French royal cousin rather than his Dutch nephew.

  Fifteen months had passed since the king had permitted Parliament to sit, a sinfully long time for the people to be held without a voice in their governing. When at last Parliament reconvened in early 1677, funds were voted to reinforce both the army and navy. In both the House of Lords and the Commons, sentiment against the French ran ever stronger, and support for the Dutch cause grew with each French victory. In April, the House of Commons audaciously asked the king to form a new Protestant alliance with Holland that would lead to a declaration of war against the French. Gentlemen are always bellicose, and though the grim memory of the last dismal war had scarce faded away, Parliament was already mad with battle fever, as if those fat lords and other members would be the ones to fire the great guns themselves.

  But the king would have none of it. Choosing foreign allies and declaring wars were both royal prerogatives, and to punish Parliament for being so obstreperous, the king promptly prorogued the session again until July.

  From his seat in the House, Father was in the thick of these discuss
ions, and while he wished to support the king, as one old friend would for another, he had grown more and more resolved to support a purely Protestant England. Now he, too, longed for an assured Protestant alliance, if not for out-and-out war with France. The way Father explained it to me was that the king refused to declare war on the French until Parliament voted sufficient funds to support it, while Parliament, increasingly suspicious of the king’s intentions toward the French, refused to vote funds until the king in turn declared war. Much of this Father blamed on the treasurer, Lord Danby, whom Father regarded with the greatest suspicion as a cold, conniving villain, unworthy of the king’s great confidence in him.

  But by the fall, the king had found another, less costly way to appease his Parliament and his Protestant subjects. As was usual, the king and much of the male Court repaired to Newmarket for the autumn meetings. Joining him was Prince William, whose presence was gleefully viewed as a strong sign of a coming Dutch alliance. It certainly couldn’t have been for mere entertainment’s sake. Though William of Orange shared the same lineage and blood as our king and duke, there could not be more different gentlemen. William was short and bent and in perpetual poor health, his eyes red-rimmed and his wheezing cough constant. There was little pleasing in his gaunt, hook-nosed visage, and less in his humor, and surely a more dour gentleman could not have existed. He seemed far older than his years and came without the slightest whiff of gallantry, which sat very ill in our merry Court. When he spent only a day with us in Whitehall before he traipsed off to Newmarket with the other gentlemen, none of us ladies who remained in London with Mary Beatrice (who was again heavy with child) were in the least disappointed.

  But when the gentlemen returned to us, we soon learned much more had occurred in Newmarket beyond the usual heavy drinking, hunting, and horse racing. Though the Protestant pact anticipated by Parliament had not occurred, another sort of alliance was agreed upon, arranged primarily through the artful perseverance of Lord Danby, the king’s most trusted minister. The duke’s elder daughter, the Lady Mary, was to wed William as soon as it could be arranged. The groom decided the lady was sufficiently beautiful to be his wife, while the poor fifteen-year-old bride wept inconsolably for days when told her fate.