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

by Holloway Scott, Susan

  Unhappy though the Lady Mary might be, London was overjoyed with the coming union. The princess was next in line for the throne after her father, and there was considerable relief that she’d been wed to a Protestant prince instead of yet another Papist royal. Church bells rang out in celebration, bonfires were lit and guns fired, and countless healths were drunk to the young couple in countless taverns and ale-shops all over the country.

  Joy was hardly the response from France. Louis was furious, accusing the king and duke of delivering the princess to his most mortal enemy. He claimed the match was as good (or as bad) as a lost battle to him, and the long-faced French ambassadors reported that the French king had raged and fumed for days when he’d heard of it—news that only served to fuel the celebrations in England.

  Arranged for November 4, William’s twenty-seventh birthday, the wedding was shamefully quick for a royal match. Part of this speed came from the groom’s wish to return home to his responsibilities, and part, too, came from a round of smallpox making its perilous way through the palace. Several of the ladies had already been stricken, including the bride’s sister, the Lady Anne, and while none had died as yet, it was considered prudent to keep the wedding company small.

  Conducted in the Lady Mary’s own chambers before only the family and a handful of well-chosen witnesses, the ceremony was a sad little affair, overseen by Henry Compton, the Bishop of London, to make it as purely Protestant as possible. The misshapen groom wheezed his impatience beside his much taller and more handsome bride, who continued to weep at her fate. Also weeping were the duchess and the queen, who likely recalled their own miserable weddings to grooms they had not known, and the only one with a suitably jocular demeanor had been the king.

  Yet even His Majesty had been unable to make any sport of the traditional bedding that followed. To the horrified amusement of the rest of the Court, the groom was suitably put to bed beside his lovely new wife, yet refused to part with his coarsely knit woolen drawers. There was endless, riotous speculation as to the gloomy, dutiful fumbling that must have marked the consummation, but I’d only sympathy for the newly wed Princess of Orange. I’d experienced myself the disastrous result of yearning for a love match, but how much infinitely worse to be shackled to a stranger for life for the sake of politics!

  Four days after the wedding, Mary Beatrice was delivered of a healthy, well-formed boy, who was at once baptized as an Anglican at the insistence of the king and the distress of the parents, who would rather have consigned his mortal soul to the Pope. Named Charles to honor his royal uncle, he was likewise given the unlucky title of Duke of Cambridge, the same title granted to the duke’s first three sons by his first duchess, all of whom had died before they’d had a chance to live.

  A healthy son and heir to the throne had been so long desired that celebration of such a royal birth should have been expected. But again the hatred and suspicion of all things Catholic rose up to strangle anything so innocently joyous. There was no cheering or other affectionate displays in London, no public delight for a child who was certain to be raised by his parents to be sympathetic to Rome, a child who might one day rule them surrounded by Jesuits and incense. The tiny duke’s birth was greeted only with ill wishes, even curses, from his future subjects, and disappointment that, by his very birth, the earlier Protestant wedding of the prince and princess had been reduced to little consequence in the royal succession.

  My sympathy for Princess Mary only grew when I watched her later that month, at the birthday ball for Queen Catherine. Early in the evening, I stood beside Father in the crowd as the king danced a minuet alone with the queen.

  “The poor Princess Mary!” I said softly, behind my fan. “How could Prince William abandon her for his Dutch friends so soon? Look at her there alone.”

  “She’s hardly alone,” Father said mildly, sipping at his wine. “She’s with Her Highness, and could not be more content.”

  Likely he was right. In honor more of the princess than the queen, the duchess had risen from her lying-in to attend the ball as a spectator. The princess had drawn her chair as close to her stepmother’s as was possible, and the two had not only linked their hands together, but the younger lady rested her head against the duchess’s shoulder. Because the newlyweds were to leave for Holland in the morning, both women clung to each other, dreading the inevitable parting to come.

  “The prince should be with her, not wherever he is,” I insisted, which was also right. “Cursed Caliban.”

  “Caliban?” Father repeated, his brows raised.

  “That’s what the ladies are calling the prince,” I said. “At first it was only on account of his manner, but now it’s for his bestial treatment of the princess as well. He’s danced with her only once this night. That’s shameful, considering they’re so newly wed.”

  “Dancing is hardly the only way to judge a husband’s favor,” Father said. “Those pearls around her throat and the ruby on her finger are worth a hundred pavanes and sarabands combined.”

  “If a hundred pavanes and sarabands are worth forty thousand pounds, then they are,” I said, repeating the value I’d only just heard for the jewels William had brought as a wedding gift.

  “Forty thousand?” Father whistled lowly in appreciation. “That’s a sizable amount of husbandly favor.”

  But I was still watching the princess and the duchess. Mrs. Jennings had come to whisper something to Her Highness, bending familiarly close to her ear to be heard over the music. The duchess nodded, and all three of them smiled together.

  “Did you know, Father, that Colonel Churchill and Mrs. Jennings were among the witnesses to the wedding?” I said. “Fah, it sickens me to watch how she mewls and fawns!”

  Father glanced at me. “Does Churchill still vex you that much, Katherine?”

  I sighed impatiently. “I am not vexed by having John Churchill choose that insipid jade over me, if that is what you ask.”

  “It is,” he said. “That’s the answer I wished to hear, too. I would much rather have you angry than weeping with pity for your lot.”

  “Weeping, hah,” I scoffed. “I’ll not squander any more tears over him.”

  “You won’t if you’ve any sense.” His expression turned sly, his dark eyes glittering. “Here’s a fresh tale you’ll enjoy. Seeing room for advancement, the colonel asked Prince William the price of a place in his household. In the frostiest of terms—and the prince can damned well be as frosty as a witch’s tit—he informed Churchill that at his Court, the offices were earned, not sold.”

  I laughed so loudly that others around us turned to frown with disapproval, making me quick to twist my amusement into a false sneeze. But Father always could make me laugh, and the tale was a good one at John’s expense. Though the sting of bitterness remained, I’d come to realize I was well rid of John Churchill and his ambitious avarice. I’d heard that he and Mrs. Jennings were planning to wed before year’s end, and I wished them well of each other as the most fitting fate imaginable. Lord Rochester had been right: I did deserve more for myself than to be John’s camp follower, careful of every word I spoke. I’d learned that that role was not for me, nor the dutiful obscurity that came with it.

  Father had fallen silent, perhaps to grant me time to recover my composure. Then the next dance began, and as others joined the king and queen in the dancing, the respectful quiet ended and the chattering conversations soon strove once more to compete with the fiddles. Father raised his goblet slightly, using it to point across the hall.

  “Do you see that gentleman across the hall?” he asked with such studied indifference that I knew he was about something. “The fellow in the plum-colored coat with the silver sash?”

  “You mean the goatish old rogue with the ginger-colored periwig and the tuft of whiskers like the old king?” I asked, laughing again. “Faith, Father, speak plain! The plum-colored coat is the very least of that fellow.”

  Father screwed his face up in pain. “He’s no o
ld rogue, Katherine. He’s Sir Edward Hungerford, a respectable widower twice over and holder of thirty manors in Wiltshire. He sits with me in the House as the Member for Chippenham.”

  “He may sit wherever he pleases,” I said, “but to me he still looks to be an old rogue. He’s far older than you, Father.”

  “I do not know whether to thank you for that, Daughter, or to thrash you for your impertinence.” He grunted crossly. “No matter. I’ll have you know that Sir Edward has asked after you.”

  “After me?” I was slow to understand, or perhaps it was simply that the idea Father was voicing was so thoroughly outlandish I couldn’t conceive of it. “Do you mean Sir Edward has asked you for my hand? Oh, Father, be serious.”

  “You’ve had wicked bad fortune with the younger gallants,” he said, almost by way of apology. “Perhaps an older gentleman—”

  “No, Father, please, I beg you!” To my dismay, I could see Sir Edward purposefully heading our way, his wafting ginger periwig bearing down upon us like a ship of war under full sail.

  I didn’t linger, instead fleeing in the opposite direction, fair racing through the crowd as I darted this way and that until I reached the nearest entry hall, and ran deeper still into the palace, dodging servants hurrying with covered dishes and laden salvers as well as other revelers who’d withdrawn from the ball for quieter conversations or assignations. With my skirts bunched to one side, I twisted around to make sure I wasn’t being followed, skipping lightly on my toes.

  “Here now, here now, sweetheart, what’s this about?” The man caught me gently by the shoulders, steadying me. “That’s a mighty great haste for any lady.”

  Breathing hard from my exertions, I raised my hand to strike him for his impertinence. To my shock I realized it was His Highness the duke who’d stopped me, and with him was the black-clad figure of Monsieur Barillon, Marquis de Branges, the French ambassador. At once I did my best to collect myself, stepping back and sinking into a curtsy, even as my thoughts raced ahead in delighted confusion.

  “What were you about, eh?” he said, raising me back to my feet. “We can’t have ladies bolting after hares through Whitehall, you know.”

  The duke nodded to the Frenchman to dismiss him, and in a moment we were as much alone as was anyone in that long, shadowy hall. Like a tiny moon that circles its more illustrious sun, I felt as if I’d spent much of my life in the duke’s shadow, and strange though it seemed, this was the first time I’d ever had his company to myself. Strange, and yet strangely exciting, too, and if my heart was racing now, he was the cause. Was this finally some knotty twist of fate to my favor, or only another cruel coincidence meant to raise my hopes with empty expectation?

  “No, Your Highness,” I said. “Forgive me, but I wasn’t chasing after hares. Rather I was being chased by a large goat.”

  “A goat,” he said, the corners of his mouth twitching. “In the palace?”

  “Oh, yes, sir,” I said with relish. I suppose I should have been nervous in his company, or at least shy, but instead I found it as easy to tease and banter with him as with any other gentleman. “There are scores of them here, you know, ready to leap on the backs of any unwary ladies who aren’t sufficiently nimble to keep themselves safe.”

  He was smiling widely now, amused by my foolishness. “You’re not among the unwary?”

  “Oh, no, sir. I’m most admirably nimble.” I bowed over my bent leg in modest acknowledgment, and raised my skirts just enough to display one of those selfsame nimble feet, cunningly clad in green silk shoes and red stockings. “Try as they might, the goats never can catch me. Nor do the asses, sir, and there a great number of them in residence here as well.”

  “I’d wager they don’t,” he said, chuckling as he admired my proffered foot. I wondered if he recalled how I’d once stumbled before his horse, and how then he’d taken advantage of my tumbled dress to admire my legs. I hoped he did, for that was much of the point of showing them again now.

  “Mrs. Sedley, isn’t it?” he asked, taking his time before he looked again to my face. “The peerless Dorinda?”

  I nodded and chuckled, smiling warmly. There was much to admire about him, too. He was dressed with royal magnificence for the ball in midnight blue brocade with drifts of Flemish lace at his cuffs and throat, and the ever-present Garter-star on his breast. I’d always loved the deep blue of his eyes, the straight length of his nose, the cleft that cleaved his chin, all parts of a man who both attracted and awed me. “Your servant, sir.”

  “In truth, I knew that already,” he admitted. “You see how wretched I am at dissembling. Of course you’re Mrs. Sedley. You’re not a lady easily forgotten. Hah, that time you trimmed Scroope before the whole Court—who could forget that?”

  “Thank you, sir.” What more could I wish than to be a lady who was difficult to forget? “I was inspired.”

  “By Scroope?” He laughed, quick and sharp, as if he were surprising himself. “People like you astound me. Your father and Rochester are the same, quick with the perfect clever word. By the time I think of a rejoinder, a quarter hour has passed and no one would care to hear it.”

  “Oh, sir, that’s not true.” I was startled that he’d make such a confession to me, yet oddly touched by it as well. “You’re the Duke of York. I cannot believe people wouldn’t care what you’d have to say.”

  “If you were able to take your father’s seat in the Commons, my dear, then you’d have no trouble imagining it,” he said glumly. “At least now they can’t say I don’t put England first. I’ve sacrificed my first daughter by wedding her to that grim little Dutchman for the sake of their cause.”

  “I’m sure they realize it, sir.” Every father hates to lose his daughter through marriage, but I hadn’t expected the duke to speak so plainly to me. “The bells and bonfires and all were as much to your honor as to the wedding.”

  Yet if I were to be honest, I’d venture that most Englishmen were giving credit for the match to the king and believed that in one neat move, His Majesty had neatly confounded his brother, Rome, and France. There would be very little credit to spare for the duke. People were simply too suspicious of him on account of his faith, and the only thing he could do to win them back would likely be to leave Rome and return to the Anglicans—which, of course, he’d vowed his conscience would never let him do. Nor should any stout Englishmen be trusting him so long as he was meeting surreptitiously with the French ambassador while the rest of the Court was engaged at the queen’s ball. Even I knew that.

  All of which made for piss-poor grounds for flirtation, as barren a bed as can be imagined. I’d been much better served by the nimble goats, and if I wished to make any more of this plum opportunity, I needed to put aside popery and lead our conversation back to more beguiling possibilities.

  “I hope they are happy with me now,” he was saying with gloomy resignation. “For once, I hope they are happy.”

  “One must be happy one’s self, sir, before one can be concerned with pleasing others.” I smiled winsomely as if to demonstrate, and tipped my head to one side to make my curls fall over one eye. My mouth was wide, my teeth white, and though I hadn’t been blessed with the dainty rosebud that was so much the fashion, I knew that my broad, open smile could cheer most any man from whatever doldrums might plague him. “True happiness can wear many faces.”

  “Seeing your face pleases me, my dear, especially after I’ve been surrounded by naught but dreary, weeping women.” He smiled wearily, but it was a smile nonetheless. I wondered if he included Arabella Churchill among the dreary women; after many years as his mistress, they had recently parted, and she’d left with her bastards for Paris. In her wake lay a ripe opportunity for the lady bold enough to make it her own, as all in our circle speculated. If the ancient Aristotle claimed that nature abhorred a vacuum, then our Court abhorred a royal prince without a mistress, as pretty a philosophical certainty as could be.

  “You’re often in the palace and about the
Court,” the duke said. “Why have you never taken a place in our household?”

  “You do not know, sir?” I whispered like a conspirator, though none were about to hear me.

  He leaned closer, intrigued, and lowered his own voice, too. “Tell me.”

  “Oh, it’s no great secret,” I said, knowing that what I said was of less importance than how I spoke it. “My father will not permit it.”

  “Fathers often have little say in their daughters’ lives,” he said, and though his smile remained, I guessed he must have been thinking again of his own daughter Mary, and how the king, not he, had decided her new husband.

  “True, sir, true,” I said quickly, wishing to keep him from melancholy. “I try to obey my own father, sir, but too often I follow my own desires rather than his.”

  “Is that so?” he asked, his attention all mine again.

  “It is, sir.” I looked up at him slyly, not half so penitent as my words. “That is likely why he has never permitted me to leave his house and accept a place at Court.”

  He took a step closer toward me. “Court offers many temptations to a lady with desires.”

  “Indeed, sir,” I said, and fluttered my eyes over his person just enough to show that I understood him to be one of the temptations. “Temptation is everywhere at Whitehall.”

  But he in turn was studying me, his gaze lingering on my bosom. With artful lacing and whalebone, I made as brave a showing as I could, though compared to the great beauties of the Court, it was a meager bounty indeed. To my relief, the duke seemed to find no fault, even ogling my slender form with appreciation.