This was true enough. While the duchess confined her ambitious longings to saving English souls for the Pope, Lady Portsmouth never seemed to miss a chance to promote French interests to the king, and there were even rumors that she’d helped negotiate treaties on Louis’s behalf. Everyone knew she was as good—or as bad—as a French spy, yet the king remained so thoroughly beguiled by her voluptuous secrets that he didn’t seem to care.
“Like flies to a dish of oversweet marmalade,” Father said with disgust. “That’s how those two royal gentlemen are with Catholic ladies, and with the same sticky entrapment. If only the duke had been content with some stout Bavarian princess for his wife instead of insisting on an Italian beauty, and if the king had kept constant to Nelly, then all of England would be much the better for it.”
I looked at him slyly. “What manner of jam would Nelly be, I wonder?”
He smiled at that. “Something with more lemon to it, I’d wager. Sweet at first, then tart the next, yet always delicious.”
Even as we laughed together, I considered this new notion. What if I became the duke’s Protestant mistress, the one to whisper proper Anglican thoughts in one ear to balance the murky Romish ones that came from his priests and wife? It was most amusing, the ancient allegory of sacred and profane love made real, and I laughed all the more just to think it.
Unaware of my thoughts, it was Father who turned serious again as we reached the end of the gallery where we would soon part.
“I didn’t wish to alarm you, Kattypillar,” he said softly, taking me by the shoulders to kiss me on my forehead. “For now, you’re safe enough where you are. But if you serve in the duke’s household, it’s best that you be aware of what is said of him in Parliament and elsewhere, and keep your own wits about you.”
Later I wondered what Father would say if he knew I’d ambitions of my own regarding the duke. There had been a time when Father had openly feared I’d be drawn into His Highness’s bed, but now, when the possibility was most real, he seemed blind to it. The duke’s predilection for his wife’s attendants was famously known, and the simple fact that I’d been given a post had made his interest as clear as could be, or at least it had to me. Perhaps Father had lost faith in my dubious charms after I’d been passed over by two other gentlemen, or more appealingly, he believed I was now sufficiently old and wise to keep myself from danger.
Either way he’d be wrong. And as I walked back to my lodgings, I amused myself by considering what exact flavor of Protestant jam I might be.
IN MY DREAMS AND IMAGININGS, the duke would finally take notice of me in the grandest possible manner. I’d be dressed in a fantastically lavish gown with jewels to match, and at the beginning of a royal ball, he’d take my hand and choose me to begin the dancing over scores of pouting beauties. A pretty fancy, I know, but I was still young, and though jaded to the world, I remained tender in my heart.
What truly happened was much more prosaic.
I had played cards in Her Highness’s rooms until close to midnight. I was happy; luck had smiled on me, and I’d won handsomely, including a pair of fine-wrought pearl and amethyst earrings that the lady who’d rashly wagered them was very sorry to lose. Knowing well that this was the best time to leave the table, I’d retired, and now sat in my own rooms at my dressing table while my maid Thomson brushed out my hair. Born on one of Father’s holdings in Kent, Thomson had been my lady’s maid for years, and looked after me exactly to my tastes. My hair was thick and long, nearly to my waist, requiring much of her artistry and many jabbing pins as well as sugar water to coax it into the elaborate styles then in fashion, and I looked forward to this time at the end of the day when I was released from its heavy thrall. I closed my eyes, drowsing and relishing the simple pleasure of the brush drawing through the full length of my hair.
Thus the rapping at my door took both me and Thomson by surprise. Given the hour, I feared the worst, a mishap with Father or some other disaster. Swiftly I stood and tied my dressing gown more modestly over my smock, and nodded for her to answer.
But the messenger at the door hadn’t come from Bloomsbury Square. Instead I recognized him as one of the older and most trusted of the duke’s servants, dressed in the York livery. His weathered face was carefully impassive as he placed the letter on the small silver salver that Thomson offered. She in turn curtsied and presented it to me; a silly bit of protocol, I know, given that we all were within a dozen paces of one another, but then, where would we in the palace be without ceremony?
I didn’t recognize the hand that had written my name so boldly across the front, but the seal with its lion and unicorn was one I saw every day: the House of Stuart. My hands shook with excitement as I slipped my finger beneath the seal and opened the single sheet to read.
As I did, Thomson began to close the door, but the man put his hand up to block it. “I’m to wait for Mrs. Sedley’s reply.”
I read, and understood. The letter wasn’t long—it was scarce more than a note, really—but in those several lines lay my future.
My dear,
I would be honored by yr. Company. Come to me now with the bearer if you please.
York
“I will come,” I said to the man. “A moment to compose myself, and I’ll join you.”
He nodded, turning away and folding his hands to wait, while Thomson closed the door. Given the tiny size of my lodgings, he’d no choice but to wait outside, where his presence before my door would be as easily read as a tavern sign to anyone who passed in the hall. I’d have to accustom myself to such scrutiny. After this night, my most private life would become public and common in scandalous tattle, and faith, I was ready.
“Your hair, ma’am,” Thomson said, her little face with its pointed chin wreathed with worry. “It will take more than a moment to dress it again, ma’am, as well as to lace you into your gown.”
“Neither is necessary, Thomson,” I said. “I’ll go as I am.”
“As you are, ma’am?” Her eyes widened, her distress on my behalf increasing. “Forgive me, ma’am, but surely you cannot intend that!”
“Surely I can.” I bent before the glass to make a quick survey of my face. “I’m certain His Highness will not take the least offense.”
“His Highness? The duke?” she asked, then of a sudden understood all. She blushed for me, and dropped her gaze in confusion. “Forgive me, ma’am, I misspoke.”
“There’s naught to forgive,” I said, my spirits almost giddy. “Leastwise not by you. Fetch my black cloak, the one with the deep hood. I’ll wear that, and no one will be the wiser as to what’s beneath.”
As she ran to fetch it, I bent closer to the glass. I’d yet to wash my face for the night, and my paint still looked well enough. My long, loose hair fell forward about my face and shoulders like a shining silken curtain, a sight whose intimacy would beguile most men. My smock was fine Holland linen, and trimmed deep with more (and more costly) lace than most ladies wore on their person even during the day. That, too, would do, as would the dressing gown I wore over it, peach-colored silk that gave a glow to my pale skin and was edged with soft golden sable along the neckline and deep cuffs. As a final flourish, I dabbed scent on my throat and behind my ears.
At last I smiled, trying to see myself as the duke would, and was satisfied. On an impulse, I took up the amethyst earrings I’d won earlier and hooked them into my ears, the large pendant stones swinging gently against my cheeks. Purple had always been the color of royalty, and that, coupled with the luck that had already brought the earrings my way, should bode most excellently for the rest of the evening.
“Your cloak, ma’am,” Thomson said, draping it over my shoulders. I tied the ribbons at the neck and pulled the hood over my head to shadow my face. If I wished infallible anonymity, I would wear a vizard-mask, too, but it was so very late that I doubted I’d meet anyone else in this part of the palace. Even if I did, they’d be bound on some illicit purpose as well, and we’d each be tr
ying so hard to avoid the other that no harm could come from it. I stepped into my heeled slippers, took a deep breath, and nodded for Thomson to open the door.
“You needn’t wait for me,” I said. “I’ll wake you when I return.”
“Very well, ma’am,” she said, and curtsied as I passed her. “Good night, ma’am, and may God watch over you.”
As I followed the manservant down the hall, I thought of how I was not so much commending myself to God as to the duke: a blasphemous notion, yes, but nonetheless one that made me smile, and I was smiling still as the manservant ushered me past the guards and into His Highness’s suite of apartments. At the last door, he knocked in a way that was clearly a signal, and at once came the muffled reply from within. The manservant opened the door for me himself, and I slipped inside.
Of all the places I’d visited in Whitehall, I’d never before been here, in His Highness’s bedchamber, yet surely it must have been one of the most appealing rooms in the entire palace. While it was most handsomely appointed, with dark paneling and carvings on the walls, elaborate plasterwork overhead, carved marble chimneypieces, and paintings by Master Lely and others, what was most striking were the windows that ran the length of the room, offering a splendid wide view of the Thames and the hills of Richmond beyond. White ice had narrowed the river to a single crooked channel, with only a few hardy boatmen plying their trade by moonlight. Snow on the banks and over the ice glittered more brightly than the stars overhead, magical and unreal. But just as stunning in the room was the Romish prie-dieu with its small triptych showing the Virgin Mary and several lesser saints and candles before it, the kind of shrine for personal devotions that I remembered from my mother’s rooms.
Yet all that I noticed later. What I saw first was His Highness himself, sitting at a long table strewn with books and charts and papers. His pen was in his hand, a half-written letter beneath it. He wore a quilted silk banyan over his shirt and breeches and fur-lined slippers on his stockinged feet, with his wig carelessly tossed onto the back of another chair to bare his close-cropped hair.
It was a scene of surprising, tempting intimacy for any man to reveal, even more so for a royal prince. But the best part was the smile that lit his weary face as soon as he saw me, warm and welcoming, and the obviousness pleasure that filled his blue eyes as he set down his pen to greet me.
I was so taken with seeing him that I’d forgotten the obsequiousness I owed him, and belatedly I shoved my hood back from my face and curtsied deeply. The inky black of my cloak billowed around me, and my unbound hair spilled forward.
“Rise, my dear, rise,” he said, coming to lift me up himself. He’d done this before for me, and I understood what a sizable honor it was. As soon as I’d stood, he bent to close the rest of the distance between us and kissed me lightly, more a kiss such as exchanged between friends than one of passion.
Anxiously I wondered if he’d changed his mind. Had I already disappointed him somehow?
With fresh determination, I shook my hair back from my face and smiled up at him as winningly as I could. By the light of the fire and the moon outside, I must have been nothing but contrasts: the black cloak over the soft peach dressing gown, my dark hair against my pale skin.
My smile widened with relief when I saw in his eyes how much he approved.
“Did I rouse you from your bed?” he asked, an idea that he clearly found pleasing. “Were you asleep?”
“Not quite, Your Highness,” I said, equally aware of his own bed looming nearby. “I came as soon as I received your message.”
“You weren’t a quarter hour,” he said, again with approval. “Most ladies would have taken far longer than that.”
“I’d no wish to loiter, sir,” I said, my voice low and breathless. “I’ve waited long enough.”
He tipped his head, surprised. “You’ve been waiting?”
“Oh, yes, sir,” I said, smoothing my hair behind one ear, the hanging amethyst bumping my hand. “Fifteen days and twelve hours.”
He frowned, curious but not understanding, and I went on to explain.
“Fifteen days, sir, twelve hours, and a handful of minutes,” I said. “That’s how long I’ve been longing for you, tucked away in the clucking henhouse with the other maids of honor.”
I’d just granted him the perfect opportunity to display his wit, as fine a gift as any to a man who worried he wasn’t as clever with a jest as others about him. No other gentleman I knew would have been able to resist proceeding from hens to roosters to cocks, or miss the chance to speak such teasing bawdry to me.
Yet the duke did. His face relaxed, and he laughed at what I’d said, but that was all.
“Those ladies do cluck,” he agreed. “I’ve remarked it myself. But I marvel that you know the days so precisely.”
“What, sir, do you marvel that a lady would know my numbers, and have a passable skill at reckoning?” I laughed, too, though more from uncertainty than from humor. Skittishly I walked from him toward the fire, shrugging away my cloak and tossing it over a nearby chair. The light brocade of my dressing gown drifted about me as I walked, doubtless revealing enough to show that I’d no gown, petticoats, or stays beneath.
“I shouldn’t wonder that you’d marvel, sir,” I continued, holding my palms over the fire. “Some of my fellows are remarkably ignorant, save in how to simper and dance. Most marvelous, indeed.”
“That’s not what I intended,” he said, his voice gruff. “I meant that I marvel that you would judge it worth your efforts to count your days so closely.”
“I could not help it, sir,” I said softly. “If that in itself is a marvel, then so be it.”
It was also the truth, a truth that was so raw that it seemed to hang in the air between us with unbecoming awkwardness. He said nothing, nor did I.
I flushed, realizing I’d overspoken, and stared down into the fire. Too late I now realized I shouldn’t have come. Despite my reputation for boldness and speaking clever nonsense, I lacked the worldly experience to play this role. I wasn’t Lady Castlemaine or Lady Portsmouth, grand infamous mistresses who could sail forward borne on the cresting wave of their unquestionable beauty. All I had to offer was my wit, and even that seemed to have deserted me. What else could I have to offer a duke?
I cannot say exactly how long I stood there, before the fire, wallowing in this impasse of doubt like a small vessel in heavy seas. All I know is that enough time passed for me to fair toast my palms, and to realize an instant too late for comfort how close I’d come to burning them outright.
“Hah, a pox on my luck,” I said ruefully, holding my overwarmed hands up for him to see. “Here I’m caught red-handed like some low Scotsman, without any sin to show for it.”
To my endless surprise, that sorry witticism was the tinder he needed to spark his passion, for suddenly he leapt toward me and seized me in his arms, kissing me with all the ardor and urgency he’d lacked before. It was only a few steps to his bed, yet in that short progress he managed to divest me of my dressing gown and the few other scraps of clothing I’d worn beneath. He toppled me on my back and I sank deep into the featherbed, and without much more prelude than that he was on me and in me, and with a few breathless cries of surprise I welcomed him as best I could. Though most who knew me would doubt it, I was still a novice at Venus’s games, and I’d lain with only one other man before this, and my inexperience must have been woefully evident.
But the duke either didn’t notice, or didn’t care. The bed creaked and groaned, and he groaned and grunted with it in an outpouring of exclamations and endearments that I would never have expected from so reticent a man. The realization that I’d inspired this kind of display from him made my own pleasure grow, and while his attentions were more forceful than loving, that pleased and excited me, too, more proof that I must be worthy. By the time he’d given me his final effusion, I’d offered him a tribute of my own, shamelessly expiring beneath him.
Afterward he rolled to one
side, yet still keeping me in a close embrace that amazed me with its tenderness.
“Well now, sir,” I whispered, my voice low with happiness. “That was sin enough to make me red-handed, and likely flushed in other parts besides.”
He chuckled with the contentment of a man well-swived. “You are everything I expected and more, Katherine.”
“If you expected to bed a scarecrow, sir,” I said, unable not to deprecate myself, “then doubtless you are pleased beyond measure.”
“Don’t speak so,” he said sharply, twisting about so his face was direct above mine. “You please me as you are. You’re different from the others, and I like you for it. If I don’t wish you otherwise, then you should be pleased as well.”
I gazed up at him, his expression so serious as to be almost grim. I had loved the first man who’d become my lover, only to discover afterward that he hadn’t loved me. This time, I’d become the duke’s lover without loving him in the least. Yet those few words of faith in me were kinder than any I’d ever had from another, and sufficient to make my careful heart flutter anew.
“Thank you, sir,” I whispered. It was a strange thing, being with a prince, for though he’d just possessed me in the most intimate of terms, I wasn’t sure if royal protocol still applied. Surely it didn’t, under the circumstances, and feeling ridiculously daring, I reached up and held his face in my hands. “Thank you for it all.”
“Hah, I should be thanking you.” He smiled and turned his face against my hand to nip lightly at my palm. I relaxed, realizing my fearful daring was no daring indeed. “I wasn’t even sure you’d come.”
“But I did come, sir, didn’t I?” I said, laughing wickedly beneath him. “I vow you fetched me quite handsomely. At least now you’ll have a pretty sin for confession. Forgive me, oh, for I have fucked a Protestant!”
The Countess and the King: A Novel of the Countess of Dorchester and King James II Page 26
