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

by Holloway Scott, Susan

  My heart sank. “Is that why you have come?”

  “I came, Katherine, because I have missed you,” he said, as if this were the most obvious thing in the world. “But it is because I love you as my only daughter that I ask you to part from this man who will surely ruin you.”

  If this were the price of my father’s love, then it was too steep for me.

  “I cannot do that, Father,” I said softly, drumming the tips of my fingers along the chair’s mahogany arm. “I can’t abandon him, not now, when he is in such peril.”

  “At least that’s truly spoke,” he said with ominous certainty. “How much have you heard, Katherine?”

  I looked at him with growing unease. In the past, Father and I had often discussed the doings of Parliament and the king’s ministers, the same as we’d once spoken of the various scandals in the tiring rooms at the playhouses. Every fresh scandal had been ripe for spinning into a pretty thread for our amusement. But there was little amusement to be found in Parliament or the Court these days, and even less for me given my connection with James. Once, I would have greeted Father’s simple question—How much have you heard?—with eager anticipation. Now it only filled me with dread and worry, and fear for the man I’d come to love.

  “I have heard nothing,” I confessed, and that, too, was true. “I’ve been removed from the world. When His Highness writes to me, it’s of the sausages he’s eaten or the horse he’s ridden, and how much he misses England and wishes to return. For more than that, you must tell me, Father. I beg you, please. Tell me all.”

  He paused, a long, weighty, significant pause. Because of James, Father and I were on opposite sides now. He was firmly ensconced among the Whigs, while by circumstance I was associated with the Court Party, increasingly known as Tories, after a band of wild Irish brigands, though for no creditable reason that I could ever discern. Sadly I realized that, as Father stood before me, he was deciding if I could be trusted not to run back to my royal lover with whatever he told me: if, in short, I was more Sedley or Stuart.

  “Very well,” he said at last. “Though all of this is common now, or will be soon enough. When the new Parliament meets next month, Shaftesbury will introduce a new bill for exclusion, to officially remove the duke from the succession on account of being a Papist and in collusion with both the French and Rome.”

  “Such a bill will not pass,” I said firmly. “It must not pass! Who would they place in the duke’s stead?”

  “Some would wish the king to declare for his son Lord Monmouth.”

  “Fah!” I said with a dismissive wave of my hand. “You know as well as I that he’s an empty-headed fool. Pretty and full of charm, but no more brain than any other preening parrot.”

  Father smiled. “I would agree, Katherine. Yet Monmouth is a preening Protestant parrot, and enough like his father in appearance to soothe the qualms of many Englishmen. But there are other choices. The Princess of Orange would be agreeable, I think.”

  “Meaning her husband the Prince of Orange, for the lady has no will of her own.” I sighed impatiently. “What would most Englishmen make of him? A wheezing Dutch dwarf who has been our sworn enemy through more than one war?”

  “Again, a Protestant dwarf,” Father said, maddeningly reasonable against my passion. “Like it or not, in the end it will all come to that and no more. Because of Oates and Bedloe, there are murderous Jesuits to be seen lurking in every dark corner. With this new Parliament, Shaftesbury could have a donkey made heir if it were only the will of the people.”

  “Thank God it is not,” I said fervently. “The king has sworn to uphold his brother’s right to the throne, and I must believe that he will stand by his oath.”

  “His Majesty will do what is best for England, and to preserve his father’s throne,” Father said. “If that means he must in time sacrifice his brother, he will do so.”

  I caught my breath, my fingers tightening into a knot in my lap. This was exactly James’s greatest fear, that his brother would someday betray him to save himself.

  “But what of the rightful succession?” I asked. “Isn’t that best for England, too?”

  Father smiled, and spread his hands wide in wordless appeal, his familiar gold ring with the carnelian stone turning red as blood by the fire’s light.

  “Much may happen, my dear,” he said, “and equally much may not. No one can play Cassandra and see to the future. The king continues in such perfect health that he may outlive us all. He may take another queen, and yet sire a legitimate son. Or your duke may come to his senses, and return to the rightful church, and all of this will be of as little importance as ashes in the wind.”

  “I’ve told His Highness that, Father,” I said, my voice trembling as I remembered the strong words I’d used. “I’ve told him, and told him, and told him, and yet he will not see either the sense or the danger in following Rome.”

  “Continue your telling, Daughter, and perhaps at last he’ll listen. You can do no more than that for your daughter, or for England, either.” He rose, and I stood with him. He drew his handkerchief from his pocket, an immaculate creased square of snowy Holland edged with lace, and pressed it into my hand.

  “Keep it ready, Kattypillar,” he said gently. “I fear you’ll shed a good many more tears before you’re done, but in the end, I pray it will all be for the best.”

  But as I used Father’s handkerchief to daub my eyes, I was not nearly as certain as he was. No, when I thought of my dear James, I wasn’t certain at all.

  FATHER MIGHT HAVE CLAIMED NOT TO be another Cassandra, but his prediction of what would happen in London in the spring of 1679 proved as accurate as any ancient Trojan prophecy. The General Election of February in fact returned a House of Commons that was more Whiggish than Tory, flocking like sheep to Lord Shaftesbury’s crook. His Lordship had several avowed goals for the new session to perform, and with that selfsame crook, he wasted no time prodding his obedient herd to follow his bidding.

  First, he wished to see the persecution of Lord Danby continued so as to have no rivals, and in this he succeeded. Based largely on Montague’s letters, Danby was forced to resign his offices as the most powerful minister to the king. Not only that, but he was arrested and imprisoned in the Tower on a charge of treason. His place in the king’s confidence was taken (though not officially) by another of the Privy Councilors, the Earl of Sunderland, a gentleman of the same Whiggish beliefs and persuasions as Lord Shaftesbury, but not as strident in them.

  Second, because it suited his other purposes, Shaftesbury wished to keep the fires of suspicion and loathing against popery burning as brightly as a Guy Fawkes bonfire. This, too, he accomplished with seeming ease, by continuing to encourage Oates in his so-called testimonies; among the preposterous new revelations were claims that James I and Charles I had been murdered by the Jesuits, and that my James was somehow responsible for setting the Great Fire that had burned through London nearly fifteen years before. On the basis of such lies, five more Jesuits were convicted of plotting Charles’s death and shamefully executed in July.

  More quietly, yet with equal efficiency, His Lordship supported the dissemination of the most outlandish, hateful lies regarding Catholics among the members of the Commons and throughout the city by way of anonymous pamphlets filled with crude yet horrifying illustrations of an England destroyed by the Jesuits. To the new members representing neighborhoods distant from London, the pamphlets were particularly shocking, and taken for gospel instead of the fantastical lies that they were.

  Thirdly, Shaftesbury wished to keep James away from London. This required more subtlety, more careful whispers in carefully chosen ears at Court, for his aim was to reach the most royal ears of all. Yet here, too, he succeeded, for though James asked his brother repeatedly to be permitted to return home, Charles refused. What I heard by way of Lady Portsmouth was that Charles feared an open rebellion if James were to appear, a rebellion much like the one that had destroyed their father nearly f
orty years before. But from Father I learned that this dreadful rebellion was only another invention of Lord Shaftesbury’s, a few graying coals of innuendo puffed and fanned into full and dangerous flame.

  Far removed in distant Brussels, James was duly informed by his brother of all of this, and spared none of the hostility or even the hatred that his name aroused. As can be imagined, his letters to me were sorrowful affairs, his exile so woeful that it seemed not even his faith could guide him. In England he had prided himself on working long hours on behalf the army and navy and a score of other projects. In Brussels, he’d nothing to occupy himself except calls from dull Flems he’d no wish to see and hunting through lands and forests that served only to remind him of how different they were from the lands and forests he’d been forced to leave behind.

  I tried to make my letters in return as cheering as I could, and wrote not only of our daughter’s progress, but also added my own observations of the events at Court, in Parliament, and in London, whether humble or grand. I sent my affection as well, and though he’d never know it, I pressed my lips to every page to help bring him back to me. I did not tell him how much I missed him, or how it seemed the cruelest twist of fortune that in the same week that Lady Katherine had entered my life, I had lost James from it.

  The poets claim that separation from a loved one serves only to make that love stronger still, and so it was with my affection for James. It was a strange thing, I know, and one I could scarce understand myself. But the longer we were separated, the more fervently I missed him, and knowing that this same separation would likely continue with no foreseeable end only increased my devotion to him.

  It should be of no surprise, then, that Lord Shaftesbury’s final goal for that spring was the one that concerned me the most. As Father had predicted, this conniving lord introduced an odious proposal that instantly became known as the Exclusion Bill. By this bill, James would be removed from the succession, or excluded, not only on account of his faith, but also because of his too-close ties to France and Rome. Debate on the bill was minimal, and it seemed certain of passing. Lord Shaftesbury was already perceived to be flush with his success, and Lord Monmouth, too, was heard to be making jests about how well the crown would sit upon his brow.

  But neither of them had considered His Majesty’s ire, or his true loyalties. It had been a difficult time for the king. His regard and popularity among his people were the lowest they had been at any time during his reign, and even many of his onetime friends and supporters, such as Lord Dorset and Lord Rochester, were writing scathing verses at his expense. Though outwardly supporting all measures to preserve the Protestant faith, Charles was privately determined to save his brother. In May, he prorogued Parliament to prevent further debate on the bill, and in July, he dissolved it entirely, sending the members off to their distant homes until another election was called. It was only a postponement of the question, not a solution, but after all the Court had suffered through over these last long months, it was a respite we all did need.

  In August, Charles made his annual retreat to Windsor. With James still in exile, I’d no true reason to go, or to expect an invitation to be part of the traveling Court. But since Lady Katherine’s birth, my acquaintance with Lady Portsmouth had blossomed and flourished, until I could now call her as much a friend as I did Nell, though surely there were no two ladies more different. I suppose it was natural, since as Louise—for so I now had come to think of her—had said to me, we three were indeed in the same little boat, albeit a golden boat rich with pearls and borne on the backs of Stuart lions and unicorns. In any event, Louise had requested my company with her at Windsor, and so in August I kissed my daughter as I left her with her nursemaids and made the journey up the river with the rest of the Court.

  This time Father did not accompany me, choosing instead to retreat to his own estates in the country for the recess. He claimed he was too old and weary for the pleasures of Court, but I guessed it was more that his Whiggish politics made him uncomfortable at the palace, and that it was easier to avoid the company of his old friend Charles than to challenge it.

  As Louise’s guest, I had lodgings as part of her quarters in the great castle, which were nearly as extraordinary as the ones she’d been granted by Charles at Whitehall. She had a larger suite with more rooms than the queen, and it was furnished with better taste, too. Everything had been done in the most exquisite French manner, from enormous looking glasses on the walls that reflected every bit of sun or candlelight as well as the people within the rooms, to gold-framed paintings by the best artists on the Continent. As at Whitehall, Charles was in Louise’s suite more than his own, and relied on her, not the queen, to act as hostess to his most important visitors. It was a remarkable thing to see, that a king who was under attack by his Parliament for being too closely aligned with the French would rely so heavily on his French mistress, and with such undisguised regard, too.

  But what was most remarkable to me about Louise was the lady herself. Being plain, I had always believed that rare beauty, such as she possessed, would ease every hindrance and unpleasantry that ordinary women must suffer. I was myself seldom awed by even the fiercest gentlemen, but I will admit that there were times that I was nigh stunned by Louise’s loveliness, overwhelmed by her dimpled white hands or the languorous grace of her gestures that were so different from my own sharp, angular figure and brisk motions. It was as if I were still in the school-room and dazzled with my admiration for an older girl. Oh, there was no denying that Louise’s beauty had been the reason she’d first captured Charles’s notice, but to my surprise it had not protected her from the endless attacks of others who wished to destroy her for her power, her foreignness, her Catholicism, and her influence, and for simple jealousy as well. Many at Court judged her to be haughty and aloof, but I saw her instead as guarded and cautious, a lady who’d been hurt too often to trust anyone but Charles himself.

  To be sure, Louise de Keroualle never made such a confidence to me. While generous with her kindness, she took care not to share too much of herself with anyone. Yet I observed how she used her infinite grace and elegance not to welcome the world to her, but to deflect it—much in the same way that I did use my wit and cleverness. Perhaps this was necessary to survive as a royal mistress, and perhaps, too, Louise had recognized the same quality in me when she’d said we were in the same little boat.

  Whatever the reason, I was happy to be included again in the frolics at Windsor, whether in Louise’s elegant shadow in the castle or at Nell’s more boisterous house in the adjoining town. My position was a strange one; I was acknowledged as a royal favorite without the presence of the prince who’d granted me that favoritism. Still, I made what I could of the situation, and through my usual candor and wit, was welcomed as an amusing addition to the party.

  By the middle of August, everything had changed.

  I woke one morning to Thomson drawing the curtains on my bed, the same way I began most every day. But the instant I saw her face, I could tell that she was fair bursting to tell me some rare news, and as I took my dish of chocolate from her, I finally gave her leave to speak.

  “Well, what is it, Thomson?” I asked, sipping my sweet morning brew. “What fresh tattle have you heard about your betters down in the kitchens?”

  But instead of the gleeful outburst of gossip I’d expected, Thomson’s face crumpled. “Oh, ma’am, it is the worst possible news of all. His Majesty was stricken grievous ill in the night, and they say he is not expected to live!”

  “His Majesty’s ill?” I dropped my dish back into its saucer with a clatter of porcelain. Charles was one of the most robust gentlemen I’d ever known, still tall and lean and vital for all that he was fifty years of age. I couldn’t recall the last time he’d been reported as ill. This was grievous news for all of England, most grievous indeed. “How? What ails him?”

  Thomson shook her head. “Oh, ma’am, they say it was nothing, nothing at all! Yesterday His Majesty pla
yed tennis by the river—such as he’s done a thousand times before—and they say he did not properly dry himself afterward, ma’am, and that he took a chill, and then the fever settled into him, and—”

  “So that is it? A fever?” Summer fevers were sadly common here around the river, and I wondered that a gentleman who had spent so many of his summers around its banks would not have taken the necessary precautions against illness.

  “Yes, yes, ma’am, a fever of the most fearful variety.” Thomson snuffled loudly, wiping her tears with the corners of her apron. “The doctors and surgeons have been with His Majesty all the night long with this remedy and that, and yet he is said only to worsen. Oh, forgive me, ma’am, but I’ve known no other king in all my life, and I cannot bear to think of him gone from us!”

  That was perhaps the most honest words my Thomson had ever spoken. Only the most aged of Englishmen could now recall before the wars to the reign of the old king, and to all of us gathered at Windsor, the king meant only Charles II. To have him perish so suddenly was beyond thinking.

  I dressed as quickly as I could so I might seek the latest news, hoping that somehow Thomson was mistaken. But it was instantly evident from the shocked faces and hushed voices to be found in every room that indeed Charles was gravely ill, and that the doctors that filled his bedchamber despaired for his life.

  Yet if Charles did in fact die—for as robust a gentleman as he was, he was in truth still mortal, and dependent on the awful will of God—who would assume his throne? No one dared ask the question aloud, even as no one could think of any other. By law and right, James was destined to follow his brother, Lord Shaftesbury’s much-loved Exclusion Bill still only a bill and no more. But James was still in exile, and as every Englishman knew from past history, upon a royal death, the crown was often seized not by he who’d a right to it, but by the one who was nearest to claim it as his own. What if Lord Monmouth and his followers swept in to take the throne by force, or far worse, some other mad claimant suddenly appeared? While the Whigs might have spoken bravely in their debates in the House, when faced with this harsh reality, they realized they’d no real wish for rebellion or anarchy.