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

by Holloway Scott, Susan

  My own thoughts regarding Dr. Burnet’s role at the earl’s deathbed lay somewhere in between, unfixed and uncertain, as were my conclusions regarding his advice to me. Father had urged me to speak with Dr. Burnet again, but I didn’t. With Father’s health restored, my eventual salvation seemed less urgent and my soul in less need of tending. Besides, I didn’t want to hear more of how he was guiding me with his shepherd’s crook. I’d no wish to have the responsibility for the entire Protestant kingdom placed on my shoulders, nor did I wish to be regarded as an Anglican weapon against popery, any more than I desired James’s Catholic priests and attendants to regard me as their keenest enemy. I would much rather be simply a tall, thin lady with a charming young daughter and a lover at present far removed in Scotland, and not even Dr. Burnet had the right to expect more from me than that.

  Thus by the end of the summer, I’d returned to my own house in King Street, and to my place among the other habitual sinners at Court. For now, at least, it was where I belonged.

  THE AUTUMN OF 1680 WAS NOT a good time for the King of England.

  The Parliament that he’d put off for a year was at last meeting, and the main business on their agenda was the Second Exclusion Bill to remove the Duke of York once and for all from the succession. Most of Parliament, including my father, believed the bill would finally pass. To Charles’s great disgust, even the formerly loyal Lord Sunderland had joined the Exclusionists, claiming it was the only sure way to save both England and its monarchy. Charles did not agree, and furiously referred to Sunderland’s defection as the kiss of Judas.

  Nor were Charles’s previous troubles at ease, either. Though removed from office, Lord Shaftesbury had continued busily sowing mischief in the House of Lords and elsewhere. Most recently he’d attempted to have Lady Portsmouth indicted as a common prostitute in the Whig stronghold of Middlesex, with a possible punishment that would include a public whipping and time in the stocks. Louise was terrified; Charles was, again, much angered. But Lord Shaftesbury had gone further still, once again encouraging Lord Monmouth’s expectations, having him brought back to England against Charles’s orders and set up on a kind of royal progress across the countryside to the cheers of his misguided supporters.

  In October, Parliament met, and as expected, the House of Commons swiftly passed the Second Exclusion Bill with little discussion and on the third reading. The bill then was sent to the House of Lords, where no such welcome awaited it. Still, Lord Shaftesbury could taste victory for the Whigs, and confidently readied his arguments for the bill. The Lords had had enough of the obstreperous Commons, however, and enough, too, of Lord Shaftesbury. One grand lord after another rose to speak in defense of the king, the duke, and the succession as it existed. The king himself attended the sessions, listening closely and lobbying freely. The key to the attack, however, belonged to the Marquess of Halifax, who possessed the wit, the knowledge, and the boundless audacity to serve Lord Shaftesbury as he deserved. Every point that Shaftesbury attempted to make was deftly answered and then just as deftly deflated, even ridiculed. Not once in the ten-hour debate did Shaftesbury win a point, and at the end, the bill was soundly defeated, sixty-three votes to thirty.

  Refusing to surrender, Lord Shaftesbury remained as nimble and busy as a body louse. The following day, he introduced an invidious bill to authorize a royal divorce and to separate the aging, barren queen from the king so he might marry again. But worse was to come. The six ancient Catholic lords who had been accused by Oates and Bedloe remained in the Tower, and now with a poisonous flourish, the Commons charged and swiftly convicted the most venerable of them, Viscount Stafford, based on the sworn lies of Titus Oates and others. At the end of December, Lord Stafford was executed, justly avowing his innocence moments before his severed head was raised to the crowd by his flowing white hair.

  Sickened and disgusted, Charles again dissolved Parliament, and told them they next would meet in March, and not in London, but Oxford. That made the members grumble and fuss even more, and once again the Whigs prepared for battle throughout the winter of 1681. By the end of February, they’d already begun arriving in Oxford, blustering in the streets of that ancient town and singing crude songs against the king and the duke, and wearing pale blue ribbons in their hats to mark their cause. Some (like Father, proud to display both his party and his fashion), even wore ribbons with the slogan of NO POPERY! NO SLAVERY! woven into the satin. The ribbons had been supplied by Lord Shaftesbury, who had also stepped so far as to hire a band of armed men—his own small army—to march through Oxford, proclaiming his cause.

  But His Majesty had a surprise of his own. The Commons was ordered to join the Lords, both houses to be crowded into a makeshift hall. When they arrived, they found the king himself in the full regalia of his throne: crown, ermine-trimmed robes of silk velvet, and scepter, an awe-inspiring sight to any Englishman, no matter his party. And with a single sentence, the king demonstrated the power that came with the show of ermine and gold:

  All the world may see to what a point we are come, that we are not like to have a good end when the divisions at the beginning are such.

  That was all, a few short words that neatly summed the futility of the session. Before the members realized what was happening, the king bid the lord chancellor to dissolve Parliament, and that was the end. Then His Majesty left as swiftly as he’d arrived, riding away under an armed guard to Windsor. Those of us in the Court who’d expected a lengthy stay in Oxford and had taken lodgings were left to scramble willy-nilly after the royal party, which was doubtless what Charles wished us to do. Despite the trials of these last difficult years, Charles had still retained an excellent sense of humor.

  Leaving Father behind to sulk and commiserate with the other disappointed Whigs, I set out as soon as I could in my own coach. I prided myself on having a fast team, and I reached Windsor in time to sup with Louise and Charles in her rooms, and with them a small party of courtiers who’d either been privy to the plan or had been able to coax or threaten their coachmen to show extra haste. We took our mood from Charles, and thus were a most jolly little party, toasting the completeness of the surprise and the astonished faces of the thwarted Whigs.

  Yet as smug and pleased as we were, none of us save Charles himself realized the true significance of the day. It was only over time that the rest of us came to understand as well. Having dismissed this particular Parliament, he would never call another. Without confiding in any of his ministers, Charles had decided that he was done with Parliament, done with their interfering and their insults and their bigotry and their constant questioning of his authority, all reasons that were easily understood. This meant he was also done with listening to the will of his people through the representatives that they elected to serve them, which was a more troubling reason and far less agreeable.

  But on that warm spring night, we knew nothing more than that the king had triumphed over his enemies once again. As the gentlemen sank deeper into their drink, Louise and I gathered our cloaks, and went to walk along the castle walls and breathe the air of the new season.

  “When I was young in Brittany,” Louise said, her face turned up to the skies, “I would make wishes on stars, and believed that if I could count them all, my wishes would come true.”

  “Even in France, Your Grace, that wouldn’t have been possible,” I said, ever logical. “There are far too many stars to begin to count them all.”

  “Thus none of those wishes came true.” She smiled at the stars and shrugged. “But I am more practical now, you see, madame. I do not wish for what I cannot have, and I do not attempt what I cannot do.”

  “In everything, Your Grace?” I asked, curious, for it had always seemed to me that, one way or another, she’d gained whatever she’d wished for.

  “In the right things,” she said, absently touching the outsized pearl that swung from her ear as she looked back to the stars. “What do you wish, madame?”

  That was simple enough to answ
er. “Only that His Majesty will relent, and permit His Highness to return to England, and to me.”

  “A good wish,” Louise said. “An honest wish.”

  “A wish I wish would come true, Your Grace,” I said sadly, and I’d drunk just enough wine to speak from my heart. “There are many days I wonder if he’ll ever return to me, or if he has forgotten me.”

  “His Highness hasn’t forgotten you,” she said easily. “He writes to you, yes?”

  “As often as he can, yes,” I admitted, though his letters were hardly those of a romantic lover. James was not a natural writer, and it had always been clear to me that he was much more at ease composing military orders for his officers than a paean of endearments to me. He was further constricted in what he dared write of his daily affairs from fear of what could be misconstrued if his letters happened to fall into wrongful hands. While I wrote long, witty, entertaining letters, meant to amuse him with gossip and please him with my devotion, his in turn were short and brisk, and more devoted to the gloomy Scottish weather and his horses than I could have wished. But because he’d written these letters to me, I’d kept them all as rare treasures.

  “And does he recall his child, and ask to be remembered to her?” she asked. “And your lodgings? Do his agents in London see that those are honored?”

  “He does, yes,” I said, now shamed for having complained to her. James recalled Lady Katherine in the most important way, with an allowance that had been unfailingly sent for her in addition to the one he’d settled on me. “He has been most generous.”

  She fluttered her fingers through the air. “I am certain he has not been as generous as you deserve. The more a gentleman grants a lady, the more he values her. The more he values her, the more pretty gifts he will offer. Even if the gentleman is His Highness.”

  Louise smiled proudly, as if she’d just parsed the greatest of mysteries, or leastwise the mystery of greed. It was well known the king had taken her maidenhead, but I did wonder what value she’d placed on her virtue, given how much she had extracted from him in return since then. Surely the commodity had long since fetched its price in “pretty gifts.”

  “I have never wanted for anything, Your Grace.” Having always had a fortune of my own, I hadn’t been inclined to pursue the royal plundering that Louise, Nell, and the other mistresses did.

  She clucked her tongue. “You must consider your future, madame, and provide for your child as well as yourself. You would be wise to remind His Highness of his duty toward you in this.”

  I was feeling thoroughly guilty now, as if I’d somehow betrayed both James and Lady Katherine. “Forgive me, Your Grace. It was my own loneliness that made me speak so, and no fault of His Highness in any way.”

  “You must not doubt him, madame,” she chided gently. “Do you believe you’d have kept your place here among us if one brother did not confide in another?”

  She was right, of course. By 1681, I was an unmarried lady of twenty-three with a natural child. I’d neither youth nor beauty nor a title to recommend me as an ornament to the Court, nor was my diminished fortune sufficient in itself to draw favor. My father’s strident politics alone would have been enough to make me unpleasant to the king, and I had been emphatically dismissed from my only official position at Court.

  “You must have faith, madame,” she continued. “With faith, everything is possible, yes?”

  I looked at her sharply. Many at Court believed that Lady Portsmouth knew more of Charles’s intentions than any of his ministers. “What have you heard, Your Grace? Please, please, what do you know?”

  She smiled at me, her round, pale face as luminous as the moon. “I know that your wish is not so futile as you fear. I can tell you no more than that, madame. But there are things that are possible this night that were not when we rose this morning.”

  “Thank you, Your Grace,” I whispered, my hopes rising as high as the stars above us. “Oh, thank you!”

  “Be brave, ma chère, and be strong, and before long your faith will surely be rewarded.” She nodded as if agreeing with herself, and made a pretty little sweep with one hand, the jeweled bracelets on her wrist clinking softly together. “I do believe His Majesty is not yet done amazing us, yes?”

  I CANNOT SAY WHETHER THE DUCHESS of Portsmouth knew for certain what Charles planned, or if she’d simply grown adept at guessing after so many years in his company. But there was no doubt that His Majesty’s actions over the next months did amaze a good many of his subjects, and outright shock a few more. It seemed his success in defeating the Second Exclusion Bill and in dismissing Parliament had given him fresh courage and confidence. He was no longer a young man—his last birthday had been his fiftieth—but he now acted against those who dared cross him not with the thoughtful caution of age, but rather with a young man’s bold and swift decision.

  In early July, Lord Shaftesbury was arrested for treason. He was charged with attempting to make war on the king; those bands of armed men he’d employed at Oxford with blue ribbons in their hats now seemed dangerously brazen rather than brave. Though he was acquitted by a Whig-loving jury drawn from the men in the city (a group famously resentful of the Crown), His Lordship understood how closely he’d come to the same fate he’d so blithely urged for others, and soon after he was released, he fled abroad.

  Lord Monmouth was not so wise, which was, I suppose, much to be expected. Never one to display intelligence to match his charm and dash, he foolishly stood bail for his old supporter, Lord Shaftesbury. Charles in turn showed his anger by taking away several of Lord Monmouth’s most lucrative offices, and gave them to the Duke of Grafton, one of his sons by the Duchess of Cleveland, and to Louise’s son, the Duke of Richmond. Most men of any sense would have then retreated, but Lord Monmouth had no sense. Instead he decided that Lord Halifax—the marquess who had so ably defended the royal interests against the Second Exclusion Act—had come between him and his father, and challenged Lord Halifax to a duel. Lord Halifax declined, and worse, Charles took the marquess’s side against his wayward son, and Lord Monmouth became an outcast at Court. The only one who still stood by him was Nelly, always loyal to her old friends, and her house was the last one left in London where he was still welcomed.

  Not all Charles’s actions were negative ones. Due largely to Louise’s urgings, he began to make an uneasy peace with Lord Sunderland and put aside his past references to Judas, for he needed His Lordship’s counsel and wise head. He also relied increasingly on Laurence Hyde, who was now First Lord of the Treasury.

  But of greater importance was the less tangible shift of goodwill toward the king. The country was at peace, and prospering, with many English ships and merchants engaged in rich trade with the American colonies as well as the East and West Indies. The king had stood firm against popery, plots, the French, the Dutch, Lord Shaftesbury, and finally Parliament. He had defended himself and his Crown, and he’d even defended his queen, and his people approved. He was cheered whenever he appeared in public, and as the Whigs had lost their power, it had become fashionable to be a Tory, and support the Crown and the Stuarts.

  To me, everything appeared to be arranging itself as neatly as could be for James’s return. It wasn’t merely the politics, though the less hindrance to be found in that area, the better. I saw it in more subtle ways, too, in how the same newssheets that had once depicted James as no more than a dangerous zealot in thrall to the Pope now wrote with favor of how well His Highness the Duke of York had conducted the king’s affairs in Scotland, how deftly he’d balanced justice and fairness among the wild men of that savage place. I overheard gentlemen in shops and at playhouses discussing how fairly the duke had managed to resolve the difficult religious issues to the north, and without once imposing his own beliefs upon the conflicts, which augured well for the future. When I went to service with Father on Sunday, I realized that James’s name had once again been included among those for whom we should pray, with as little fanfare as when it had been
removed three years before.

  All this I wrote to James, who in turn shared his ever-growing impatience to return to London, and to me. Together, across the distance, we dared to hope his exile would soon be done. Just as Louise had encouraged me, I urged James to have faith as well, and to be brave. And for the first time in years, it did seem as if that faith might finally be rewarded.

  IT WAS THE WAGGING END OF the Christmas revels, after the New Year and Twelfth Night had been duly celebrated: an evening when everyone at Court was secretly weary of the long season of celebration. There had been some desultory sort of singers in the Banqueting House, and dancing afterward, but Louise and I had admitted we’d neither of us much patience for it, and as soon as Charles had left for billiards with several of his gentlemen, she and I had retreated with a few other ladies to her rooms to play loo and ombre.

  But even the cards offered no real diversion, and as the hour grew late, the other ladies excused themselves, until only Louise and I remained, each of us sprawled with ungainly ease across a separate silk-covered settee as we gossiped. Louise lay back against a pile of cushions stuffed with swans’ down, a silver dish of tiny square cakes resting on her belly as she delicately nibbled away the pale icing from each one in turn, while I sipped wine from a glass etched with centaurs and nymphs along its rim. We must have made a pretty picture of luxurious indolence, there amidst all the gold leaf and crimson brocade that Louise so favored. The fires still roared high in the chamber’s four fireplaces and scores of candles were guttering in the chandeliers overheard, and all of it and us reflected over and over in the enormous gold-framed looking glasses that covered the walls.