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

by Holloway Scott, Susan

  “Ah, but isn’t that another quality we Sedleys possess?” I said lightly, striving to coax him from this conversation. “That we feel no shame?”

  But Father found no humor in this. “Katherine, please. Not even you can scoff at the power of the Church of Rome. You know His Highness’s priests loathe you. What if they were to compel him to give you up?”

  “They have not been able to do so as yet,” I said with confidence. “You would laugh to see them scatter like frightened crows when I appear, Father. I, the evil Protestant bitch!”

  “You should take care not to laugh too loudly, Daughter,” Father insisted. “No lady in your position is invulnerable. I hear enough of the Court to know you have your enemies, and the duke has them by the score. Nothing at Whitehall lasts forever. Surely you must know that. What will become of you in the end, you and your daughter both? You must consider her, you know.”

  “I always will, Father, just as you do with me.” I turned my hand to link my fingers into his, and smiled tenderly and with love. “Do not worry over me, I beg you. You’ll see. I cannot say how or why, but when everything is reckoned in the end, I’ll be happy. I will be happy. And what else could I wish for than that?”

  WINTER FELL HARD ON LONDON SOON after Lord Russell’s execution, fell as suddenly as any season I could ever recall. One day it seemed the last bright leaves of autumn still clung bravely to the trees in the park, and the next all was shrouded in sharpest cold. Some said it was a punishment, God’s solemn judgment on those who had in turn presumed to judge and sentence Lord Russell and the others to their deaths. While a neat little parable, I could not believe it; the ones who suffered most from this sudden shift to winter were not the wealthy judges and other lords, wrapped in furs before their fires, but the poor and humble of London who had no fires at all.

  By the end of December, the ground was frosted so solid that no burials could take place. Each morning brought a fresh toll of those who’d died in the night, with many bodies found frozen stiff and unyielding wherever they’d last stopped for refuge. Cattle perished from want of fodder, and wild birds and other small creatures died in untold numbers as well. The markets had little food to offer, and that at a price so steep that only the cost of wood and sea-coal surpassed it. Shipping came to a perilous halt, for not only was the river frozen solid, but the water around the seaports as well, and the vessels that had been trapped in the grasp of the ice had their hulls splinter from the force of the frost.

  But Londoners are merry creatures at heart, and able to find pleasure in even the most grievous of circumstances. So it was now with this remarkable cold. As soon as the river froze solid—some said the ice was more than two feet deep—enterprising folk turned the river into a wide, white ground for play and entertainment, and in no time at all erected a great Frost Fair that stretched from bank to snowy bank.

  There were makeshift shops set up in booths to offer a variety of wares, from costly clothes and jewels and Virginia tobacco to halfpenny trinkets to serve as mementos. By day and night, every imaginable kind of refreshment was offered, from brandy and beer to heated chocolate and tea, sweetmeats and pasties and pies. An entire ox was roasted and turned on a spit, the ice being so thick as to support the necessary fire, and the steaming meat was greedily devoured, with even His Majesty taking a slice direct from the spit. There was entertainment, too, horse and carriage races and rides on sleds, wrestling matches and bear-baiting, and even a brothel, though I would think that the novelty of such a letch might fade before the reality of a shivering cock.

  As a frolic, I begged James to take me to the fair one night soon after Christmas. We set aside our rich Court clothing and dressed simply, so none would recognize us at first glance (though any who looked beyond our dress soon would see the nearby guards that James never went without). We wandered freely among the booths, drinking mulled wine and laughing at the boys who raced across the ice on Dutch skates with dogs skidding after them. It had been a long while since James had enjoyed himself so thoroughly, his face ruddy and easy from these simplest of pleasures.

  “Are you happy, sir?” I asked, leaning close to whisper into his ear.

  “With you, I am,” he said quietly, his voice thrumming with warm affection. “How could I be otherwise with you beside me?”

  I chuckled, well content in my love, and kissed his cold cheek, and then his lips, too. It wasn’t until much later that we found other pleasures in my bed to keep each other warm, and I always believed that it was on that night that our second child was conceived.

  The year of 1684 was in fact altogether one of my happiest. I had my place at Court and with James, and I was joyfully with child again, my growing belly proof of my royal lover’s devotion to me. I was welcome in the highest and most intimate circles. In Louise’s apartments, I became a favorite for my wit. Even the king, who in general had little use for plain women, came to appreciate me for my humor, and asked me to sit close so that I might amuse him. I couldn’t help but think of how Father had performed much the same role earlier in the reign, and wistfully wished that his politics had not carried him so far from Court so that we might have entertained the king together.

  The tension and fear of recent years, when plots and Parliament had so challenged the king and the Court, now seemed well past, exactly as Charles desired. James was finally again permitted to take his seat in the Privy Council—a place he’d been denied for nearly eleven years—and to return to his much-loved position in the Royal Admiralty, overseeing the navy. He took care to practice his faith quietly, with devotion but without ostentation, and that seemed well enough with most Englishmen.

  One long-overdue justice came that summer when Titus Oates was finally arrested. He could have been charged with scores of villainous crimes, but his accusations of treason against James were sufficient to have him clapped in irons and imprisoned.

  James was now not only restored to favor, but to popularity as well, and if 1684 was one of the happiest of years for me, then surely it must have been for him as well. When I was safely brought to bed of a handsome, lusty son (named, of course, after his father) in September, I truly believed our life could scarce be improved.

  WHILE FATHER’S GREATEST WORRY FOR ME as a royal mistress was that James would at some point dismiss me without warning or support for my two children, I’d only to look at how James and his brother had treated their former mistresses and their offspring to see that I’d no cause for fear. Whatever other faults the Stuarts might possess where women were concerned, this was not one of them. They showed much care and affection for their natural children, and no lady who had served them well in this capacity had ever been forgotten.

  I was reminded of this anew as I sat in Louise’s apartments on the first Sunday night of February 1685. Not only was the usual company gathered, but by unusual coincidence all of Charles’s most-loved favorites were in attendance as well: the Duchess of Cleveland, the Duchesse de Mazarin, and Nelly Gwyn, in addition to Louise herself. Most who’d observed these four ladies only from afar would be certain they’d squabble and fight among themselves, as men always expect (and wish) beautiful women will do. But such was the power of Charles’s continued friendship for them that they sat instead in perfect harmony, laughing and drinking and chatting happily, and bound together by their love for the king.

  Awed though I was to be included amongst so many great beauties, I still could appreciate the rare pleasure of that night, reflected over and over in Louise’s famous looking glasses: the charm of the company, the elegant magnificence of the rooms, the genial happiness of Charles as he sat surrounded by so many friends, even the sweet-voiced French boy that Louise had employed to sing love songs, a bittersweet note to such a gathering.

  When at last I bid farewell to James and the rest of the company, I retired to my house in King Street. There I kissed Lady Katherine and Lord James good night in their little beds, and slept well in my own. It was not until noon the following day tha
t I learned the dreadful news from Whitehall: that Charles had been stricken by a grievous affliction or apoplexy while he slept. I dressed quickly and went to the palace, to learn the latest word and to be of what comfort I could to James. But I soon came away, not from disinterest, but because I did not belong. Deathbeds were for families, for children and wedded wives, and not mistresses. No matter how dear James was to me and I to him, by rights his wife must stand at his side as his brother lay dying.

  Like everyone else in the Court—and truly, in all England—I could not believe that Charles’s life could end so soon. He was not a young man, not at fifty-five, but one still so vital and quick that it seemed impossible that he’d falter. Already people wept openly in the streets. No one laughed, or sang, or even smiled, from respect for their dying king. Rumors raced through the city with lives of their own: His Majesty had been poisoned by the Jesuits, His Majesty was craftily staging his own illness to test the loyalties of those around him, His Majesty had declared the Duke of Richmond, his son by Louise, as his rightful heir. Ships were stopped at the port, and soldiers were everywhere in the city, their presence announced as a precaution, in case the French or other foreigners decided to take advantage of our sad, unsettled city. At Court we knew better, and guessed the true reason was that those in the palace—perhaps even Charles himself—feared some epic folly by Lord Monmouth, a bold move fostered by him with the Prince of Orange to seize the throne.

  In the long week when the king lay a-dying, I heard but once from James, a hasty, anguished note. I was moved that he’d write at all, and did not expect more. Despite their differences, Charles and James were far closer than most brothers, and I could only imagine how deeply this last farewell would grieve him.

  I was dining with Father at a tavern near Covent Garden when we heard the first church bells begin to toll. All conversation fell silent in the dining room as we listened to the somber, awful sound. One by one, people rose and bowed their heads in respect. Some cried, sobbing freely, while others prayed aloud. Beside me, Father slipped his fingers into mine and pressed my hand in shared, wordless sorrow.

  The king was dead. Long live the king.

  And God help me, I was now His Majesty’s mistress.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  KING STREET, LONDON

  February 1685

  His Majesty King Charles II died on a Friday, the sixth day of February 1685. The last thing he was said to have seen from his bed was the pale winter sun rising over the Thames. Those who look for augers took this as a splendid sign for his brother James: as one king slipped from this mortal life, another rose bravely to take his place.

  Surely after so much dread over James succeeding his brother to the throne, the actual event proceeded without the slightest conflict or drama. The transition was as easy as such matters could be. Charles was buried on the night of 14 February (cruel irony for a man who loved so well, to be buried on the day of St. Valentine!), with dignity and pomp. James’s coronation was not to take place until April, after proper mourning for his brother and to provide sufficient time for foreign dignitaries to arrive and the whole lavish ceremony to be arranged. But as soon as Charles was dead, James was confirmed as the new king, and briskly began his duties.

  He first set about reassuring any who doubted that he’d every intention of abiding by the laws of England regarding the Church and the state, and no desire for change. I wasn’t surprised, since this was exactly what he’d always maintained, even when he’d been most under attack. This gratifying message, printed and sent and read around the kingdom, was reinforced by his actions.

  He made few changes among his brother’s ministers as well, keeping Lords Sunderland, Halifax, Godolphin, and Rochester as his primary advisers. He likewise declared that he’d maintain a more moral Whitehall than his brother’s debauched Court had been, and that there’d be no welcome for drunkards, rogues, adulterers, or gamblers. Now, this was a bit disingenuous, considering how he himself was an adulterer, Sunderland a notorious carder and gambler, and Rochester drank so hard he’d slip through the neck of the bottle if he could. But the new king’s intentions were greeted warmly and with favor—though what politician would dare say he’d preferred the old-style wickedness? James also raised several other followers from his household, most notably John Churchill, who was now made a gentleman of the bedchamber and Baron Sandridge in the English peerage. My old friend Colonel Grahme was named Keeper of the Privy Purse and Master of Buckhounds, appointments with sizable incomes. In general James treated the gentlemen with the greatest civility, and considering how dear I’d been to him for nearly ten years now, I’d no reason to expect anything less for me and our daughter.

  Yet day stretched into day, and still James did not come to me. I saw him at a distance, of course, at his brother’s funeral and before others in Whitehall, but not alone, not as it had been before Charles was taken ill. His wife the new queen was much with him now, and I observed how the frail duchess had suddenly burgeoned into a haughty, imperious queen. Emboldened by her new status, she brazenly surrounded herself with a large cadre of Italian-speaking priests and other Romish clerics, as if giving full lie to James’s magnanimous promise to respect the Church of England.

  I made excuses for James even as I worried over Mary Beatrice’s ascendancy. I watched with sorrow his unkind treatment of his brother’s former favorites, made so unwelcome at his upright new Court that both Nell and Lady Mazarin were forced to withdraw. Louise fled first to the shelter of the French ambassador’s house and then to France, vowing never to return. I told myself how James must still be bowed with grief for his brother, and overwhelmed by the minutiae of beginning a new realm. But when Lady Katherine, now six, asked why her father had stopped coming to call upon us, I had no real answer to give.

  Then, scarcely a fortnight after Charles’s death, a messenger came to King Street in the royal livery. I didn’t wait for his letter to be brought to me, but seized it myself, bearing it like a prize to my chamber to read alone. I read it, and read it again, my heart refusing to believe what my eyes saw.

  Though the letter was in James’s hand and above his mark, he was not the author. I saw that in an instant. Even if these hateful sentiments had flowed from him, they never would have taken the form of these words, not considering how arduous composition was to him.

  With chill, precise formality, I was informed of His Majesty’s new intentions. Having reflected on the frailty of mankind and the moral weakness as demonstrated by his late brother, His Majesty now resolved to lead a different manner of life than previously. To that end, His Majesty desired me either to go across the waters away from England, or to retire away from London to the country. Provisions would be made whichever course I chose, but I must understand that His Majesty was determined to see me no more.

  By the second reading, I’d decided my course, and it would be neither going abroad nor into the country, but to Whitehall. Because I was not a member of the royal household, I wasn’t obliged to follow mourning, and I dressed myself in full magnificence, including the largest of the jewels that James had given me. He would see me, I would make certain of that, and a pox on whichever foul priest had dictated that heartless, lying letter.

  I had myself driven to the palace, and entered as I always had, cheerfully saluting the guards by their names as I made my way to James’s apartments. Though some I passed gazed at me with surprise, no one dared stop me, which only infuriated me the further. Did they really believe I’d go so meekly that no orders had been necessary to keep me away?

  By the time I reached James’s new rooms, I was in a righteous temper, and without waiting to be announced I sailed through the doors. It was strange to find him here in place of his brother, but I saw he’d already made his mark: the voluptuously Italian painting of Venus and Mars that had always hung over the fireplace had been replaced by a murky weeping saint on her knees, her eyes rolling heavenward. As I’d expected by the hour, James had finished his
first prayers of the day and was taking a dish of coffee amongst his gentlemen of the bedchamber, who at once rose as if to drive me away themselves.

  “Your Majesty,” I said, sinking into the most cursory of curtsies before James. I refused to debase myself before him as Lord Monmouth had done before the late king. Why should I, when my banishment from favor had never been earned? “Forgive me my intrusion, sir, but I’d no other choice if I would see you again.”

  James stared at me, his expression one of intense discomfort as a mottled flush of guilty surprise slowly crept up his cheeks. He looked thinner than when I’d seen him last, a misfortune in a man who was already spare, and though it was early in the morning, his eyes were shadowed with weariness. Any other time, and I would have rushed to him with concern, but not now. Now he was the king, and I’d already dared far too much.

  I felt a gentle tap on my shoulder. “Mrs. Sedley,” said John Churchill, Lord Sandridge. “If you please, His Majesty is engaged at present.”

  “Thank you, my lord,” I said, my gaze not leaving James as he sat, engaged with his coffee. “But it is not His Majesty that I wished to see. Rather I’ve come to speak with the father of my children.”

  James’s mouth twisted, and abruptly he stood. “I will speak to Mrs. Sedley alone.”

  With a shuffle of bows, the gentlemen left us, the door behind us shutting softly. Still we stood, facing each other as stiff as two sentries.

  “Katherine,” he said at last. “Why are you here? Were you not given the letter?”