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

by Holloway Scott, Susan

  He tightened his fingers into mine, as if that gesture alone were enough to undo the knot I felt tightening about my slender hopes. He’d chosen me this time, but how many more times after that would he be able to withstand the arguments of so many against me? What was my lone voice against all the clamors of Rome?

  “Then promise me this, sir, if you can,” I said, my words a-tremble. “If the time does come that you must send me from you, then all I ask is that you tell me yourself and not by some cold messenger. Promise me that, and I will be content.”

  “You have my word, Katherine,” he said at once, “because by my heart, that day will never come.”

  But as he kissed me to seal his promise, I was not nearly as sure.

  TWO DAYS LATER, I MET LORD ROCHESTER by his arrangement, and together we set out to walk in St. James’s Park. The sky was dull as pewter, the snow from the last fall trudged and gray, and the afternoon was cold enough that there were few others in the park besides us, exactly as we had hoped. There were far too many hostile ears in Whitehall these days to suit either of us, and the few desultory crows among the leafless trees were all the company we desired.

  “Sunderland is showing his usual colors, my lady,” Lord Rochester said, addressing me by my new, cursed title. With his black hat pulled low against the cold, he looked even more doleful than usual. “He has loudly declared himself to be a supporter of Her Majesty, and claims to fear so greatly for the king’s morals that he has painted you as a manipulative, corrupting adulteress.”

  “Pox on Sunderland,” I said warmly, the imprecation a frosty cloud before my face. I wore a black velvet vizard beneath the hood of my cloak, not only to protect my cheeks from the cold, but to keep my face from unwittingly betraying any fresh secrets to His Lordship. For now he was my most loyal ally at Court, but in truth I trusted him no more than anyone else. “He never dared call Lady Portsmouth an adulteress while he was so busily kissing her skirts.”

  “He would if he’d thought he’d profit by it,” Lord Rochester said acidly. “You should know that he arranged for Father Giffard to speak with His Majesty today. They were closeted together for the better part of two hours.”

  “Likely the poor king never spoke more than a dozen words in all that time together,” I said. Father Giffard was James’s vicar-general, a learned but famously tedious Catholic prelate. “Giffard could preach a fish to tears.”

  “The king did seem weary when he emerged, my lady,” Lord Rochester agreed, as close as he’d ever come to making a jest. “But while I’m sure His Majesty was soundly berated for his attachment to you, he did not yield to Giffard’s pleas. Afterward, His Majesty seemed quite pleased with himself for standing firm.”

  “Hah, then a pox on Father Giffard, too.” There were times when James’s stubbornness and his reluctance to follow the will of others could be a wondrous thing indeed. “He and Sunderland can go take the mercury cures together.”

  “We are not clear yet, my lady,” Lord Rochester warned. “Tomorrow Sunderland is joining Tyrconnel, Dover, and Arundel in an urgent private audience with the king. They will speak more frankly than Father Giffard, and more forcefully, too.”

  I frowned beneath my black velvet. The arguments of those Catholic lords, all of whom James trusted, would be more difficult for him to withstand. Earlier Lord Rochester had told me that each of these men had been promised rich prizes and posts through Sunderland’s patronage if their pleas succeeded, and thus would be willing to say anything their knavish leader dictated. To be sure, only Sunderland of the four had any cleverness, but the other three could be counted on to bluster and rage, which would carry further with James than well-thought words.

  “I also expect Father Petre to redouble his efforts,” Lord Rochester continued. “He has been so much with the queen that I am sure he is planning another attack.”

  “I do not doubt it, my lord,” I said, not hiding bitterness. “Do you know Father Petre has told the king that all Papist countries laugh at him for preferring an old and ugly Protestant bitch for a mistress over his young, beautiful Catholic wife? Fah, I am but a single year older than the queen!”

  Embarrassed, Lord Rochester stared steadfastly before him. “I have also heard that Petre has suggested that the comfort of Holy Communion be withheld from the king until he agrees to their demands, but I doubt even a Jesuit would dare that.”

  “Then a pox on Father Petre, too,” I said, though without the same enthusiasm that I’d showed earlier. Father Petre was a far different opponent from Father Giffard. Father Petre possessed all the cunning and ambition of a well-educated Jesuit, and not only did James respect him, but he was also so daunted by Petre’s skill with an argument that he was, I think, a little afraid of him, too. After a smattering of Latin and a few Aves and Paters, Father Petre would need only to hint at withholding Communion, and James would capitulate. I knew James and his piety too well to believe otherwise.

  A small gust of chill wind swirled at my skirts, and restlessly I twisted my gloved hands deep inside my fur muff, where His Lordship would not see this proof of my agitation. When I had been a child, Father had taken me with him in the summer months to his Southfleet estates in Kent, and from there we often went to walk along the sea. I’d shed my shoes and stockings like any common child to paddle in the water, shrieking with delight as I danced beneath the warm and glittering sun. But what fascinated me most was to stand as still as I could at the water’s edge. I’d let the waves first rush over my toes and then swiftly retreat again into the sea, the water drawing the sand from beneath my feet with such force that I’d have to step backward, or fall.

  That was how I felt now. No matter how I might try to hold fast to James, too many other forces were knocking me from my feet exactly as those long-ago waves once had done. Everything was sliding and rushing from under me, and I could sense how near I was to falling, falling, and no one could save me but myself.

  “Pray do not be offended by what Lord Petre might say, my lady,” Lord Rochester said, mistaking my silence. “He acts on orders from Rome. We must all pray to a righteous God to favor our cause and smile on England, and for Him to grant us victory over popery.”

  “Amen, my lord,” I murmured, and said no more aloud. But did he truly believe I wouldn’t notice that he sought no prayers for me?

  THE NEXT DAY JAMES MET WITH the three Catholic lords and Lord Sunderland in great privacy, in Chiffinch’s lodgings adjacent to the royal bedchamber. It was said they met for a considerable time, and that often their words became so heated that their voices could be heard through the doors. Yet when at last the gentlemen left the royal chambers, their faces were red with frustration, while the king—the king sent for me.

  “Would that you’d heard them yourself, Katherine,” James said, his spirits high and his expression still animated from his conversation. He poured himself a glass of the sweetened lemon water he preferred in place of wine, drinking it down rapidly in almost a single draught. “They tried to jump on poor Father Giffard’s back and ride him to the same market. It was clear as the morning that Sunderland had spoken to the good father and relayed his arguments to the others, for they each repeated them in turn as if they’d been taught the same catechism.”

  “What exactly did they say, sir?” I asked, standing before him. As always, he’d given me leave to sit, but I was too agitated to do so. The best I could do was to stand before a chair, my hands clasped tightly before me. “What was this argument they repeated?”

  He shrugged, refilling his glass. “I tell you, my dear, it was nothing new. They claim I give the enemies of the True Church an advantage by keeping you, a Protestant lady as my mistress, and they wish me to set a mark on those men who encourage you into my bed. Meaning, of course, the Hydes. I’m no simpleton, despite how Sunderland judges me.”

  “No one encouraged me into your bed, sir, except for you.” I’d never been shy of being James’s mistress, but I hated hearing myself stirred into this
ominous Jesuit-flavored stew by Lord Sunderland, and I hated, too, to be considered no more than one of Lord Rochester’s pawns. “Faith, how they will say anything!”

  “They will, Katherine, they will,” he continued. “But I turned their gambit back on them. I told them that I’d listened to Father Giffard because he was a very religious man, one who was by his function obliged to take notice and disapprove of me keeping a mistress. Then I said that this was the first time I’d taken them for divines, too, with a right to concern themselves with the state of my soul. Hah, they’d no answer to that!”

  “Nor had they any right to one, sir, after hounding you like that.” I felt hounded, too; how could I not? “Was that all?”

  “Almost.” He leaned forward eagerly. “I finally told them that they acted not from any religious concern, but from their own private piques and unhappiness, and I bid them for the future not to concern themselves with matters that did in no way relate to them. Wasn’t that fine of me, Katherine?”

  “Oh, dear sir, it was,” I declared, surprised and honored, too, that he’d so willingly played my champion against these men. “They’re wicked meddlesome knaves, every one of them, and I thank you with all my heart for defending me against them.”

  “You have been true and faithful to me, Katherine,” he said. “How could I not do the same for you?”

  He smiled then, a shy, crooked smile that belonged to the younger brother who’d always been second in cleverness. On impulse I rushed to his chair, intending to kiss him as a pledge that we would survive this together. Laughing, he pulled me onto his lap and into his arms, and I thought of how there was no other place I’d rather be. Perhaps he was stronger than I’d believed him; perhaps his love would be enough to save me. Perhaps—

  “Forgive me, Your Majesty,” Father Petre murmured, suddenly appearing like a demon beside us. “But Her Majesty and Lord Sunderland said I was to come to you here directly.”

  At once I slid from James’s lap, collecting myself as best I could before this loathsome priest’s gaze. I shouldn’t have been startled to see him intrude like this; of course Sunderland would refuse to be defeated, and send his strongest ally. He stood before us now as if he’d every right to be there, studying me with the cold disgust and contempt that came so naturally to him.

  But to my sorrow, James did not chastise Father Petre for intruding unbidden, or send him away as he deserved. Instead he rose at once and bowed his head to receive the priest’s benediction. It sickened and saddened me to see the King of England bow his head before anyone with such unbecoming haste, especially before the likes of Father Petre.

  “Excuse me for a moment or two, Father,” he said, “and then I will join you directly in my own rooms.”

  “Conclude your business as you please, sir,” the priest said. “I will be waiting.”

  Before he backed from the room, he made the sign of the cross, and again James bowed in subservient respect and crossed himself in return. As James bent his head, I saw Father Petre smile, a smile of pleased mastery that should have had no place in any English palace.

  And in that instant, I saw my days in the king’s favor were done.

  “I must go to him, Katherine,” James said at once. “I cannot make him wait.”

  “Of course you can, sir,” I exclaimed with disbelief. The confidence he’d shown to me earlier was gone; the happy pride he’d expressed after dismissing the other lords had vanished and was now replaced with a guilty obedience and preoccupation that grieved me mightily. “You are the king, sir.”

  But James only shook his head. “I must go, my dear,” he said, his thoughts clearly away from me and with the priest. “I must listen to what he says.”

  Tears filled my eyes. “Oh, sir, my own dear sir, do not let yourself be so ensnared by this man, I beg you! Pray recall who you are, and who you rule, and not let yourself be used in this way!”

  “My dear Katherine.” He smiled at me with kind indulgence, but the love he’d shown me earlier was gone. “If you care for me as you claim, then you will know that I must go to Father Petre, as the bearer of God’s will for me.”

  “No, sir, please, do not twist my love against me that way,” I cried with growing despair, seizing his hand to draw him back. “That evil Jesuit raven wishes me ill and will tell you whatever he must to bring my downfall from your affections. But heed me, please, my dearest sir and master, listen when I tell you that this man and his followers will bring you nothing but sore troubles and distress. They will ruin you, sir, and destroy you and your throne.”

  He smiled still as if I hadn’t spoken at all, and raised my hand to his lips. “I must go, Katherine. Surely you understand.”

  I understood; oh, yes, I understood everything. My tears fell freely now, from my eyes and from my heart.

  “Dear sir, my own dear sir!” I sobbed. “If I must be driven away and sacrificed like this, then please let it be because you bowed to your wife’s wishes, and not for the jealous hatred of these damned cunning priests who would steal your kingdom from you!”

  “Katherine, please,” he said gently as he kissed me farewell. “Know that I love you, dearest, and let that be enough.”

  But it wouldn’t be enough, and never would, and as he left me, I sank to my knees and wept; not for myself, but for James and for England.

  AGAINST ALL REASON AND HOPE, I prayed that James would keep his promise to me and tell me to my face that he was done with me. That he didn’t only proved to me that his decision was not his own, and though the knowledge didn’t ease my sorrow, it did, in a way, make the parting easier to bear. I’d lost him not to disaffection, but to Rome, and how could I ever compete with that?

  Three days later, Lord Middleton came to me on behalf of His Majesty and offered me the use of a royal yacht to carry me to exile in Holland. I thanked him, but refused, and told him that even if I were to be a Protestant martyr, I wouldn’t be deported against my will. Next I was offered France, then Flanders. Those, too, I refused. My old acquaintance the Duchess Mazarin had once warned me never to go into any country on the Continent with Catholic convents, or risk being shut away among the nuns. I’d only to look at my own mother’s fate to see the wisdom in her advice.

  Finally, through Lord Middleton, I agreed to go to Ireland, with the excuse of visiting my estates there. I resolved to think of this as my choice to leave the Court, and not the banishment that it so clearly was.

  I made my arrangements for my journey and closed up my grand house. I would leave servants behind, for I intended one day to return. But likewise I knew I could be away for many months, perhaps even years. Traveling such a distance was no small undertaking, requiring two coaches for my daughter and the servants who would accompany us, and wagons besides to carry our baggage.

  By the middle of February, I was finally ready. We would leave London long before dawn, traveling by moonlight to take advantage of the empty roads. Despite the hour, Father came to bid me farewell, grumbling to have had to rise so early but there at my side nonetheless. Together we watched from the steps as the last trunks were lashed into place, with Father adding several well-meant suggestions as to the route and roads that doubtless my driver could have done without.

  “You are certain your coachman has prepared the wheels properly?” Father asked. “With so much ice on the roads at this season, you don’t wish to shatter a spoke.”

  “Everything is as it should be, Father,” I reassured him. “I’ve no wish to tumble into a ditch, either.”

  “No, no.” He was squinting a bit as he looked at me, as if striving to make certain he’d remember my face, or perhaps to keep from shedding a sentimental tear at our parting. “It’s better for you to leave this way, you know. Take yourself away to meet new company where they don’t know you. Perhaps even some decent gentleman who’ll wed you.”

  “Oh, Father,” I said, trying not to cry myself. “You always do wish me wed.”

  “I cannot help it, Kattypillar,�
�� he said wryly. “But you’re well clear of Whitehall and the king.”

  “It is better this way,” I said sadly. “Not for him, but for me.”

  “You’re the only one who concerns me,” Father said firmly. “I fear this reign will not end happily, and I’m glad you won’t be tangled in the wreckage. Ahh, here’s our Lady Katherine.”

  Grumpy with sleep, my daughter appeared with her governess to say her farewells, and soon was bundled into the carriage. I embraced my father one last time, and as we parted, a footman in royal livery came trotting to the carriage.

  “My lady,” he said breathlessly, bowing before me. “His Majesty sends his compliments, and asks your indulgence.”

  He stepped to one side and gestured with his arm. Another carriage stood at the end of the street, waiting. Though the carriage was plain, from the guards around it, I knew that James himself must be within.

  “Will you go, Katherine?” Father asked softly.

  For a long moment I hesitated between my past and my future. At last I looked back to the waiting footman and I smiled.

  “Please thank His Majesty for his compliments,” I said, “but pray tell him that he is too late, and regretfully I have gone.”

  I climbed into my coach and nodded to the footman. The driver cracked his whip and the horses stepped forward, pulling hard at their traces as the wheels began to turn. From the window, I waved to my father, and I did not look back to the other carriage.

  Not once.

  Author’s Note

  There are a good many royal mistresses scattered throughout the history of the English monarchy, but surely Katherine Sedley, Countess of Dorchester (1657-1717) is unique among them. She was neither beautiful nor voluptuous, and while remaining portraits of her don’t show her to be as unattractive as her contemporaries claimed her to be, she definitely didn’t fit the standard for beauty in Restoration England. Nor did she behave as a lady of her rank should; she spoke her mind, swore freely, and delighted in clever, sarcastic wordplay.