by Linda Porter
Queen Catherine’s contribution to British life went beyond the merely financial. She brought with her an entirely new sensibility in matters of interior design and furnishings. Her rooms were hung with colourful cotton calicoes from India, the same bright designs and materials used for clothes and bedcovers. Furnishings of cane, intricately detailed lacquer cabinets and exquisite porcelain adorned the queen’s apartments. Entranced, many courtiers hastened to copy her. In 1673, John Evelyn visited Lady Mary Tuke, one of Catherine’s dressers, at Goring House, her London home, where ‘she carried us up into her new dressing room . . . where was a bed, two glasses, silver jars and vases, cabinets and other so rich furniture, as I had seldom seen the like.’12 Evelyn did not have much taste for what he clearly regarded as pretty fripperies but Lady Tuke was very happy to show off her style.
Catherine also used her patronage to support the arts and music in ways that were distinctly her own. Her Catholic chapel (first at St James’s Palace and, after 1671, at Somerset House) was at the heart of her interest in music and its importance has only been fully appreciated since the beginning of the twenty-first century, when detailed research revealed its composition and influence. ‘Her chapel employed a diverse team of musicians, many of whom were skilled virtuosos trained in leading European musical institutions.’13 Shortly before Catherine’s arrival, extensive work was undertaken on the organ loft at St James’s, part of a wider refurbishment of the original chapel designed in 1623 by Inigo Jones. The ability of the queen to worship freely was a key part of her marriage contract and the work being undertaken at St James’s was intended to meet this obligation, gratifying Catholics such as Henry Howard, duke of Norfolk and the half dozen English Benedictines appointed by Charles II as part of the clerical bureaucracy of the queen’s chapel. Charles was eternally grateful to Father Huddlestone, an English Benedictine who had helped him escape after the Battle of Worcester in 1651.
Less impressed were the Protestant commentators who heard the first performances of Catherine of Braganza’s Portuguese musicians. Portuguese music was very different from what was then admired in Britain and it attracted almost as much derogatory comment as the hairstyles and fashions of the queen and her ladies. The ubiquitous Evelyn and Pepys, of course, had their say. At Hampton Court on 9 June, Evelyn heard a Portuguese ensemble of ‘pipes, harps and very ill voices.’ The following month, the Venetian ambassador noted that, while the queen did not like the English and French musicians of Charles II’s court, the king and his courtiers were disgusted by the ‘discordant’ concerts of the Portuguese. This pronounced difference of opinion seems to have been caused by English unfamiliarity with the prevalence of woodwinds in Portuguese music and distaste at the use of castratos – or ‘eunuchs’, as they referred to them – as singers. Pepys wrote his own critique of Portuguese music in September 1662 and it was as unflattering as Evelyn’s: ‘I heard their music too, which may be good, but it did not appear so to me, neither as to their manner of singing, nor was it good concord to my ears, whatever the matter was.’14
Dismayed by this early setback, a number of Catherine’s musicians may have left with some of her other servants later in 1662, but the majority remained. By 1666, they were becoming more accepted and their prestige was enhanced by the arrival of a group of Italian musicians who were employed by the queen. The Albrici brothers had previously sung for Queen Christina of Sweden and had entertained in the German courts. Pepys approved of the new sound coming from the queen’s chapel, saying in 1668 that its music ‘was beyond anything of ours’. Catherine had succeeded in making an effective amalgam of Portuguese and other European musical styles and brought round doubters in Britain. It was all the more gratifying that there was no French involvement.
In art as well as music, the queen soon moved to establish her own identity and to patronize Italian and Catholic Flemish painters. She was painted by Peter Lely in the 1660s but never tried to compete with his adoration of Lady Castlemaine. Instead, she chose a different image in her portraits by Jacob Huysmans and Benedetto Gennari. She would not be the nearly blasphemous Madonna of the countess of Castlemaine but she could be much more than the virginal princess in Portuguese dress, painted by Dirk Stoop. Lely’s portrait, which hangs today in the Throne Room of the Palace of Holyroodhouse in Edinburgh, shows Catherine in the style of the Windsor Beauties, complete with the hairstyle of the period and the pearl necklace that adorned the throats of so many of the ladies in Lely’s portraits. The queen wears a pretty dress of silver satin embroidered with pearls but the painting lacks the sensuality of Lely’s portraits of Barbara. Huysmans decided to present the queen in a very different way, as a shepherdess (Barbara had also been painted in this fashion) but one whose very low neckline and stunning satin costume belied the pastoral context. Huysmans’ Catherine is mature and confident, her expression a far cry from the slightly hesitant smile on the lips of Lely’s queen. There was also opportunity to play on her name by painting her as St Catherine, a saint who had converted pagans to the true religion and was oppressed by a Roman emperor. The painting was engraved so that it could be circulated more widely, thus ensuring that its image and underlying message of a pure and devoted woman could reach a large audience. The contrast with the king’s mistresses and the implied reproach to his treatment of his wife was hard to avoid.15
Catherine’s determination and success in establishing her own image seems to have pleased Charles II. Though he never loved Catherine, he did develop a gentle affection towards her and she may, as their marriage continued, have had more political influence than is sometimes thought, even if only indirectly. It is probable that she knew about the Secret Treaty of Dover; her private secretary, Sir Richard Bellings, was one of only four men who signed the secret document. This, especially after Minette’s death, gave her something of a hold over her husband that went beyond Charles II’s appreciation of her cultural interests. Talk of divorce never entirely went away in the 1670s and Catherine was horrified to be accused of being involved in plans to murder the king during the furore of the Popish Plot in 1678, but Charles stood by her. She could never, though, escape the humiliation of having to endure her husband’s constant infidelities, the knowledge that most of these women, from actresses to aristocrats, had produced children. Her greatest failure was constantly brought home to her and, after 1671, she had to compete with another maîtresse-en-titre, this time a French one, Louise de Kéroualle. Small wonder that she still occasionally lost control of herself and wept with frustration in public. He may have liked the style of Catherine’s apartments but Charles seldom used them for socializing. Politicians and ambassadors wanting access to him did not see the queen as a conduit for their ambitions.
Accepting what she could not change with as much dignity as possible, Catherine was at last in control of her own bedchamber and staff appointments. She abolished the post of lady of the bedchamber, giving the role, unofficially, to the countess of Penalva, one of the few Portuguese ladies who remained with her, and reducing the salary of the countess of Castlemaine’s aunt, Lady Suffolk, who was retained as lady of the robes. A mother of the maids was appointed to supervise her maids of honour, who were usually the aspiring young daughters of courtiers, and protect them from the king’s wandering eye. Catherine also now exercised control of her council, appointing Lord Cornbury, Clarendon’s son, as her lord chamberlain in 1667, to replace the earl of Chesterfield. Wherever she could, she sought to balance the influence of the king’s mistresses. On a personal level, she got on well with the duke of York and his first wife, Anne Hyde, and also with his second duchess, the Italian, Mary of Modena, who was a further counterbalance to French influence.
In 1685, as her husband lay dying, Catherine visited him twice but was so appalled at his suffering that she could not remain. It was Father Huddlestone, then one of the priests of her household, who gave Charles II the last rites as a Catholic. Catherine would no doubt have seen this as her greatest triumph.
; Part Four
‘His Coy Mistress’
FRANCES TERESA STUART
1647–1702
CHAPTER NINE
La Belle Stuart
‘She is the rising sun’
The French ambassador, Honoré de Courtin, on
Frances Teresa Stuart, July 1665
SHORTLY AFTER NEW Year in 1662, Minette wrote in glowing terms to her brother about a young lady who was about to leave her service to join the English court. ‘I would not lose this opportunity of writing to you by Mrs Stuart, who is taking over her daughter to become one of your wife’s future maids. If this were not the reason for her departure, I should be very unwilling to let her go, for she is the prettiest girl in the world and one of the best fitted of any I know to adorn your Court.’1 It is not clear how this appointment, before any official announcement of the queen’s household was made public, had come about. One might also question Minette’s motives for dangling in front of Charles II such a delicious prospect, since she knew his proclivities very well. Perhaps she hoped that a fresh-faced innocent would act as an antidote to the all-powerful countess of Castlemaine and actually improve the prospects of a successful marriage for her brother. If so, she was to be disappointed, but not for the reasons that she might have anticipated. The young lady in question would, for a number of years, be pursued, pawed and adored by a hopelessly infatuated Charles II without ever becoming his mistress. This in itself was quite a feat. But she could not dislodge Barbara Palmer and was a source of further anxiety for the queen, even if she did not intend to be.
Frances Teresa Stuart was known to contemporaries as ‘La Belle Stuart’. She was the daughter of a royalist Scot, Walter Stuart, third son of Lord Blantyre, and his wife, born Sophia Carew, a member of a West Country family, who was a widow with one son when she remarried at the end of the first Civil War. It has been said that Walter Stuart was a doctor but there is no evidence to support this. He had, however, been a member of Parliament for Monmouth. As a younger son of minor aristocrats, Walter Stuart had few prospects after the execution of Charles I and he and his wife, like many other royalists, decided to leave for France, where they joined the throng of disgruntled exiles at Henrietta Maria’s court. As a very distant and loyal relation to the ruling Stuarts, Walter had perhaps a better claim than some to the queen dowager’s support and his wife was undoubtedly an asset. Renowned for her style and accomplishments as a dancer, Sophia Stuart became one of Henrietta Maria’s ladies-in-waiting and adapted well to life in France, though the French thought her cunning as well as courtly.
Her three children with Walter Stuart were brought up as Catholics in France. The family was originally Protestant and Sophia’s son by her first marriage, George Nevill, remained resolute in that religion in England. Clearly the Stuarts felt that their family’s prospects would be improved by observing their hosts’ Catholicism. Nothing is known of Frances’ education but she was thoroughly prepared for a role in which she would hope to be noticed in the service of royalty. The favour of Henrietta Maria, coupled with warm approval from Minette, who had known Frances since they were children, was more than sufficient to secure her a place with Catherine of Braganza. Louis XIV may have begun to ogle Frances himself but her mother did not see her future in France. Instead, she manoeuvred to have her sent from one libertine court to another. The novelty of this young Anglo-Scottish girl with her French polish was instantly felt in London.
Frances was to be one of the queen’s maids of honour, a role intended for younger girls of good family, who were part of the consort’s entourage but did not have the more onerous duties of a lady-in-waiting. A maid of honour would expect to learn more about the courtier’s craft while hoping for a good marriage and advancement to one of the principal roles in the royal household in due course. In return, they were required to be decorative, socially adroit and to behave with discretion and propriety. It was something like a finishing school for well-connected girls but it was not without its dangers. The maids, though generally chaperoned by an older lady, were the objects of keen attention from male courtiers, not to mention the king and the duke of York. The loss of their virtue, if they succumbed to the charms of a persuasive and influential man, could have a devastating effect on their future. It was this exciting world, full of rivalries and pitfalls, that the fifteen-year-old Frances Teresa Stuart was now about to negotiate. In her case, its passage would be made all the more difficult by the inescapable fact that her chief admirer was the monarch himself.
What was it about Frances that attracted such attention and made her one of the most admired ladies at court? The answer is not immediately obvious from her portraits, at least not to a twenty-first-century eye. She is certainly pleasant enough in appearance, with light auburn hair and a good figure, but she lacks the commanding presence of Barbara Palmer. Most of the accounts of her personality come from the so-called memoirs of the count of Gramont, an unreliable source but one whose judgement on Frances has been widely accepted. He describes a rather silly, shallow young woman, who passed her time playing childish games like blind man’s buff and building castles of playing cards with the duke of Buckingham. She was easily amused and laughed at everything. ‘It is hardly possible,’ Gramont concluded, ‘for a woman to have less wit or more beauty.’ So why on earth should this vacuous and potentially irritating teenager have become the darling of the corrupt Restoration court? Her only biographer, writing in the inimitable and now wholly politically incorrect style of upper-class male authors of the 1920s, describes, in a passage worthy of Barbara Cartland, why Charles II found this giggly girl so irresistible:
While Frances Stuart’s gaiety and charm made her enchanting to the king as a companion, his senses were held in thrall by her peerless beauty. Golden-brown hair in which red lights glinted here and there crowned the small head poised on a neck that had the smoothness and clarity of alabaster. She possessed a bewitching nose, eyes like harebells and an exquisite mouth, the upper lip rivalling the curve of the bow which Lely has placed in her hand in his most famous portrait of her, the lower rather full, a little petulant and perilously fascinating.2
It is true that Charles II had tastes in women that might charitably be described as catholic and that intellect was not necessarily high on his list of priorities but, as time would show, there was more to Frances Teresa Stuart than this fulsome description suggests. She was soon established as a celebrity in an age which, much like ours, was constantly on the lookout for instant sparkle. Novelty may have been a powerful weapon in Frances’ armoury, since she had come from a far more luxurious court, where style was everything. Anne Boleyn had a similar impact, on her return from France, in Henry VIII’s reign. Both women would find that being the object of royal desire had dangerous consequences, though in Frances’ case there was a much happier outcome. Whether her initial flirtation with the king was a result of inexperience and perhaps some nervousness on her part, rather than deliberate calculation, is impossible to say, but Frances was not an innocent child. She soon understood the power of her attractions. Even though her upbringing had largely been within the confines of Henrietta Maria’s exiled court, the queen mother’s household was not impervious to rumours of scandals and the more colourful behaviour of Louis XIV and his brother, Minette’s husband. Her mother, though careful to keep in the background, was also an influence and undoubtedly had ambitions for Frances and her other daughter, Sophia.
Contemporaries certainly shared the king’s approval of this new arrival. Pepys could scarcely contain his admiration: ‘But above all, Mrs Steward . . . with her hat cocked and a red plume, with her sweet eye, little Roman nose, and excellent Taille [figure], is now the greatest beauty I ever saw, I think, in my life; and if ever woman can, doth exceed my Lady Castlemaine; at least in this dress. Nor do I wonder if the king changes, which I verily believe is the reason of his coldness to my Lady Castlemaine.’3 In these musings, Pepys had touched on an interesting point – namely, the relationship
between Barbara and Frances and how it would develop.
Acutely aware of the king’s wandering eye, Barbara had swiftly discounted Catherine of Braganza as a rival. She was much less confident about the pretty, disarming Frances Teresa Stuart. Her strategy was to make an ostentatious display of killing the newcomer with kindness. She would become this little girl’s best friend, making sure they spent a great deal of time together. And if Frances liked games, Barbara could play them as well as anyone. One evening after dinner she arranged a mock marriage between the two of them, with Frances as the blushing bride and Barbara as her husband. This unseemly diversion soon became the talk of the court: ‘Lady Castlemaine a few days since, had Mrs Stuart to an entertainment and at night they began a frolique that they two must be married – and married they were, with ring and all other ceremonies of church-service, and ribands and a sack posset in bed, and flinging the stocking.’ This was all very silly but it had a more troubling aspect: ‘but in the close it is said that my Lady Castlemaine, who was the bridegroom, rose, and the king came and took her place with pretty Mrs Stuart.’4
