The Child From the Sea

by Elizabeth Goudge

  This fashionable throng was peaceable and kindly enough at the moment. Apart from the English exiles it consisted of French nobility who had come to pay their respects to the Queen Dowager of England and the young King. At present it was as well to keep on good terms with them for it was too early yet to know which way the wind would blow. The King might regain his throne or he might not. When it became apparent that he was unlikely to do so then there would be no further point in being agreeable. Meanwhile he and his brother were attractive young men, and the perfumed French ladies and their fantastically elegant husbands circled round the two tall brothers like high-stepping obsequious peacocks about two royal stags, and the high voices almost drowned the lovely sound the musicians made playing on the terrace outside the open windows. I cannot be with Charles, Lucy thought. I cannot even come near him to share his triumph.

  But presently she was having a little triumph of her own as the young men who had ridden with her and Charles in the woods and shared their picnics gathered about her; among them Buckingham, Lord Wilmot, Robert Sidney and Lord Taaffe.

  The latter stood grimly planted at the edge of the group. He disliked social occasions, but he liked Lucy, and vouchsafed her the suspicion of a wink. He was a tall red-headed Irishman with a lean weathered face that looked as though it had been exposed to wind and rain from the cradle. When he smiled it folded into creases of tolerant amusement that were more expressive of his kindness and goodwill than his speech, for his manners were brusque and he had a hot temper. He looked well on horseback but off his horse he hardly knew what to do with his ungainly arms and legs. Most women found him unattractive but he gave Lucy a sense of security, and because he was there she began to feel happy in the midst of the fun and banter. Almost it seemed as though this was going to turn into a rainbow day after all.

  But not for long. The young Duke of York, attracted by the laughter coming from the group round Lucy, managed to disengage himself from the peacocks and edge his way towards it. Lucy found him standing in front of her, smiling shyly. Rising from her curtsey she looked up at his face and saw it young and smooth, the blue-grey eyes as innocent as Jackie’s, and pity for his vulnerability, and longing for Jackie and fear for him swept over her so sharply that tears came into her eyes. “Why are you crying, Mrs. Barlow?” he asked her gently.

  The Duke of Buckingham had an uncanny talent for spotting the truth and placing a fingertip painfully upon it. “She is crying for her little bastard,” he said loudly and cruelly.

  Instantly the others laughed and rallied round her and Lord Wilmot dried a few tears that had spilled over with his lace handkerchief; yet dimly through her shame she was aware that Lord Taaffe had lost his fiery temper and that only Robert Sidney’s grip upon his wrist had prevented him from striking Buckingham. As quickly as he had lost his temper he regained it, bowed to the Duke, came to Lucy and took her to a windowseat where she could sit down and recover herself. For a few moments he stood in front of her to shield her from the curious glances of the room, yet it seemed that no one had taken much notice of the little incident and he sat down beside her, disposed of his long limbs as best he could and then was silent, rubbing his large nose with his forefinger as was his habit when he could not think what to say to a woman.

  Lucy spoke first. “Thank you, my lord,” she said gratefully.

  Her simplicity put him at his ease and to his great surprise he found himself uttering aloud his considered opinion of her. “You are a fine girl,” he said. “Pity you are Welsh. When I first set eyes on you I said to myself, ‘that colleen is Irish.’ Then I heard you speak and there was no doubt of the land that bred you. A pity. You sit a horse well but you do not hold the reins as you should.”

  “I hold them in the way my Welsh father taught me,” said Lucy indignantly. “And no Irishman shall make me change it.”

  “Madam, I do not intend to try. I know the obstinacy of the Welsh. Come now, we will not quarrel. You are a fine girl and I take you to be a good one at heart. How you came to the King is none of my business but see to it that you make it yours to be loyal to the poor fellow. If they marry him to that battle-axe Mademoiselle he will need a girl like you to give him a bit of comfort. Have you seen La Grande Mademoiselle?”

  Lucy shook her head. She was uneasy and he cursed himself for a blind fool. There was something here that he did not understand and he too was silent.

  They both looked up at the same time and saw the same thing. Charles, now also free of the peacocks, was coming slowly towards them with a woman beside him. “Is that Mademoiselle?” whispered Lucy, and all the colour drained out of her face.

  “My God no!” ejaculated Lord Taaffe as though the mere suggestion were an outrage. “That is the Duchesse de Châtillon.”

  He spoke her name with tenderness, as all men did, and Lucy remembered it from Herman Vingboon’s gossip, and her body turned cold. Charles and the Duchesse were drifting along so deep in talk that they were oblivious of the people near them. They might have been quite alone in some empty garden, or in some cool and lovely country of the mind. His hand was in the crook of her arm and though they moved so slowly they reminded Lucy instantly of herself and Charles, blown by the wind. They had moved so fast and these two drifted with slow grace, yet it was the same wind and the beauty of the Duchesse was very great. She was tall and fragile, older than Charles. They came so near that Lucy heard the whisper of her silks and saw the absorption of her delicate listening face. Charles was talking to her in easy fluent French. They drifted past, and Lucy did not know what one did with pain like this or shock like this. She longed only for night to come and to be alone.

  Lord Taaffe, for all his brusqueness, was a sensitive man and hardly knowing what he was doing he put his large red hand over Lucy’s that were clasped together in her lap. He was shocked to find them made of ice. Poor girl. He must turn her thoughts. Make her laugh. Say the first thing that came into his head.

  “Look, lass,” he said, “you see that gargoyle there? That is the Chancellor Sir Edward Hyde. The Queen Dowager hates him like hell, and he drives the King mad with his hectoring, yet Charles is fond of the old fellow and there is no doubt Hyde has a good headpiece on him.”

  Lucy responded as well as she was able and studied the Chancellor, a smile of tenderness coming slowly to her face because she knew he was one of the faithful ones. The effects of shock were passing now, she was in control of herself again and preternaturally observant. Stout and red-faced he was no beauty, yet she loved him.

  “And that old scarecrow with a beard like Elijah, talking to him, is Dr. Cosin the King’s chaplain,” continued Lord Taaffe.

  “I know,” said Lucy softly. “I came here in Lord Wilmot’s coach with him and Mr. John Evelyn.” Lord Taaffe could scarcely refrain from slapping his thigh and roaring with laughter as he wondered what Dr. Cosin and Mr. Evelyn had found to say to the lovely Mrs. Barlow. Then he suddenly got to his feet, pulling Lucy with him, for there had been a stir at the end of the room, the stir that comes when a personality of some notoriety is making an entry. “It is! Yes, by cock it is!” he ejaculated. “The battle-axe herself. There she is. Stand on this stool, Lucy. Her entrances are not to be missed.” He was laughing for he found La Grande Mademoiselle of France a comic figure.

  “I can see her now,” said Lucy soberly.

  A splendid young woman had entered and the company in the salon fell back that her way might be clear to the chair where the Queen Dowager sat enthroned. Anne-Marie-Louise de Montpensier, the greatest heiress in Europe, was the daughter of the Duc d’Orléans, younger brother of Louis the Thirteenth. Tall, fair and blue-eyed, and holding herself magnificently, she came down the way prepared for her like a ship in full sail, giving at first sight a powerful impression of brilliance and beauty. But at second sight Mademoiselle was not quite so beautiful as her many flatterers told her she was, and as she herself most firmly believed. Her tal
l figure was too robust, her nose large, her blue eyes slightly protuberant. She wore too many sparkling jewels and her hair was arranged in too many brassy ringlets. Highly emotional, voluble as a cataract and heroically generous, everything about her was on a scale so large that a throne seemed the only suitable place for her, and she herself believed she was born to be a queen.

  But whose queen? The King of Spain had been considered and the young Louis the Fourteenth was a possibility, even though he was many years her junior. At the moment his mother was trying to persuade her that the King of England was the only king for her. They were certainly a well matched couple, she considered, both so tall, he so dark and she so fair, and would look magnificent enthroned together. But would the thrones materialize? No one knew yet and like everyone else she did not wish to commit herself until she was sure. And she was not sure of Charles himself either. His mother declared he was in love with her but it was difficult to make any real contact with him, he was so gauche and awkward. She herself could speak no English and he seemed incapable of learning French. Did he really love her? Out of the corner of her eye as she came in she had seen him talking to the Duchesse de Châtillon with great fluency. What language did they talk?

  She was feeling troubled and uncertain as she made her way to the Queen and even, though no one would have guessed it, in need of encouragement. She found it in another pair of blue eyes meeting her own. They belonged to a girl in a golden dress, with a sweet and friendly face, who appeared almost stunned by admiration. Mademoiselle smiled at her condescendingly, lapped up the admiration and passed on.

  Lucy was stunned indeed but not by admiration. What she felt was compassion for poor gaudy Mademoiselle walking along in her dream of glory. Had she ever looked with seeing eyes at the exquisite woman to whom Charles was still talking? You will never have the throne of England, my dear, she thought, indeed I do not think you will ever have any throne. You will be rejected and so shall I. I am nearer to you at this moment than to any other woman in the room. She stepped down from her stool saddened with her knowledge but in a moment she was laughing and joking with Lord Taaffe. Why should he be bored because she was downhearted?

  But things mended and the day took a happier turn. She could even smile at the little comedy of Charles and Mademoiselle that she and Lord Taaffe now watched from the windowseat to which they had returned. The crowd was thinning as people went out into the garden and the machinations of the Queen Mother were clearly discernible. She despatched an emissary to Charles, outside on the terrace, and presently, though not at once, he returned to the salon alone, grimly humorous.

  As he lumbered slowly up the room his expression changed, his lower lip dropped and his face took on a hangdog expression. But a vacant smile appeared as he approached Mademoiselle and he accelerated speed with every appearance of eagerness to be with her, only to stumble over a footstool and land at her feet. He was up in a moment, apologizing and kissing her hand. They stood together exchanging their courtesies, and the talk in the salon died down to a murmur and every pair of eyes turned towards them. They were as well matched as the king and queen in a pack of cards, but like the card king and queen there was a pasteboard rigidity about them, and when they started to walk down the room together Mademoiselle no longer moved like a ship in full sail. For how can a woman sail beside a man who jerks?

  They circled the room and returning towards the Queen passed within earshot of Lucy and Lord Taaffe. Charles was stumbling over his French, his fingers clutching for the words he wanted as though they were elusive moths hovering in the air. Pursuing the word ravissante with desperation, as though he must catch it before it escaped out of the window, he beheld that same window filled with a most comforting glow; a man’s red head and a girl’s golden dress. The notion that His Majesty’s fine eyes had a hardly discernible squint had occasionally occurred to his loyal subjects. It was more than discernible now. One eye implored Lord Taaffe’s aid, while the other told Lucy she was the only girl in the world. He paused. “My Lord Taaffe,” he said severely, “my mother has been complaining that you have not yet paid your respects to her. I beg you will follow me now and repair the omission.” And he passed on with Mademoiselle.

  Lord Taaffe bowed and followed slowly and Lucy, having risen from her curtsey, stayed standing where she was in case Charles should want her. She waited for some while quite still, her head held as though she listened to music that she alone was hearing, her eyes bright with the vision of what she alone could see. It struck Charles, when he came to find her, that he had never seen her look bored and that full of vitality as she was she never minded waiting. After the waves of Mademoiselle’s ebullience her quietness was like that of a pool lying still among the rocks beside the sea, and her eyes when she looked at him brought back a memory of a blue sky he had seen with her in Pembrokeshire.

  “Waiting near a crowd of people what do you hear and see?” he asked her in a low voice.

  Her answer surprised him. “I try to hear the echo of a song they have brought from far and sing within themselves all the while they chatter nonsense, and to catch on their faces a glimpse of what they will be at their journey’s end. Sometimes on first waking I have found myself with a singing rising up all round me but before I have understood the words the thread has broken and it has vanished. And that glimpse, it comes like light on a face and then is gone, but if you have once seen it I do not think you could ever dislike the face it visited; not even if that face afterwards became evil. I think that evil is not immortal but that the light is.”

  As she spoke he remembered when he had seen that blue sky. It had arched over the Valley of Roses when they had run to each other in the innocent beginning of their love. They must get out of this hot room thick with chattering voices and stale perfumes. Not caring whether they were seen or not, his hand gripping her arm, he took her quickly to where a door opened on to the terrace, ran with her down the steps and down the sloping lawn beyond to where he knew there was a pool and a tiny fountain hidden among ilex trees.

  The Queen and Mademoiselle saw them go and Mademoiselle’s painted face was suddenly dignified by a passing shadow of wistfulness. The Queen, surprised by it, wondered if she could warm up Mademoiselle’s cold caution about that problematical throne with a little flame of jealousy.

  “My son is in love with that pretty girl,” she said.

  “As well as with the Duchesse?” asked Mademoiselle acidly.

  The Queen sighed. She perceived more and more that her eldest son was not taking after his sainted father in anything except obstinacy. Her husband had had the Scottish loyalty in matters of the heart but Charles had the Spanish passion. But it was waste of time trying to explain one’s children to oneself. They were as they were and must be endured. She sighed again and found Lord Taaffe bowing and paying his respects to her for the second time that day. Was the man mad?

  Charles and Lucy came under the shade of the trees and it was quiet, and the grass that on the lawns above had been parched by summer heat was here fresh and green because in the centre of the coolness there was a small pool in a marble basin, and the jet of a tiny fountain sprayed from the hand of a satyr no larger than a thrush.

  There was a seat by the fountain and a little girl was sitting on it. She wore a white dress with a blue sash and her hair, so pale in colour as to be almost silver, was tied up with a blue ribbon. She was delicate and small and she sat very still watching the falling water. The ceiling of dark leaves gave shade but it allowed sunbeams to come through here and there, touching the little girl’s hair, scattering coins of gold like flowers on the grass. Lucy’s heart contracted with sudden happy pain. She had felt the thorns of cruelty in the palace she had just left but here, as in the Queen of Bohemia’s high-ceilinged room, love was waiting for her.

  “It is Minette!” Charles whispered to Lucy. And he called her softly with a music in his voice that Lucy had never heard before, not eve
n when he spoke to Jackie. “Minette! Minette!” So doves coo, she thought, when the sun is warm and their hearts are at peace.

  The little girl looked round and saw them and for a moment or two her joy seemed to fill the dell. Then she jumped up and darted over the grass, quick as a dragonfly, and Charles caught her and carried her back to the seat and sat down with her on his knee, so absorbed in her that Lucy was left standing by the fountain. But delighting in the two she watched she was not conscious of forsakenness. Minette had laid her hand against her brother’s cheek and he was untying her hair-ribbon and tumbling her silvery curls with his large hand. Intuitively Lucy knew that Charles loved his little sister with the best that was in him and in her gladness she was not jealous, not for herself and not even for Jackie, for this was a love that would never become tainted for him; not even by that satyr.

  She loathed the little creature. What was he doing in this cool fresh place? He reminded her of her broken promise to Charles, and he threatened the little princess with some evil fate. Yet it was he who held up the delicate spray of water. She abandoned the puzzle and turned her eyes to Charles. Had he the strength to defend her and Minette?

  “Have you run away again, you mischief?” he was asking his sister. “Poor old Morton!”

  “Morton is with Mam,” she told him in a small piping voice. “I ran from Marie. She is fat and cannot catch me. I knew if I hid here she would not find me.”

  “Why should she not find you?” he asked her.

  “She does not like dark trees and she does not like the fountain man. He frightens her.”

  “He frightens me too,” said Lucy.

  Charles looked up and saw her standing on the other side of the fountain, her golden dress shining through the misty spray. “A leaden toy no more than a foot high,” he mocked her. “Forget it. Come here and make my sister’s acquaintance all over again. You loved her in her cradle and set her gold balls swinging. Do you remember?”