“I have not recovered yet from my baby,” said Lucy.
“You said that after Jackie,” Anne reminded her. “Madam, you are not able to look after yourself and your children alone. I am tired of working at the Embassy. I will come and be with you again.”
“But Anne, I cannot afford to pay you proper wages. His Majesty is now so very poor. And he wanted me to stay in Paris. I came here against his wishes and I cannot ask him for too much.”
“I will come for half the wages that I had before,” said Anne. “Just for the pleasure of being with you and my dear Jackie.”
Betje, when she heard this, said quickly, “Do not employ her.”
“I have already said I will have her back,” said Lucy. “It seems that I cannot manage alone until I am stronger and she must be truly fond of me to come for so little money. And I have always felt that we must love each other.”
Betje clucked her tongue in annoyance but she said no more. All this talk about love. She was a loving woman herself but she kept her affections well leashed to her reason, like good dogs, but Lucy’s were all over the place like spilled wine. And what good did it do? Lord Taaffe had done her no good, though Mary was a nice little thing, and Anne would do her no good. But it was useless to argue with sentimentalists of Lucy’s type. They spilled themselves out and there it was.
But Anne was no sentimentalist and she was fond of money, as Betje had discovered in Paris when she had seen the girl beguiling the customers and pocketing the tips, so what was she after? Betje worried for a while and then became absorbed in nursing her father and comforting her mother. She was not by nature a worrier and if she worried it was about one thing at a time.
Lucy soon found that Mary was a touchstone for friends. Because of Mary she found that acquaintances she had made in the days when she was received by the Queen of Bohemia were cold to her now. Herman Vingboon could take Mary with a twinkle in the eye but his wife could not. Lucy drew in upon herself, absorbed in her children and her friendship with Anne, and in the letters she received from Dr. Cosin and Lord Taaffe.
Dr. Cosin wrote short formal letters in exquisite handwriting, enquiring into the progress of her prayers and studies, requesting that she keep her life blameless and her courage high. Each letter ended with the request that she would always endeavour to keep him informed of her welfare and tell him if he could ever be of service to her.
Lord Taaffe’s letters accompanied the sum of money he sent regularly for Mary. Though it was small it never failed to come, but she often wondered what sacrifices he had to make to send it at all. Only once did he send her a sum on the King’s behalf, with apologies from Charles that it could be no more, but it was all he could lay his hands on at present. This was the only time that Lord Taaffe, to excuse the King, mentioned their poverty in a letter. It was increasing. The winter was very cold and the King’s clothes were practically in rags.
Then he went on to tell her the gossip of Paris. Mademoiselle had made it finally clear that she was not going to share her wealth with a pauper king, and His Majesty was divided between joy at the loss of the woman and acute anxiety at the loss of the money. The Marquis of Ormonde, Lord Lieutenant of Ireland and Lord Taaffe’s idol, was now sharing cheap lodgings with the Chancellor. It was a sight, he said, to see the two friends walking the streets of Paris together, the short red-faced Chancellor hobbling along with the help of a stick and the tall fair Marquis striding with ease; their feet were the only means of conveyance that they could afford but the feet of the Marquis were in better case. The King kept wonderfully cheerful, he was developing a most excellent wit and hiring himself out to be entertaining at parties.
Lord Taaffe had thought this last bit of information would make Lucy laugh, but actually it brought on a fit of weeping. How low could one fall for want of money? What might she herself do or become if the time came when she would not get enough food for the children?
It was soon after this that the rumours about her began to circulate. She herself was not aware of them at first, even though she found herself increasingly shunned. Then she had a letter from Aunt Margaret that stunned her. “Niece,” wrote Aunt Margaret, “your uncle and I are increasingly distressed by the stories of your reckless behaviour which our neighbours are not slow to impart to us. We know how great are the difficulties of your position but we do implore you to be more circumspect in your manner of life. You will know to what we refer. Your uncle thinks it advisable that you and your children should return to Rotterdam and make your home with us.”
Lucy replied that she did not know to what her aunt referred, that as far as she knew her quiet life with her maid and her children had been all that her uncle and aunt would approve of. She thanked them for the invitation but reminded them that Jackie had not been well at Rotterdam. She thought the proximity of the canal had not been good for his health and that the King would wish him to remain at The Hague. To this letter there was no reply from Aunt Margaret, but Peter sent her a generous sum of money with the request that she should not tell her aunt what he had done, and with loving humiliation she accepted it for the children’s sake.
She tried hard not to be miserable about the rumours, since they were not true, but one day she was too unhappy to keep her trouble to herself and she spoke of it to her maid. Anne was sympathetic and after a little thought she said to Lucy, “Madam, since you have lost your old friends turn to those who do smile upon you. It may be that they need your friendship.” That seemed to Lucy a right and loving suggestion and she followed it. She befriended several poor souls who were down on their luck and she learned much from their courage and patience; and Mr. Prodgers, to whom Anne wrote regularly, learned much about the sort of company now frequented by Mrs. Barlow.
His motive in endeavouring to destroy Lucy’s reputation was simple. He wished to serve the King, the only person in the world whom he truly loved. He had always suspected that Lucy might prove an embarrassment to His Majesty and now she had done more than embarrass him, she had separated him from his son. Charles, having proved in Scotland that Prodgers was a loyal servant, had talked to him openly of his longing for Jackie. To Taaffe he could not speak of it since by mutual consent the subject of Lucy and her children was not mentioned between them; and speak of it to someone he must, it pained him so.
“Your Majesty should simply take possession of your son,” Prodgers had said. “The problem is perfectly simple. You are the King.”
“As he is not my legal son I have not the right,” Charles had replied. “If Mrs. Barlow were a woman of dissolute character, if she were doing my son definite harm, then rights or no rights it would be my duty to remove him. But such is not the case. She is a good mother and I cannot break her heart by taking her son away from her.”
After that conversation Prodgers’s course was perfectly clear to him. Anne’s course was equally clear, since in spreading damaging lies about Lucy, and repeating the results of them to Prodgers, she was acting under his instructions; and he rewarded her well, being himself well paid as a Royalist agent. But her motives were less simple than his. She was nearer to loving Prodgers than any man she had ever met. A clever man himself he respected her powers. He could have made a very good secret agent out of her, he considered, for she had coolness, quick wits and courage. He thought that he might yet do so and he took the trouble to attach her to him and to let her see the genuine admiration he felt for her and the reliance he placed upon her. This was something new to her and she responded from some deep place of unsatisfied longing within herself that nothing had touched as yet except her affection for Lucy.
And it was here that she became more than confused. She was pulled in two by her bondage to Prodgers and her love-hate for Lucy. Service to Lucy satisfied her as service to her mother had once done but her jealousy of Lucy’s beauty and the pain of her bitterness because Lucy had had so much and she so little were eased by the harm she was doing
to her through Prodgers. And then she did not want to leave the children; in some vicarious way they seemed hers. The confusions were many but could not prevail against the possessive presence of Prodgers. He had immense power. He did not need to be physically present with Anne to be in command of her mind and will.
Quite suddenly Lucy found she wanted to leave The Hague. She had had a sad letter from her mother telling her that Mrs. Gwinne had died and that Elizabeth herself was feeling exceedingly unwell. The latter piece of news did not disturb her too much, since her mother was always feeling unwell, but she had many bouts of crying over her grandmother’s death. Then came a letter from Dr. Cosin and it too contained bad news. The King had had a serious illness. He was now recovered but it had left him in great depression. A treaty had been signed between France and the English Commonwealth. He was banished from France and was going to Germany.
“I begged that I might accompany His Majesty, as my Lord Taaffe and his other friends are of course doing,” wrote Dr. Cosin, “but he wishes me to remain in Paris to care for the exiles here and I must obey. And now I come to the matter that concerns yourself. My child, are there persons at The Hague who do not wish you well? I ask because rumours of compromising behaviour on your part have reached the community here; I regret to say that they have reached the King. I do not believe them, and I have told His Majesty that I do not, but it may be that your open and affectionate nature has led you to some indiscretions which have been misconstrued, and I beg you to be on your guard and to remember the conversation you and I had together during our drive from Saint-Germain to Paris. My child, your situation is extremely difficult and causes me much anxiety. I am always your friend and father in God and I wish you and your children would return to Paris and remain under my care.”
Just for a moment Lucy wished it too, believing she could almost face Paris again to be under his wise guidance. But the Queen Dowager was there and the Queen would try to take Jackie from her and so she could not go. But she cried bitterly with longing for him, and with sorrow for the King in illness and banishment. But why should she stay on in this place that once had been so kind to her but now was not kind? She would always love The Hague but now it seemed not to love her. The only real friends she had now were Betje and her mother, but Mijnheer Flinck had died and Betje had married again. She still had their love but she did not see them often. And there was another reason for leaving The Hague. Jackie was growing a big boy, beautiful, adorable but naughty, and perhaps because of the rumours he had no suitable friends. But where could she find them? In her dilemma she turned to Anne for advice.
Anne said at once, “Brussels.”
“Why Brussels?” asked the astonished Lucy.
“When we sailed in the Sea-Horse from Holland to France with my Lord Wilmot I used to talk with one of the seamen, the one who had charge of the captain’s cabin and waited upon you there. As a boy he had been in the service of Captain Axel’s family in their house at Brussels. He talked much of the city and its beauties and I have a fancy to see the place. You know, madam, how I love to travel and see other countries and other cities. I have a great fancy to see Brussels.”
Anne’s eyes were shining and Lucy said, “We will go there.” And then she remembered that Captain Axel had told her she would always be welcome at his home. Madame Axel would perhaps be kind to her and help her find lodgings and friends for Jackie. With her usual travail with the pen she wrote to her and received a kind but formal letter from Madame saying that she would be pleased to welcome Mrs. Barlow and her children, and help them find suitable lodgings.
Charles had impressed upon Lucy that he must always know where his son was and she must never move from one place to another without writing to tell him. And so again she took up her pen and spent half a night in literary composition and anguish—the anguish because once more she must ask him for money. When her journey was accomplished there would be little left from Peter Gosfright’s gift.
2
At first life in Brussels was almost happy. Madame Axel and her husband, who in the first place had agreed to have Lucy only to honour their son’s promise, found her different from the girl they had expected. Knowing that Jackie was the King’s child they took it for granted that Mary was too and they felt honoured by the presence of two royal children under their roof. They found Lucy lodgings not far from the English Embassy, and gave her an introduction to an English family living at Brussels whose children were of a suitable age to play with Jackie.
Lucy was with them one day when they were visited by Sir Henry de Vic, the elderly bachelor ambassador, and he took a great fancy to pretty Mrs. Barlow and invited her to a party at the Embassy. She went, and very soon there was between them that amused and bantering tenderness that can spring up between an ageing man and a young woman; a battledore and shuttlecock game of love played across the gulf of years that divided them. With Lucy there was something deeper because she was secretly so afraid and exhausted, and Sir Henry with his dignity and assured position gave her a feeling of refuge and strength. And he reminded her of Lord Carbery. They were not the same type of man for Sir Henry was neither a scholar nor a great aristocrat, but a red-faced jolly elderly gentleman who owed his position to a gift for diplomatic kindness, but the two were alike in their tenderness for female youth, and their love of children.
Sir Henry was enchanted by Jackie and Mary. He sat them on his knees and put sugar plums in their mouths, opened expectantly like the yawning caverns of young birds, and he took them round his garden holding a hand of each and discoursing to them in the language he kept for his horses and dogs and for young children, a strange affair of enquiring clicks and explanatory grunts, endearments and soft neighings of amusement that they seemed to understand perfectly. Lucy confided in Sir Henry more than she realized. She even told him about the rumours that had made her so miserable and driven her from The Hague to Brussels. He told her that any pretty young woman who had been a mistress of a king was sure to be bothered by the pestiferous things, pinched her cheek and told her to regard them no more than she would regard gnats on a summer’s day.
But what she had to regard were her debts to the Brussels’ trades people. But she was not worrying too much. The King would have received her appeal for help by now and as he was soon to be with his sister he would be able to borrow from her if he was out of pocket himself; the Princess would help them for Jackie’s sake for she also had a little son. And she was cheered too by a happy thing that happened to her just now; a small thing but somehow so delightful that she was reminded of what Dr. Cosin had said about the perpetual return of spring. It was too small a thing to be called a spring but it was warm and happy.
She received a letter early one morning from Sir Henry asking her to dine with him that day to meet a friend of his, a young Englishman whose home was at Antwerp. He travelled a certain amount for his business and was in Brussels for a few days. His name was Harvey. She remembered the name and though it brought no image to her mind she was thrilling with pleasure as Anne helped her to dress. The dresses that Charles had given her were shabby now but the blue one she had worn when he took her to visit the Queen of Bohemia still matched her eyes, and she wore the Queen’s jewels and her ruby ring.
Sir Henry had sent his own coach to rattle her over the cobbles to the party but she hardly noticed the jolting. Indeed it seemed to her to travel smoothly as a boat upon a river borne by the tide, and the Brussels streets washed by a shower of rain shone as silverly as flowing water. There were patches of blue sky between the clouds and she thought suddenly of London and the Thames, and felt a sharp pang of longing for England.
There were a mere half-dozen guests at Sir Henry’s party, all known to her except a tall man with a pleasant plain freckled face who bowed before her with a twinkle in his eye. Sir Henry was an accomplished host. “Mr. Harvey,” he told Lucy in tones just loud enough to be heard by his other guests, “is the nephew
of a man whose name is well known in the cultured and scientific circles of Europe, Dr. William Harvey, physician to his late majesty King Charles the First of England.”
There was a murmur of pleasure from the guests; they had never heard of Dr. Harvey but Sir Henry’s kindly glance had included them in the cultured and scientific circles and they went happily to dinner. No one minds shining in the reflected glory of a distinguished relative and Mr. Harvey was happy too. Lucy would have been equally happy only the roar of lions was echoing in the caverns of her memory and it scared her a little. She was seated beside Mr. Harvey at dinner and her eyes rested upon his freckles with a puzzled expression.
“Smuts,” he said. “Smuts, a Welsh boy. Do your memories stir?”
They not only stirred, they came suddenly flooding over her like the silver water upon which a short while ago the coach had seemed to float. She was a small girl again, taken by Robert Sidney to visit the lions at the Tower of London, and when she had gone home again she had sat before the fire and told her grandmother and Nan-Nan about her day. About this day she could not tell them. Or could she? If tonight she talked to them in her bed would they hear? With her usual directness she startled poor Smuts by suddenly asking, “Do the dead know about the good things that happen to us?”
He was acutely embarrassed and swallowed a fish-bone. When he had succeeded in washing it down with a drink of wine he said, “I cannot tell you, madam. I am a business man and not a necromancer. But you had remembered that day and think it good that we should meet again?”
“I have remembered it all,” she said, “and I think it good we should meet again, but not good that you should call me madam. I am Lucy who looked at lions with you. Smuts, before you came to live at Antwerp, did you ever see my brother Justus?”
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