‘Are you living in William’s London leasehold?’
Caroline picked up a brush from Mary’s dressing table, ‘Sit down in front of the mirror. Let me brush your hair like old times.’ Then, running the brush through Mary’s long hair, while the girl sighed with contentment, she explained how she now lived. ‘Like here, the military has taken over the townhouse. Mistress Cramer has gone to stay with her niece. Since the war began, London has become a cold and lonely city, no music, no festivals, no familiar friends. At least we have coal again – thank God for that – but now it is a very dirty city.’
‘I am so glad Arthur found you. At least you have him. Do you ever run into John?’
‘We don’t exactly travel in the same lanes. But he comes into the print shop sometimes. Most times he just sends his servant. She and Arthur have become friends. She is a very good worker.’
Mary’s blue eyes looked at Caroline from the mirror, a tiny smile working the corners of her mouth as she said, ‘Patience Trapford? And Arthur. Well. I would have never put them together.’
‘They are not exactly together. Not yet anyway. Did you know that your husband has moved to a bigger house on the Barbican?’
‘How could I know? I have not heard from him in months,’ she said bitterly.
Caroline put down the brush. ‘There. Shining and beautiful as ever.’
‘Thank you. That felt good. I miss you so much. It feels almost like old times, having you here like this. Though I know it is not.’
‘There is something I need to tell you, Mary.’
Mary swiveled around and faced her, the contented expression on her face fading. ‘Spare yourself, old friend. I know about John’s latest masterpiece. Father told me. He found a copy of it at the coaching inn in Oxford. It was signed J.M. but I know it was his. Same wordy style.’
‘You read it then?’
‘Enough to get the gist of what it said. How awful it is to be bound to a wife who is too much of a dullard to be a suitable companion for a man of his great intellect. I didn’t finish it. For a man who prides himself on his great intellectual capacity, he doesn’t seem to understand the concept of the beauty of brevity.’
Caroline laughed with relief. Mary didn’t seem that hurt, just angry. The war – or her unfortunate marriage – had changed her from a girl into a woman.
‘He is stupid, selfish, vain, and blinded by arrogance.’
‘At least he didn’t name you or sign his own name even.’
‘Small comfort that. If a country bumpkin like me can pick out his overwrought style, I am sure his peers will have no trouble.’
‘I have a confession to make, Mary. I hope you will not be angry with me. But I read it too, and I was so angry and so afraid that he would try to divorce you on the grounds of abandonment, that I told him a bit of a lie. I told him that you asked me to inquire about his welfare and to assure him that once it was safe to travel you would return to him.’
Mary’s laugh startled her. ‘Did he believe you?’
‘I think he did.’
‘How did he take it?’
‘Somewhat soberly, I think. Trust me, Mary. I only wanted to give you a choice by stripping him of the right to a legal divorce, should he choose to charge abandonment. I am not saying you should go back to him. Just that it need not be his choice alone.’
‘When have you not looked out for me, Caroline? Now you have sinned by lying for me.’
Caroline smiled. ‘Each day I grow fonder of Martin Luther’s “grace.”’
‘You have less need of forgiveness than anybody I know. And you may have done me a great service. If the King loses this war, I may have to go back. Just to have a roof over my head. If that roof is still available to me, I will have you to thank. But for now, it is indeed unsafe to travel. Tell Mr Milton, when next you see him, that you have spoken with his wife and she bids him be patient a little while longer.’ She paused long enough to take a breath. ‘You said he has bought a bigger house – well, he very well may need it if he has to succor his in-laws too.’
Caroline laughed out loud. ‘Squire Richard Powell, beholden to a Puritan for his bed and board, and the Puritan Milton beholden by his own elevated estimation of himself and his strict code of honor to shelter his Royalist in-laws – the gods of irony are working overtime.’ Then she said soberly, ‘But it is not fair to you, Mary. Not fair that you should suffer all the burden of it when you had no choice.’
‘There is enough burden in this situation to go around, believe me. And who gets fairness these days, Caroline? Anyway, I might as well be slave there as slave here,’ she said, wiping at her stained skirt. ‘But I am not going back yet. If the tide should turn and Parliament loses, then who knows? It may be the highly esteemed Mr John Milton who comes to the Powells’ looking for shelter?’
‘Would you take him in?’
‘I would have no choice. I gave my oath. He is my husband, and I will not seek to divorce him because he is short, pompous, and not a merry companion.’
That night, as she lay beside Mary in the old bedroom they once shared, where the painted unicorns were showing wear and the twining vines specked with peeling, Mary whispered, ‘Do you still miss William terribly, Caroline?’
‘Terribly,’ she said. ‘Sometimes, not as often now, I think I see his shadow or hear a footfall and think William is coming, and then I realize he is not. William is not there. Will never be there. That piercing thought, the final truth of it, follows me everywhere, a silent ambush: a word, a slant of light, an object; something familiar or unfamiliar. When it strikes, seemingly out of nowhere, it almost stops my heart. Being alone is a hard thing, Mary.’
In the darkness, Mary reached for her hand and squeezed it. Grateful, Caroline squeezed hers back.
A DECLARATION OF INTENT
[E]very man should say to every man, ‘I authorize and give my right of governing myself to this man, or to this assembly of men, on this condition that thou give up thy right to him, and authorize all his actions in like manner.’
Thomas Hobbes, Chapter XVII in Leviathan, or the Matter, Form, and Power of a Commonwealth, Ecclesiastical and Civil (1651)
By late November the traffic on the Thames was already confined to a narrow middle channel and threatened by a growing scrim of ice clinging to the banks. Icicles hung like daggers from sagging roofs, and the few street vendors who ventured out huddled over braziers. But they had coal aplenty. London choked on soot. At the sign of the crossed swords in Fleet Street, the press creaked out sheets of Milton’s Areopagitica as well as legitimate broadsheets and the recipe book that Ben was to present to the Stationers’ Guild. He sheepishly mentioned to Caroline his plans to ask Patience to marry him as soon as his license came, saying, since she was his only living relative, he hoped she would approve.
Caroline had brought back some of the furnishings from Forest Hill, telling him he could have whatever he wanted. Fighting back tears, she said she would like only to keep William’s desk and some of the linen. James offered to store the two cupboards, a table, two chairs, and the two beds upstairs.
‘Set up your bed down here, Ben,’ he said. ‘We can fit it into the corner. It’ll be better than the cot you are sleeping on now.’
‘You take Father’s bed, Caroline,’ Ben said. ‘You can put it in the townhouse.’
‘I don’t have room for it,’ she answered, ‘certainly not now and maybe never. If you and Patience can’t use it, you can sell it later.’
The short days and waning light were an obstacle to productivity. Caroline enjoyed being at the print shop, but it was exhausting too and the return to her cold attic room was every day’s dread.
‘You could stay here. But then you’d have to marry me,’ James said, grinning. It was not the first time he’d hinted at that possibility. She just scowled and ignored him, choosing to pretend he was joking.
He had first broached the subject several weeks after their trip to salvage what she could from the fa
rmhouse. As soon as they had entered the lane leading to the farm, she regretted her decision to come. Where the lovely old copse of oak trees had bordered the sheep pasture, now there were only stumps – part of the squire’s new woodcutting enterprise. The house was still standing, but little else. The fields and pastures had been burned to stubble. The barn door sagged on one rusted hinge, and the roof was gone. Its skeletal structure brought tears to her eyes.
The door to the house creaked open at the slightest push. The front room was empty and smelled of dead ashes and neglect and decay. A charred log remained in the fireplace and an abandoned fry-pan spilled gristle and grease globules onto a cold hearth. Acanthus leaves carved in the chestnut mantle bore burn marks.
‘Some vagabond or soldier trying to stay warm, I suppose,’ James had said.
‘This was once such a beautiful room. For the first time in my life I felt like I had something that belonged to me. William was generous that way. He said what was his, was mine too.’
When she started to cry, he had taken her in his arms and held her like one would hold a child, whispering, ‘It will be all right, Caroline. You can restore it. Ben and I will help you.’
Striving for self-control, she pulled away from him. ‘I will never return to this place. William only leased it from Richard Powell. But the furnishings – there might be something here of value still,’ she said. ‘It looks like the lock to the back rooms has not been broken. I think …’ She went to the hearth and removed a brick from the inglenook. Held up a key.
The bedroom had not been violated. Squire had shoved some of the best pieces from the parlor into this room. She had gone straight to her closet and emptied it, pausing to press her cheek against a hooded cloak of soft wool. ‘I need this. You are tired of seeing William’s old greatcoat, I am sure,’ she said, attempting a laugh to chase away the desolation. She dug through some of the larger chests. ‘I will never wear some of these things again, much too fine for a servant, but maybe I can use some of the fabric for something more practical … These I can definitely use,’ she said, pulling out a pair of soft leather boots.
‘A pair of fine shoes can always be counted on to lift the spirits of a woman. This place doesn’t really look that bad. You should see the ancient pile I abandoned. But I do know something of what you feel. At least you and Ben have this …’ he said, pointing to the furniture they had tagged for saving. ‘My brother mortgaged everything. He would have sold the title if he could have found a buyer.’
‘I am sorry. Forgive me for whining.’
‘You are not whining. I did not mean that. I was only pointing out how much we have in common.’
And he had continued pointing it out at every opportunity since they returned.
‘Ben is still working on his cookbook, so I will walk you back tonight,’ he said, pulling on his coat.
‘You do not—’
‘Don’t even say it,’ he said. His hand lingered a little long on her shoulder as he helped her with her cloak. He lowered his voice to an almost whisper, ‘I would wade blood chin-deep for you, Caroline. What is a little bit of cold and damp against the pleasure of the company of a woman I adore?’
‘How can I resist such a gallant offer?’ She reached for the soft wool cloak she had brought back from Forest Hill, fastened its fur-trimmed hood under her chin and said, as lightly as she could, ‘I shall try to avoid any blood puddles, lest your sincerity be put to the test.’
In Paris the approaching winter was also entering with uncharacteristic bluster. But in the Palace at Le Louvre, Anne of Austria and the French courtiers took care to see that Henrietta had every comfort. In the company of Jeffrey Hudson and Henry Jermyn, young Henry Percy and the other Paris exiles, Henrietta did well enough in the daytime. But the long winter nights she spent either huddling over her letters to Charles, or praying for her children in the dim glow of the palace chapel.
A trusted messenger who spoke good English made the channel crossing regularly. Her letters to her husband were frequent. His dispatches to her less so. But he was busy with the war in the West. His letters were filled with news of the skirmishes between his forces and Lord Essex’s. In his first dispatch he had praised his ‘dear heart,’ for giving him another beautiful daughter, whom he had seen christened Henrietta Anne after her mother and her godmother. After that he had not mentioned the child once, except to reassure Henrietta in her persistent inquiries: all reports were that the babe was safe and thriving under the careful stewardship of Anne Villiers.
He also wrote – with bitter complaint – about his nephew Charles Louis, the oldest of his sister’s remaining sons who, after his older brother’s death, had inherited the title Elektor of the Palatinate. Unlike his brothers, Rupert and Maurice, he did not come to his Stuart uncle’s aid, but was even now in London cozying up to Parliament. Of course he was, Henrietta thought angrily. Of all Elizabeth Stuart’s sons, he had always shown himself to be the most cunning. Perhaps his sympathy with Parliament was born of pique that his uncle had refused to support the Protestant wars in Europe, but more probably it was out of ambition. Parliament might just see Charles Stuart’s Protestant nephew as the perfect candidate to lead a war of succession against an unpopular monarch.
As usual, Henrietta did her best to advise her husband. It was frustrating being so far away, having to rely on Charles’s assessments, which – truth to tell – were not always as keen-eyed as they should be. He was becoming increasingly vague when she asked him for details of the war. Better intelligence was to be gleaned from her friends in London and Oxford.
She corresponded frequently with Lucy Hay. In between anecdotes about the children, Lucy wrote that Archbishop Laud was being tried for treason. He was mounting his own defense ‘with spirit,’ as was reported in the news books. Henrietta had never really liked the pompous little man, but at least he was not a Puritan or a Presbyterian rebel. He had been loyal to Charles in his role as Defender of the Faith. But she had always known Laud was a man torn between two masters. The Archbishop rejected the Holy Father, but with his devotional love of liturgy he tiptoed around the Holy Mass. It was hard to pity him, though she had to admit he and she had somewhat in common. He had sighed with near longing when he first saw her beautiful chapel. She determined to pray for his soul when Parliament took his head, as they surely would. It was almost certain King Pym had promised it to the Presbyterians before he went to his own well-deserved hell.
While the musicians played softly on their lutes and Jeffrey made rude jokes, she spent the short gray days with her ladies, hovered over their needlework in the candlelit hall: a soft blanket to be sent to baby Minette in Bedford, a fur-trimmed hood and embroidered mantle for Princess Elizabeth, a stuffed bear with onyx eyes and a sassy red tongue, sporting a belted toy sword to match Henry’s own. She was almost finished. Her gifts should reach Syon House by Boxing Day. Finishing a blue French knot, she lifted her sewing needle to her lips and bit the thread with her teeth. ‘Jeffrey, I have not seen Jermyn in three days. He is not ill, I hope.’
The dwarf did a little half-twirl, came to a full stop and stood on one leg like a confused sea bird. ‘Lord Jermyn?’ Supporting his chin with the heel of his hand, he peered into the middle distance, as though she had asked a deep and philosophical question. He snapped his fingers and exclaimed, ‘Methinks I saw him yesterday, delivering a turd wrapped in scarlet ribbon to Lord Flatrock.’
Henrietta stopped her smile with a twitch of her lips. Poor Jermyn. His piles were often the butt of the court’s jokes. She must not encourage this disrespectful jest. But the fool needed no encouragement. Mouth pursed into a thoughtful pout, he pondered aloud, ‘Or was Lord Jermyn splashing a pipe of liquid gold on a faerie hill in the rose garden? The latter, I think. The faerie queen was not amused. She evoked in him a mighty wind.’
Her ladies looked to her and stifled their own laughter. She managed a scowl. ‘I think, Lord Minimus, that the French court is a bad influence on you. Your wit
grows coarser every day.’
He splayed his hands, palms out, and pulled a disappointed face. ‘But, I was trying to answer with discretion and panache.’
‘You did not answer at all. Have you seen him?’
‘His lordship said for me to tell you that he will attend you on the morrow.’
‘Scoundrel! And you waited to be asked. Watch yourself, fool, or I will send you to the front to try your humorless jokes with the big strong soldiers there.’
Whereupon the dwarf began to rend his clothes and plead with such exaggerated tomfoolery that the ladies’ laughter spilled out as they pleaded indulgence for him. Finally, giving in, she laughed too.
Le Louvre, the palace that her mother had hated, was not home. But, surrounded by her friends and a court already in preparation for the season of Advent, it was not a bad place to spend the winter.
If she couldn’t be with Charles and the children.
And Jermyn was coming on the morrow.
‘It is freezing in here and there is no light in the house or on the stairs. Even the chimney is stone cold. What happened to the officers who worked downstairs?’ James asked when he entered her room.
The whole house was in darkness. In the main parlor, lit only by the moonlight, James had retrieved a tallow dip from the mantle and sparked it by poking a few near dead embers in the fireplace to light their way up the narrow stairs.
‘The officers have stopped coming every day,’ she said, retrieving the key hanging around her neck. With a practiced hand she opened the door, took the taper from his hand and groped for the lantern hanging on the chimney wall. ‘I usually leave an oil lamp burning on the table inside the door. But I have fumbled my way through this room so many times I can find my way in the dark.’
The flame leaped up, painting a ghostly circle on the open roof beams of the attic, releasing the smell of burning wick and oil. ‘When the officers don’t come, the fire downstairs doesn’t get lit. The heat from this chimney wall has been enough, but when there is no fire downstairs …’ She shrugged away the rest of her answer. ‘But I have blankets.’
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