After weeks spent at the French Court, petted and admired, she could have no doubt of her own beauty, but now she wondered passingly if Catherine of Braganza possessed some subtle allure that she lacked. Perhaps it was a disadvantage to be so tall; she had such long legs. The Queen, for all her low stature, had a swimming grace…
But Catherine was twenty-two to Frances’ less than sixteen. “By the time I am as old as that, I too shall have what they call presence,” she thought — and was suddenly glad that she was still so young that when she was tempted to frolic and to initiate childish games such as hide-and-go-seek and blind-man’s-buff, for which games the long, dark, winding corridors at Hampton Court were ideal, her elders smiled upon her tolerantly.
Her letter being finished and ready for the courier, it was a waste of time to stay indoors on such a fine afternoon; evidently the King had thought so, for of all things he had taken the Queen out on the river, not in a State barge with a retinue of attendants, but in a small skiff which he could row himself.
Less than an hour ago Frances had watched from her window as they had set off, and she had laughed aloud to see Charles throw off his coat and hat and wig and roll up his shirt-sleeves. The Queen had looked startled, almost aghast, and then she too had laughed as heartily as the secretly watching Frances.
On this occasion it had been easy for the royal pair to escape their attendants, for in the heat of the early afternoon most of them had been drowsing; and to Frances, Charles had seemed once more the informal, long-legged, shabby young man who had visited his mother and sister at the Château de Colombes.
Those days now seemed very far away; the old sheltered life had a dream-like quality. Strangely enough, Frances had had a greater sense of protection at the exotic French Court, for Le Roi Soleil, before he had transferred his attentions to Henrietta-Anne, had been so open in his admiration that others had been kept at a distance. Here, at the English Court, unless she took refuge under the Queen’s wing, there was none to shield her, and the Queen, though kind, was, in Frances’ opinion, dull company — and, in any case, too absorbed in her twin passion for religion and her new husband.
It was not easy to frolic harmlessly with English admirers, as Frances had already discovered. They expected devotion to be rewarded by more than the gay comradeship which was all she had to offer.
None of the other maids-of-honour being particularly congenial, Frances was sometimes lonely for the companionship of one of her own sex, and especially lonely for the Princess Henrietta, who, it was clear, would rarely be allowed to leave France, for the irrational jealousy of an unloving husband was centred more on her two brothers than on anyone else.
Leaving the cool shelter of the Palace, Frances was at first dazzled by the brilliance of the sunshine. But beyond the velvet green lawns there were shady walks and enclosed gardens and immense lime trees casting their shadows in the park.
Frances wandered away from those who were loitering outside the Palace. She had not yet fully explored the grounds which fascinated her — to use a word she had adopted since her arrival in England. By now she knew much of the history of the old Palace, and it was strange to think that Anne Boleyn and Jane Seymour and poor little Kathryn Howard must have walked through the winding paths as she was walking now. It was all so calm and mellow, and the red-brick Palace itself, with its numerous slender turrets, their cupolas surmounted by gilded weather-vanes, had the beauty of a fantastic fairy-tale castle.
Oh, how fortunate Charles was to own this romantic place, as well as so many other desirable homes. Did they mean as much to him as they would have meant to her, his obscure young cousin?
“When I marry,” mused Frances, “it must be to a nobleman who has an estate which is as beautiful as this, or one which can be made equally beautiful. Yes, it would be fun to improve and rebuild according to one’s own taste, which also of course would be his. He must be handsome and kind and rich — very rich, for, like Cardinal Wolsey who made this Palace, I shall be content only with perfection.”
Unconsciously she spoke the last words aloud, and then was startled out of her fantasy by a trill of laughter. Abruptly she came to a standstill — and found herself face to face with a young woman as tall as herself and beautifully gowned, who was approaching her from the opposite direction. An amused, melodious voice said: “Another moment, and you would have walked into me regardless, as though into a ghost, which as yet I am not, though but a short while since I would not have been surprised to find myself one.”
Frances, immediately conscious of an exquisite sophistication, apologized in a confused voice. She had been in a dream, she explained.
“And why not? Hampton Court, especially in such weather as this, is a place for dreaming. You are new to Court, are you not? There will be many new faces — to me. I have been ill these last weeks and am only now about again.”
Candidly the two took stock of one another; and although Frances did not realise it, the envy was not all on her side. She thought she had never before seen anyone who approached such loveliness. Glorious red-gold hair, perfect features, wide grey eyes shaded with black lashes, a dazzling smile and such grace…
Perhaps the ravishing creature was a shade too thin, but that was to be expected as she had been ill. What a delicious gown of pale-green taffeta with silver bows — a green which seemed to change its hue with every movement; and such pearls roped about the slender neck! How poor in comparison was the string which Frances’ mother had given her and which had been her father’s wedding gift to his bride.
The older woman, for her part, saw one who was scarce more than a dewily-fresh child. Untroubled blue eyes gazed at her with flattering admiration; fair curls tumbled on a white forehead, soft lips were slightly apart showing pearly teeth.
“Tell me your name,” she coaxed. “Are you one of the new Queen’s ladies? I had heard they were all dark, stiff creatures like ravens, and clad in the most extraordinary clothes strung on wires.”
Frances burst out laughing.
“Farthingales. It is impossible to get within yards of them, but those ladies have nearly all been sent back to Portugal, and now the Queen wears beautiful, flowing gowns of the King’s choice. I am Frances Stuart from France, and the Queen Dowager commended me to His Majesty to be one of Queen Catherine’s maids-of-honour.”
“How rash of her, if this marriage is to be a success. You would, with your looks, turn the head of even an enamoured bridegroom. Luiza of Braganza showed more wisdom when she surrounded her daughter with black crows, unlikely to distract any man’s attention.”
“The King, though he welcomed me kindly when I first arrived has not given me another glance,” Frances said truthfully. “Everyone says that he is completely captivated by the Queen.”
“Do they indeed?” The other’s laugh was not altogether pleasant. “It would be a rare thing to see Charles wholly captivated by any one woman.”
Caught by the underlying venom of this, Frances’ eyes widened questioningly, and the silent interrogation was answered.
“I am Barbara Palmer.” The information was imparted nonchalantly and yet with pride.
“Bar…Lady Castlemaine?” The name broke from Frances’ lips in a gasp. She stared with unabashed curiosity.
“No other. So even you, a newcomer, have heard of me?”
“Who has not? Your ladyship’s beauty is world-famous.”
“A tactful remark. But then if you are a Stuart and the King’s kinswoman you would naturally have a turn for a compliment.”
“It is no more than a distant cousinship,” Francis said modestly.
“The King has many such,” Barbara remarked with an indifference which was more weary than snubbing. “Shall we,” she added, “find a seat somewhere near? I still tire easily, I find. It is but two weeks since…”
She broke off, but Frances could have ended the sentence for her. There had been much Court gossip over the fact that Lady Castlemaine had but recently given bir
th to a second son of whom the King was reputed to be the father. Probably the Queen was the only person at Hampton Court who was unaware of it.
Frances’ state of mind was chaotic — excitement mingled with apprehension. She had scarcely thought it possible that she would be brought in contact with the notorious Lady Castlemaine, whose name must not be mentioned in the Queen’s hearing; yet here she was, with Barbara’s hand on her arm, guiding her towards a stone seat set under the shade of a lime tree.
They sat, and Barbara smiled at her.
“What a sober face! You are still young enough to be shocked,” she said.
This to Frances was a shaming truth, but she hastily repudiated it.
“I am not — but I had not expected…it was a surprise.”
“You are more than half-inclined to gather up your skirts and to run away from me,” Barbara teased.
Frances shook her head, momentarily bereft of speech. Would her mother, had she been present, have insisted that she did just that. Glancing sideways at the exquisite face, it was difficult to believe the stories she had heard about Lady Castlemaine’s effrontery and rapaciousness, her tantrums and corruption, which included faithlessness to her royal lover.
“I know full well much of what is said of me,” Barbara sighed. “I pray no such calumnies may be attached to you, though, being beautiful as I once was, it is scarcely likely that you will escape them.”
“As you once were!” echoed Frances. “But your ladyship is surprisingly lovely. When we — when I saw you, not knowing who you were, I was struck breathless with admiration.
“Generous one!” A slender hand pressed Frances’ hand. “But child-birth dims beauty, for a time at least, though it is true I am still young — of much the same age as the Queen. Tell me about her. I have not yet seen her. She is of no great beauty, so I have heard.”
Of very little beauty, Frances thought, when compared with Barbara Castlemaine, but she loyally said that the Queen had great sweetness of expression, much grace and glorious eyes.
“She is also virtuous,” Barbara commented with another deeper sigh, “and no doubt, in common with all such women, she will have no forgiveness for me, even though I repent to the very depths of my soul, as does Charles himself.”
Here Barbara broke off, gazing down at her clasped white hands, gleaming with rings. Frances was for once tongue-tied, and after a moment or two Barbara went on:
“It would be as useless as absurd to deny that we have been lovers, but that is all over — from the time when this royal marriage was arranged. Now if Charles wishes to honour me, it is solely because I am the mother of his children and have sacrificed much for him. Were he to give me a position about the Queen’s person, would it not be proof that our loving is of the past? How could he, who honours her and cares for her, insult her by wishing her to receive me, unless I were humble and contrite?”
To one more worldly-wise than Frances this pathos would scarce have rung true, but she was already more than half convinced that Barbara must have been misjudged, at least to a great extent. In loving the King she might have done wrong, but to Frances, young though she was, this particular wrongdoing did not seem heinous. How could it, when for years, even in her sheltered life under Queen Henrietta-Maria’s domination, she had heard much of such relationships, and it was discretion not virtue that won praise.
A girl, mused Frances, would have to be possessed of a very strong character to refuse the King, newly restored to his kingdom — that is, if she loved him, and he loved her. Neither Barbara nor the King had wronged the Queen, since all that had passed between them was before the King had even seen her. There was Barbara’s husband, however…
Even as the thought of the unknown Roger Palmer crossed Frances’ mind, Barbara said sadly: “My husband cares little for me. He is a kindly man, a scholar, but women mean nothing to him. The marriage was arranged between his parents and mine when I was but seventeen. Poor Roger, it is not his fault, but he…well, there are some men who cannot love, and that, Frances Stuart, is God’s truth. It was a relief to Roger when I ceased to try to make myself desirable to him, and fell in love with Charles, who is so utterly different. That left Roger free to follow his own pursuit. He has left me these several weeks and has gone to France, where he purposes to immure himself in a monastery.”
“But — but that would be terrible for him,” Frances uttered.
“Well — yes, and once it would have sorely grieved me, but before Charles ever entered my life I had given up the effort to understand Roger. And now,” concluded the incomparable Lady Castlemaine with an infinitely sweet though wistful smile, “I have told you, Frances, what I have told to nobody else in the world.”
Deeply flattered though she was, Frances, with the common sense that rarely wholly failed her and had disconcerted more than one of her admirers, found this incomprehensible. There must be many others more suitable to receive the confidences of the King’s maitresse en titre.
“Why have you?” she asked bluntly.
If Barbara was taken aback by this artless question, she concealed it.
“I confess I have two reasons,” she said. “One is — and the most important — that immediately I saw you I felt immensely drawn to you. The other is that you are so pretty and young that I am sure the Queen is fond of you, and it occurred to me that if you heard my story with truth from my own lips you might speak kindly of me to her.”
“Oh, I see!” Barbara’s second reason struck Frances as plausible, but she shook her head regretfully. “The Queen is very gracious to me, and I do see much of her, for she often singles me out to talk to her, because I speak Spanish fairly well. I was never any good at my books, but I picked up other languages quite easily. As for the Queen, it is almost her mother tongue, and as yet her English is halting. But that doesn’t mean she pays any attention to what I say; she often tells me I am no more than a child, and I doubt she would think anything I said of importance.”
“She might,” Barbara insisted. “For myself, I would pay attention to a child’s opinion of a grown person. Children are clear-sighted, honest, not easily to be deceived.”
“As I am nearly sixteen, I have passed that phase of childhood,” stated a none-too-pleased maid-of-honour.
Barbara laughed. “Indeed you have, and you must be creating a sensation at Court. How many, I wonder, have already laid their ardent hearts at your feet.”
“None that I know of,” and irrepressibly Frances giggled. “I vow I wouldn’t know what to do with them if they did.”
“Kick them away,” the other recommended with some venom. “Don’t be beguiled by them, deceived into thinking they will suffer. Play with men, Frances, have sport with them, but never, never give them their own selfish way.”
It might have been a half-concealed, vicious anger which shook the dulcet voice. It might have been pain, the sense of having given far too much, of having suffered through a husband’s neglect and coldness. Frances, by now under the spell of experienced charm, chose to attribute all the best motives for such sudden vehemence, and she said impulsively: “If I have any chance at all, I will say how kind you are as well as beautiful, and how you wish that the past…well, that it had been different.”
At this Barbara again squeezed her hand and gazed at her gratefully.
“We must be friends — close, dear friends…true to one another, for you are immensely understanding though you are still so young. Do not be afraid that I shall sadden you. One’s heart may be sore, but one must do one’s best to be gay. It would be too selfish otherwise.”
“Oh yes, indeed,” Frances agreed, finding this sentiment altogether acceptable.
“Although I have taken a house here, it is dull at Hampton Court,” Barbara went on, “but it is impossible to return to London while there are still so many cases of the plague. When we do — well, you and I, my dear, will make remarkable foils for one another. Your fair hair and my red; your blue eyes and my dark ones. I ad
ore giving parties and you will be a wonderful new attraction. I vow you shall be my most admired and honoured guest.”
This dazzling conversation might have continued for longer, had not Barbara glanced up to see two gentlemen of the Court approaching, one of whom was the handsome Duke of Buckingham, who had already taken notice of Frances, singling her out for a smile or a compliment; a fact which had caused some heart-fluttering, since Buckingham was not only handsome but gay and brilliant, and as great a favourite with Charles as his father had been with the two monarchs before him.
Little wonder that he was, thought Frances, for he had fought valiantly in the Battle of Worcester and had shared the King’s exile as his boon companion.
Now Buckingham raised his fine brows in surprise at seeing these two young women together and in intimate conversation.
“The moon and the sun in company,” he exclaimed, “as does occur either at early morn or approaching dusk. And it would be impossible to say which surpasseth in beauty.”
He swept a low bow, and then took Barbara’s hand and kissed it.
“I had no idea you were already about, coz,” he said. “Is it wise?”
That such a query was not concerned solely with Barbara’s health Frances did not suspect, and Barbara answered with apparent lightness.
“I have been too long set aside as it is, and enclosed within four walls I am in danger of perishing from boredom. Now, as you see, I have discovered an antidote.”
Her warm, lovely smile flashed upon Frances, who, still young enough to be flattered because one who was seven years older treated her as an equal, smiled back at her.
Henry Jermyn, Buckingham’s companion, who was Master of the Horse to the Duke of York, fell in by Frances’ side, as they all leisurely walked towards the river.
Frances knew him better than most of the young men about the Court, for he was nephew to the Earl of St. Albans, and had visited his uncle during the years of exile in France. Jermyn was a more than ordinarily comely young man, and as he and Frances laughed and talked together, Barbara Castlemaine’s softly inviting gaze turned more than once to rest on him.
Lady on the Coin Page 6