Lady on the Coin

by Margaret Campbell Barnes

  “A present…from my cousin, from Madame of France,” she said proudly. “It will make a charming gown.”

  The two other girls, somewhat older and both daughters of rich noblemen, gazed with envy. Frances was constantly receiving costly presents. On her sixteenth birthday there had been shoals of them from France — even a jewelled bangle from King Louis. She might be comparatively poor, yet in some ways she seemed to have more than either of them, they both reflected.

  Nine

  “…and when your dear mother returns from Scotland she will tell you precisely what I have told you,” said Henrietta-Maria. “This friendship with Lady Castlemaine is not comme il faut. The Queen, my daughter-in-law, has hesitated to speak of it, but she is in complete agreement with me.”

  It was the end of a long lecture to which Frances had listened with becoming docility. She sat at some little distance on a carved stool which the Queen Dowager had indicated at the beginning of the interview.

  “But I thought…Barbara is one of the Queen’s ladies. It is impossible to be cold and unpleasant to her. Besides, the Queen is not that.” Frances, unable to hide her resentment, spoke with more defiance than she would have dared to show while living at Colombes.

  “Diplomacy, my child, is sometimes essential. It should not be necessary for me to say more. You are not a child, though my daughter has said time and again that you are taking a long while to grow up. She does not forget you. She writes frequently, does she not?”

  “Oh yes, Your Majesty.” Frances was eager now. “When you sent for me, I hoped that it was to talk of her — that there might be messages, though she did send a short letter with the lovely brocade.”

  “Suzanne, who is here with me, and whom you no doubt remember, will make up the gown according to a sketch which Henrietta-Anne herself devised for you. I was entrusted with several messages, and was asked to be sure to show you this.”

  Evidently, thought Frances with relief, the lecture was over, and she had not been required to give any definite promise to break off her friendship with Barbara. And why in the world should she? It was absurd! In Paris, after Henrietta-Anne’s marriage, she had consorted with fine ladies who were every bit as lax as Barbara, and who were yet persona grata at Court. One just ignored that side of their lives, thought Frances grandly. It might or might not be true that Barbara and the King were no longer lovers. If they were, Queen Catherine countenanced it; and if she so disapproved of Frances’ intimacy with her rival, she should have had the courage to say so, not left it to her mother-in-law. Of course one understood that Catherine feared to provoke the King, but if she had spoken in confidence it would have been respected. “And I could even have told her that with Barbara it is now Monsieur Jermyn…or no…perhaps I could not…”

  “Come now, are you not interested?” the Queen Dowager asked reprovingly.

  “Your Majesty! Yes, indeed…”

  “You are still a dreamer, I see. Your dear mother so often complained of your inability to concentrate on your studies, and on many other things, for that matter…”

  Henrietta-Maria had drawn a gold, pearl-studded chain from the bosom of her gown. An elaborately chased gold locket, also encrusted with pearls, depended from it. This she snapped open. Within was a delicately tinted miniature of a little face above bare, dimpled shoulders.

  “My grandchild,” Henrietta-Maria announced with fond pride.

  “Oh, but she is an angel,” cried Frances, though wondering why a grandchild should seem a novelty to the Queen Dowager. Everyone knew that Jemmie was Charles’ son by Lucy Walters. And there were Barbara’s children as well, and Princess Mary’s son in Holland, let alone the Duke of York’s baby daughter.

  “Yes. She is a beautiful babe,” the Queen Dowager agreed. “But my poor Henrietta — she suffered greatly. For a time we were all in the most agonizing fear. And then, when she revived, she was for a while so disappointed her infant was not a son.”

  Frances shivered slightly. Her dear ’Rietta! She could not bear to think of it — had indeed frequently thrust the thought away from her.

  “I knew the day that she expected. She had told me. She was always delicate and so…so tiny. Believe me, Your Majesty, she was never out of my mind.”

  “Ah well, that is all over now, and the dear child has made a good recovery. We must all pray for a son and hope there will not be the same danger with this next one.”

  “The next one?”

  The Queen Dowager, although not given to laughter, did laugh now at the horror in Frances’ voice.

  “Mais certainement!” she said. “It will be in the late spring. Madame is overjoyed.”

  “Then — then of course I am also joyful,” Frances said correctly and with complete insincerity.

  “It is the great happenings of marriage, Frances. The birth of such sweet babes atones…” But here the Queen Dowager broke off and said: “It is with dear Mistress Stuart that I should be discussing such a matter, though you are now of marriageable age and one hopes you will soon have a good, kind husband, and a sweet expectancy for yourself.”

  “I hope it won’t be just yet.” Frances could not refrain from blurting out the words, but hastened to obliterate them by saying: “My mother has written, Your Majesty. She will soon be returning to London, would have been here ere now, only that little Walter has been ill. Besides, all our relations in Scotland are loath to part with her. She will be grieved if she does not see you before you leave England.”

  “I shall be here for some weeks. I also have heard from your mother. I will reply to her letter.” The Queen Dowager made a slight dismissing gesture to signify that the interview was at an end and Frances rose from the stool. “Do not forget what I have said, child. Queen Catherine, as you should realize, is in a most disagreeable and delicate position with regard to Lady Castlemaine. I rely on your tact. No open rupture but a gradual withdrawal from this association. It will be the easier for you, because Lady Castlemaine will be staying at her Richmond home for some time, the Queen having graciously given her leave of absence.”

  Frances curtseyed in silence and kissed Henrietta-Maria’s outstretched hand. She had made no promise and her foremost thought was that it would be very dull without Barbara, specially now that the summer was over. Queen Catherine’s “graciously given leave of absence” was, as Frances knew, virtual banishment, though Catherine would not have ventured to impose it without the weighty backing of the Queen Dowager.

  Not that Barbara would care overmuch. She was bored when at Hampton Court, and was, Frances suspected, far more interested in young Mr. Jermyn than in the royal father of her children. And Henry Jermyn had also vanished for the nonce from the Court circle. Frances thought it probable that Barbara had enticed him away.

  She had hoped it would be livelier when the Court was at Whitehall for the winter. The King might be sad and oppressed when living in the vast building where his martyred father had met his fate, but Barbara’s luxurious suite of rooms was near to his own private apartments, and she was adept at dispelling his moodiness. She had original ideas; so had Buckingham, her useful collaborator; and the King’s tastes for which they catered were well known. Wit, charm, originality — he demanded all three in any entertainment devised for him. Spiced with impudence they might be, but brazen vulgarity bored as well as repelled him, and of this his favourite in inventing masques, charades and ballets, to please him, was guiltless. Lasciviousness was presented either with scintillating wit or a polish that could not have been excelled even at the Court of Le Roi Soleil.

  Many such forthcoming plans had been discussed, but Frances now wondered if they would be carried out. As the autumn days shortened, she became dismally certain they would not. Truly all had become excessively dull. The Chevalier de Gramont held his gaming parties evening after evening, not in the least regretful that the King, taking Buckingham and young Jemmie with him was at Newmarket, where it was said that he was actually training and exercising his race-h
orses, and for once revelling in the camaraderie of his own sex.

  Affairs of State were reduced to a minimum. Even for the King living was rough, and fair ladies would have turned up their delicate noses at the sight of their gallants in perpetually stained and muddy clothes and smelling of the stables. Such interludes were occasionally welcomed by the King, who since the arrival of the Queen Dowager had been so lectured and exhorted that he had with difficulty preserved his patience.

  Yes, even the winter at Whitehall was likely to be tedious, thought Frances, forgetful of the fact that in the old days at Colombes her present life would have seemed wildly gay. She was as bored by the continual gambling as was the King himself, and no longer had the heart to irritate De Gramont. Henrietta-Maria’s piercing eye was upon her, and evening after evening she perforce sat meekly with the two Queens and their ladies, while they listened to ballad concerts and lute players.

  There was also the matter of religion. Both Queens being devout Catholics, much time was spent at their devotions in Catherine’s private chapel, and Frances, to whom religion meant no more than a conventional exercise, was expected to follow their example. She could only submit, for a letter of petulant complaint to her mother in Scotland brought a swift rebuke. Frances must remember their poverty, which in spite of the King’s money-grant to Mistress Stuart at his Restoration, and the help given since by many of their Highland kinsfolk, was still a source of embarrassment. Queen Catherine had it in her power to dismiss Frances, if she chose, which would be a calamity for them all.

  “You have forgotten, it seems,” wrote Mistress Stuart, “the importance of your Court appointment, and your general flightiness may well bring you to grief. It is time that your thoughts turned upon more serious considerations than frivolous pleasure. I had hoped that ere now they would have been directed towards a desirable alliance. Owing to poor little Walter’s recent illness I have been advised that it would be unwise to take him on a long journey which might throw him into a fever, otherwise Sophie and he and myself would have been in London by now. This, I now fear, will be delayed until after Christmas. It will be a great grief to me if my dear mistress, the Queen Dowager, leaves again for France and I have missed the opportunity of seeing her. Commend me to her, I pray you. I have the greatest envy of you that you are able to see her day by day. God grant that all will be different in the spring, when one of our Blantyre cousins has offered to put his London house at my disposal and for as long as I may need it. Then, my child, I trust I shall have the leisure to attend to your affairs…”

  There was a great deal more. Frances could not remember when her mother had written her such a long letter. But she was in no mood to read it from the first word to the last. It could wait. Her lovely face was darkened by a petulant scowl as she put the closely written sheets away in her bureau. It was plain that her mother was disappointed with her. She must have hoped for a rapturous letter about some rich nobleman who was paying her serious attention.

  Frances guiltily admitted there was no chance of this, since she had frivolously rebutted any and every courtier who had shown a sign of being serious. She had shown more favour to Buckingham than to anyone else, for he had charm and looks and he amused her. But at the same time she was on friendly terms with Buckingham’s adoring young wife, who gazed at Frances with trusting and admiring eyes. The possibility of betraying this young wife, who had been Mary Fairfax and wooed for her fortune, did not enter Frances’ head. All she wanted was to flirt heedlessly, not to become romantically enamoured of any particular individual.

  Dismissing her mother’s letter from her mind, Frances put on a cloak with a warm hood, and, although it was cold and damp, went out into the grounds. She was weary of the company of the three other maids-of-honour whom she had left playing battledore and shuttlecock in the long gallery; she was even more weary of her dutiful attendance on Queen Catherine, who, although she must, Frances supposed, be missing the King, was complacent because Barbara had been banished, and the King was at Newmarket without her or any other lady to divert him.

  Nobody was about, and never had the beautiful Hampton Court gardens looked less inviting. The leaves on the trees were falling, the flowers touched by the first frosts were fading.

  “A few months ago it all looked so wonderful,” mourned Frances, remembering the sunshine and the sparkling river and her first exciting meeting with Barbara. “I’ve become dull and old already,” she thought foolishly. “It’s all prayers and duty and goodness. Everyone really interesting has left Hampton, and who can wonder?”

  By this time she was so sorry for herself that tears sprang to her eyes, which surprised her, for she rarely wept. Luxuriating in her grief, dramatizing it, she suddenly realized that this was ridiculous and giggled feebly as she caught a large salt tear on the tip of her tongue.

  Dabbing her eyes with her kerchief, she was about to turn back to the palace, when she heard the clatter of horse’s hoofs and glanced round to see two horseman riding up the drive. An instant later she realized that the foremost was the King himself, and he at the same moment recognized her. Swiftly dismounting, he flung the reins of his horse to the groom who followed him, and strode towards her.

  Evidently he had ridden hard and for some distance. His wig was disordered and his clothes were dusty; but his warm, brilliant smile flashed out, and perhaps because his eyes were so friendly, Frances’ heart warmed to him. It was only at rare moments that she had felt any particular liking for Charles or was affected by the charm of which so many women spoke, languishingly, but this was one of them.

  The groom rode off to the stables and Charles took Frances’ hands in his.

  “La Belle Stuart in tears!” he teased. “I would not have thought you were given to them, though, as I know to my cost, women weep easily.”

  “I am not one who does,” Frances instantly retorted and forgetting to curtsey. “But it is a melancholy afternoon — everything seems so…one becomes affected.”

  “Nothing more serious than that? I expected to hear of a love trouble which mayhap I could have put to rights for you.”

  “I have no love troubles, Your Majesty.”

  Charles looked at her keenly and then said: “Upon my word, I believe you! It would not surprise me to find that for all those melting blue eyes you have a hard little heart.”

  “Oh no, Sire!” Frances was indignant, for had she not been shedding tears because of a forbidden friendship. “When I am attached to anyone it means a great deal to me. It is grievous to be told that I must give them up.”

  “And was that why you were weeping?” Charles still held one of her hands and now he led her towards a rustic seat nearby. “Sit down and tell me about it.”

  “But the Queen will be awaiting Your Majesty.”

  “Nothing of the kind. I am not expected for another day or so. But at Newmarket the weather was bad — continual rain this last week — and I decided to return. I outstripped the others on the road. They won’t be here for another half-hour at the least. We have time enough.”

  He was genuinely curious and for the first time felt a flicker of more than casual interest in her. To Charles she had been only one of the many pretty girls he saw at Court, though Barbara had taken a fancy to her and he was aware that Buckingham greatly admired her. His beloved Minette was responsible for her appointment, and that alone, he thought, should have evoked his interest. But of late there had been such pother between his women-folk that he had thankfully taken refuge with his male cronies.

  Newmarket had been a respite, but it was too far from London where many affairs of State needed his attention, and he had dallied there too long. This and not the inclement weather was responsible for his return, and perhaps, too, he had been moved by the Queen’s letters which revealed an uncomplaining loneliness. In any case he had decided to spend a day and a night at Hampton Court before he left for Whitehall.

  But now Frances had caught his vagrant attention and his wife’s loneliness
could wait. Suddenly he recalled a scene which had seemed to be entirely forgotten.

  A shabby room in a French château. A galaxy of laughing, chattering young girls, one of whom was wrapping another in a shrouding fur cloak, and who had on his entrance turned a surprised face towards him.

  “By the lord, I remember now! You were the one that I mistook for my sister, not having seen her since she was a child!” he exclaimed.

  Frances laughed and coloured.

  “Oh, that was too bad! Poor, darling ’Rietta. I had hidden her in my fur cloak. It was the one respectable-looking garment we possessed between the lot of us. I was persuading her to wear it, but she is smaller than I, and it was far too big for her.”

  “You were in my arms and I had kissed you before I discovered my mistake. After that you seemed to disappear.”

  “Your Majesty did not notice that at the time. Why should you have noticed it? Your visit was to her, and of course you were soon enchanted with her. We were all so happy for her. She had been longing to see you again. Though I must say,” added Frances reflectively, “that as I was very young and silly in those days and eager for attention, I’m surprised I had the wit to put myself in the background.”

  At this candour Charles burst into delighted laughter. “And are you so wise and old now?” he enquired.

  “Well, more so — or at least I should be, Your Majesty.”

  “No majesties when we are alone, Frances. Are we not cousins? Now tell me why you were alone here and spoiling your pretty eyes with tears. Or shall I make a guess at it? The most obvious one is that you are in trouble with Mam, through neglect of your religious duties or some prank that was brought to her attention.”

  “No-o! I am not exactly in trouble with the Queen Dowager. She was very kind to me — and it wasn’t only what she said, but what my mother wrote from Scotland. They are right, I suppose, but they don’t seem right to me. When I was a child I was taught that one of the predominant Virtues was to be faithful to a friend, and I try to be, I like to be…so do you, sire.”