“I can be.”
“I have a new riding costume, sent from Paris, and I will wear it.”
“How can I wait to see you in it?”
Frances burst out laughing, glad to be able to laugh.
“Now you do speak like a courtier, though you don’t care at all?”
“Why not? You have heard nothing but ill of me, yet there’s friendliness in your eyes, and surely in mine there must be admiration.”
“I dare say you think I’m pretty,” Frances said, “but that’s not important. Do smile, cousin. You can’t always be gloomy. This will be an exciting week, you know, for there will be Jemmie’s wedding and the ball afterwards is to be the grandest of all, so it is said. Though I have no new dress to wear for it,” she concluded regretfully.
“Who is likely to notice that when they look into your eyes? They are the loveliest eyes I have ever seen.”
“Oh, thank you. I felt sure you could be human if you made the effort.”
He laughed — for the first time a real laugh, Frances thought. Young, amused, comradely.
When the riding party set out the next morning, the admiring gazes turned upon her, confirmed her confidence. That day a thick-set young man called Samuel Pepys, whom Frances vaguely knew had something to do with the Admiralty, was struck spellbound as his glance fell upon her.
As the cavalcade from the Palace rode forth it was noticed that the King and Queen, riding together, were holding each other by the hand, and this gave great pleasure to the loyal populace with whom the little Queen, so gentle and kind, was growing in popularity. But young Pepys, who greatly admired Barbara, had on this occasion little attention to spare for anyone but Frances, whom he described as wearing “her hat cocked and a red plume”. He added that with her sweet eye and little Roman nose she was the greatest beauty he had ever seen in all his life.
The wedding of Jemmie, newly created Duke of Monmouth, was the most talked-of event of the early spring, though Frances, witnessing the traditional “bedding” of the young couple, thought it all rather silly. The twelve-year-old bride was so sleepy she could scarcely keep her eyes open as with much laughter her bridal attendants divested her of her lovely white lace dress and put her into a night-shift that was almost as elaborate. Young Jemmie, in silk nightshirt, took his place beside her in the huge bed, and then at a given signal the candles were snuffed and all was plunged in darkness. When, after a few minutes, servants with lighted tapers appeared on the scene, the child-bride had vanished. She had been spirited away by her mother, and in all probability would scarcely see her bridegroom for the next two years.
“It would have been more exciting had they both been grown-up,” the young Duchess of Buckingham was heard to remark, much to everyone’s surprise, her husband’s included.
His Mary was looking unexpectedly pretty that evening, and he tweaked one of her curls good-naturedly.
“Say you so?”
“Well — yes. Suppose Jemmie and Anne were of an age to love, then he could have altered the plan. It could have been he who carried her off and not Lady Buccleuch when the candles were put out, and nobody would have known where to find them.”
Everyone laughed, but a sudden malicious light gleamed in Buckingham’s eye. “Of a truth, Mary, there are occasions when you surprise me,” he said, and she, of whom as a rule he took but little notice, and was so obsessively in love with him, sparkled with pleasure.
If Frances heard this exchange she paid no attention to it. For some unknown reason she felt happier than ever before, and this gave a new quality to her beauty. Although Barbara wore her gorgeous gown at the ball and glittered with jewels, Frances, whose only ornament was a rope of pearls and who had natural flowers in her hair, eclipsed her.
Barbara was not in her usual high spirits. She believed herself to be once more with child, and never before had this suspicion been so unwelcome to her. The King was still her occasional lover, but should she now be pregnant she much doubted that the child was his. It was far more probable that Henry Jermyn was the father. Would Charles have any suspicion of this? Would he refuse to acknowledge the babe as his? Barbara could not be sure. He had been cool to her of late.
In the grey, unhopeful dawn after the ball had finally ended, Barbara paced her room, sleepless, miserable, and cursing her fruitfulness. She was deathly tired and yet too restless to think of sleep. Her one consolation was that Charles could not be certain of her falsity, could not repudiate her. Not at least until the child was born, though then if it bore a marked resemblance to Harry…! In that case the end of her reign as maitresse en titre was in sight.
Frances, too, was sleepless. Poor dancer though Lennox was, she had yet given him several dances. Tomorrow he was leaving for Kent and would not be seen at Court again for some time. But he would not forget her. He had promised to write; and although it was now freely said that the King was her lover, he knew better.
Sketches he had made of Cobham Hall were propped up on the mantel in Frances’ room, and she pored over them with a strange heart-yearning. Lennox had no great skill as an artist, but the drawings gave a very fair idea of Cobham Hall in the past, and what he designed it should become.
The old central part of the house had been demolished, and there must now be an ugly, gaping space, but the new block should be impressive and beautiful. Four pilasters with Corinthian bases and capitals would support it, and within, it would contain a large banqueting hall.
“Oh, if only I could help to plan it and watch it being built,” thought Frances with a longing sigh. “If it were only my home.”
Then indeed the stifled aching for the destroyed family home in Scotland would be fully assuaged.
Thirteen
“But to me it seems almost of an impossibility,” said the Queen, her face paler than usual and her eyes wide. Although she had now a good command of the English language, fluency was apt to desert her in moments of agitation, and she was profoundly agitated.
“You are sure, really sure of what you tell me?” she demanded.
“No. Your Majesty, I am not absolutely sure. The plot may be abandoned at the last moment. But I do know it is planned.”
The Queen gazed in silence at the young Duchess of Buckingham. She knew the girl’s story and pitied her and wondered at her. The daughter of the Puritan General Fairfax, she had been wooed and won by Buckingham whose estates had been appropriated by her father. Nothing had made any difference to Mary once Buckingham had entered her life. She would marry him even though she was betrothed to another man, and, being her father’s heiress, she would give back to him all that had been stolen from him. So she had. Her father, weak only where Mary was concerned, had been finally unable to deny her. And now he was dead and she was Buckingham’s wife, patronized and despised by his fashionable and profligate friends, and usually neglected by her husband.
Catherine of Braganza looked upon the young creature and pitied her. She was barely twenty, yet she had already undergone so much, and must often be unhappy.
“Worse treated than I, by far worse treated,” thought the Queen, her mind for the moment distracted from this latest trouble. Her heart these last few days had been especially soft to her husband, for he had heard of the gossip about the supposed flaw in their marriage and had been infuriated.
Catherine herself did not know if the residue of her dowry had yet been paid, but she did know that Charles had summoned Buckingham and others to a private conference, had rebuked them, and had shown them the royal marriage certificate, coldly informing them that there had been not one but two ceremonies — the private nuptials in accordance with his wife’s faith as a Catholic, and the second Anglican ceremony the next day, solemnized by the Bishop of London.
Those who had expected Charles to seize upon the chance of annulling his marriage to the wife he neglected then discovered how little they knew him. There were no possible grounds for a divorce, Charles said emphatically. There never would be such grounds. Cath
erine’s enemies had apologized abjectly.
The Queen had been exalted in her love and pride. He was fond of her. In spite of all his misdeeds he must be very fond of her. And perhaps such fondness was more desirable than a wild and passionate love. So she had argued, but now if the Duchess’ story were true…
“I put the thought into my lord’s head. The blame is mine,” the girl said miserably.
“That is a nonsense. You could not have foreseen what would follow after it. But tell me again as clearly as you can how you came to hear of this plot. I may not have completely understood. The language is still difficult for me, and at once — when you said it was to involve His Majesty, I was agitated. Now, as you see, I am calm.”
“His Majesty knows nothing of the matter. Of that I can swear,” the Duchess said earnestly. “I chanced to say at the wedding of the Duke of Monmouth that had Lady Anne been older he might, when the candles were snuffed-out, have carried her away himself, not allowed her mother to do so. That seems to have set up a train of thought in my husband’s mind. Madame, I doubt not he sees it as a prank, but it is too dangerous…”
“A scandalous prank,” the Queen commented. “And how did you discover it?”
“This morning I was sitting in a window alcove with the curtains half drawn. I was alone and sewing. None knew I was there, and then my lord came in with — with two others… Need I tell you their names, Madame?”
“No,” said the Queen, pitying the girl’s trembling lips and hands, realizing how much this betrayal distressed her. “They are of no consequence. Continue.”
“They spoke of the party to be given this evening by my Lady Castlemaine — but she does not know that the game is to be other than she has seen played many a time before. The idea is to imitate the Duke of Monmouth’s bedding, with my Lady Castlemaine wearing such a suit as he wore, and Frances Stuart with the white dress of a bride, and something to make Lady Castlemaine sleepy and stupid put into the wine she drinks, so that when the candles are blown out and there is darkness, she can be carried away unprotesting, and everyone will leave too, except the King — who will enter by a door in the panelling beside the bed, being told a surprise awaits him…and only Frances in her nightshift will be there…”
“I see. And it is thought that he — that Frances Stuart and he…”
“Oh, Your Majesty,” cried the Puritan general’s daughter, near to tears, “she is very beautiful, and the King admires her. In the confusion Frances will not understand. To her it is a frolic — there will have been the usual play, unbuckling the garters, throwing the stocking. She will think that Barbara Castlemaine is to join her, and to the King, to any man, the temptation would be great. Irresistible I heard my lord say!”
“Yes,” agreed the Queen, softly, sadly. “Yes.”
Why was Buckingham so urgent that this infamous thing should come about? Possibly as an act of vengeance against herself, and because as one of Frances Stuart’s intimate friends he saw advantages to himself in augmenting her power. If Charles desired the girl he would be grateful to Buckingham for making this conquest possible, or so the hateful profligate reasoned.
One heartening reflection was that Barbara Castlemaine’s attraction for Charles must be on the wane, or Buckingham would not have considered Frances as her supplanter, and at least in this instance no blame attached to Barbara, who would be the last to promote a rival’s unhallowed nuptials. She who for years had been hand-in-glove with Buckingham was being as unmercifully betrayed as the giddy, heedless Frances.
“This party?” asked the Queen. “When will it start?”
“Oh, not for an hour or more, Madame, but I dressed early and so was able to slip away, my lord being already at Lady Castlemaine’s apartments. All day I have been turning over in my mind what I could do, and at last I thought that it was only your Majesty who could prevent…prevent. I had not the courage to approach the King, and, even if I had, he might not…”
The young Duchess broke off, biting her trembling under-lip, on the verge of saying that the King might not have interfered.
“You could have told Frances or Lady Castlemaine,” the Queen suggested.
“I was unable to get either of them alone; and besides — how could I trust them not to tell my lord that it was I who had betrayed him? If he knew he would never forgive me. He might turn me away — for ever.”
Which might be the best thing that could happen to her, thought Catherine compassionately, though as she loved Buckingham it would be impossible to convince her of it. She sat for a few moments in thought and then said: “Join the party. Say nothing, and before long I shall be there myself. Nobody can dispute my right to attend. Do not be afraid,” as the girl hesitated. “Neither your husband nor anyone else, not even the King, will ever know that you had any part in this.”
Kneeling to kiss the Queen’s hand, the girl murmured words of incoherent gratitude, and as soon as she had left, Catherine summoned her dresser.
She reflected that this “bedding”, at the best a stupid vulgarity and in this case infamous, would not take place until midnight. There was plenty of time in which to make a leisurely toilet. She must look her best. She must be cool, amused, seemingly unsuspicious.
“I will wear the new cream satin with the point de Venice lace,” she decided.
The coiffeur, summoned unexpectedly, curled her hair in the soft ringlets that suited her. Her cheeks were touched with the rouge and powder she used but sparingly, and around her neck and on her arms were the diamond necklet and bracelets that the King had given her. Small and slight though she was, there were times when Catherine could look magnificent and this was one of them.
Lady Denham, her favourite dresser, was gazing at her with a perplexed expression. “Your Majesty…” she began, and then closed her lips with a snap.
“What is it? What were you about to say?” asked the Queen nervously, fearing some further revelation.
“Nought, Your Majesty, but that it seemed so grand a toilette for the private puppet-show.”
The recollection of this arranged entertainment was an annoyance, for it had been planned for her by the King. The Welsh puppet-master was said to be something of a wonder, but the King, being for some reason sceptical, had refused to sanction a performance at one of the gala evenings when important foreign guests were present, until the Queen had witnessed a performance and had given an opinion on it.
It was to have taken place that evening, and had Catherine been cynically minded she might have concluded that Charles had gone to some trouble to see that she was occupied at a time when he had planned a very different diversion for himself. But in this instance the Queen’s faith did not waver. Whatever his sins, he would never lay a trap for an unsuspecting girl.
She glanced at her little gilded clock. It was still early. She would see this Welshman, and although there would not be time to witness his performance, she might be able to discover if it was of any merit.
A message was sent to command the man’s immediate attendance. Catherine questioned him, and he replied in a lilting, sing-song voice. He told Catherine solemnly that in his own home amongst the Welsh mountains he ranked as a magician. But his magic was of a harmless kind, warranted to entertain.
The so-called magician was a small, dark-haired man with a remarkably white skin and burning eyes. He described some of the acts that his clever puppets could do, almost, thought the Queen, as though they were real people, not jointed wooden dolls, fashioned by himself. She gazed at one curiously life-like looking puppet as he held it in the palm of his hand. His fingers jerked and the little creature sat upright, its head turning so naturally that Catherine gasped. It put up a tiny hand and self-consciously patted the plaits of fair hair — real hair, Catherine saw — that were glued to its head.
Suddenly she made up her mind. “I will trust you,” she said. “Instead of this private performance in my closet, to determine if you can be engaged to give a performance at the full Court, I
will make it of more importance, and the King himself shall see your magic. If you satisfy him, you will be well rewarded. His Majesty is always generous.”
Lady Denham was frankly gaping at her. It was not often that the Queen showed such initiative.
“Lady Denham, we will go alone, you and I,” Catherine said, “and our entertainer with his assistants and his properties will follow us. For this evening we will leave the Countess of Suffolk behind us. Poor soul, she will be glad of an early night, of which there are few enough.”
It was a sensible decision, Lady Denham allowed, for the Countess, who was Lady of the Bed-Chamber, would have strongly objected to so much as crossing the threshold of Barbara Castlemaine’s apartment, and would have been scandalized that the Queen planned to do so — while as for her orders that she was to be followed by an itinerant puppet-master and his assistants, bearing with them cumbersome stage properties…! Lady Denham was younger, more enterprising and decidedly curious. She raised no objection. After all, the Queen was the one person in England who could dispense with the formality of an invitation.
Later, Catherine would wonder at herself, but now she knew no uncertainty. The King would be surprised to see her, but he would not allow her to feel unwelcome. This evening she was en beauté and a spark of admiration shone in Charles’ eyes, as Barbara, for once put out of countenance, came forward to welcome the Queen with a deep curtsey and suitably expressed gratification of the honour conferred on her.
The Queen was gracious, offering her hand to be kissed by those who in her opinion were as poisonous as adders. The supper had already started, but a chair was set for Catherine beside Charles, and she explained with perfect confidence that afterwards, if her hostess was agreeable, there would be an entertainment of an unusual kind.
“You so often play these games of Blind Man and the Nuts and May that I thought a novelty might be welcome,” Catherine said pleasantly, and Frances Stuart was the first to clap her hands.
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