Frances had plenty of diversions. There were idle young men by the dozen to flatter her and give her all the attention she required. The Queen now went hunting several days a week and Frances was always with her. She learnt how to play bowls and became proficient at it.
Of Lennox she heard from Julia La Garde, who with a great air of secrecy told Frances that he occasionally wrote to her.
“He must have been struck to the heart by your charm and kindness to him, when you thought he looked so unhappy,” Frances said with all outward sweetness.
“He was unhappy,” Julia said positively.
“You may be right.” Frances shrugged. “For myself I judged that he was one of those who became lachrymose in their cups.”
“Oh, Frances Stuart, what an unkind girl you are!” cried Julia, who no longer treated Frances with any particular deference. “But perhaps you always behave so to the men who are in love with you.”
“In love with me? That’s ridiculous. I have,” said Frances, “met His Grace of Lennox and Richmond less than half a dozen times.”
“One look into your eyes seems to do mischief enough,” and Julia giggled. “All the poor creature cares about is to know how you are, how you look, what you are doing.”
“It is no concern of his,” Frances flared, and then asked with irrepressible curiosity: “What did you tell him?”
“That these days you rarely stir from the Queen’s side, and that the King only pays rare visits to see her, being so occupied with these official tours.”
It was a meaning gaze that the astute Miss La Garde fixed upon Frances, and she moved restlessly beneath it. Nobody ever openly alluded to the King’s love for her — none save Buckingham, whom now she rarely saw. Even when it had been thought that the Queen would die and bets had been freely laid upon Frances’ chance of filling her place, hints and innuendoes had served for plain speaking. Now Julia La Garde was telling her as openly as she dared that she was allaying Lennox’s jealousy. But she was probably exaggerating. There was nothing between herself and Lennox, Frances told herself, and if he wrote to the other girl it must be because he was attracted to her. Why shouldn’t he be? Julia was pretty enough, and her family were rich. Lennox had already wed two heiresses, and had refused to consider Elizabeth Hamilton because she had no dowry.
Why Julia should attempt to reassure Lennox about the King’s attentions Frances could not fathom. The two girls were not really friendly, and Julia had a reputation for slyness.
“Oh well, it is no concern of mine what you tell him,” Frances said, and went upon her way.
Julia looked after her reflectively. In some ways the light-hearted Frances was an enigma — and not only to her. If the King was her lover, as many believed, she seemed to profit little by it. Barbara Castlemaine, who was an old story to him, did far better for herself even now. Titles had been conferred on her elder children as well as on herself, and only lately she had been given an estate at Hereford. Frances at the most had acquired no more than a few valuable jewels.
But perhaps she was not the King’s mistress, Julia mused. Was it possible that if she were, the Queen would be so fond of her? Or seem to be fond, Julia corrected herself. After all, the Queen put up a pretence of cordiality to Barbara Castlemaine, Everyone knew the Queen worshipped the King. She would do everything that was required of her. As for Frances, so many men whom the maids-of-honour described as irresistible had made advances to her and had been rejected that it had become the habit to refer to “her cold little heart”.
How delightful it would be if the dazzling butterfly were to marry and disappear from the Court circle! Julia was secretly most romantically disposed towards the King, and once or twice he had smiled at her in an especial kind of way, and she was sure his eyes had followed her, But he would never be seriously attracted to her while Frances was around, though if she were once married off he would be bound to forget her in time, and that would give some other girl at Court a chance.
The King was so amazingly attractive, thought Miss La Garde with a yearning sigh, and such stories were spread abroad of his prowess as a lover. How could Frances Stuart resist him? At the Court of Charles II virtue was held to be of little account; it was another name for dullness.
Julia La Garde glanced at herself in a mirror, finding no fault with her bright-brown hair and eyes and piquant countenance. Were there no Frances, she would stand a very good chance.
In London the plague slowly abated, and early in the New Year the Court ventured to return to Whitehall. But they were scarcely settled there than they were all plunged into mourning through the death of the Queen’s mother, the Queen Regent of Portugal.
Poor Catherine, who had not seen her mother since her marriage, sorrowed deeply, but to her ladies the command to wear black was a grievance. Barbara was infuriated, but Frances was unconcerned because black suited her. Pepys noted in his diary that she was now fairer in looks than Lady Castlemaine.
Fair or not, Frances’ inward turmoil was distracting. Her radiance and vivacity were almost wholly assumed. She was too proud to let anyone suspect her secret desperation. She was now forced to face the fact that her relationship with Charles was nearing a climax. Past eighteen, and at the zenith of her beauty, the King was no longer inclined to treat her as an innocent child, unconscious of her allure, and at last was spurred to action as much by anger as by desire.
At Whitehall the original small apartment allotted to Frances as a maid-of-honour had recently been enlarged. She now had a large salon, delightfully furnished by the King’s orders, and looking out upon the teeming river. Here she could entertain her chosen friends, and was so doing when he made an unheralded arrival. Charles was too courteous to break up the party deliberately and accounted for his unexpected visit by showing Frances an advance specimen of the gold coins from the Mint. Everyone present was eager to examine it and admire. The King’s head on the observe side of the coin was considered a striking likeness, and the Britannia most splendidly dignified.
“Not a bit like me,” Frances said blithely, “except for the nose, but then I don’t think these bas-relief pictures do much resemble the sitters. The King looks years and years younger than he does on the coin.”
“You think so?” Charles was not a vain man, but as this came from his peerless Frances he was gratified.
Immediately there was a supporting murmur. “Oh yes, in reality His Majesty looks ten or even fifteen years younger.”
“But I don’t suppose anyone could improve on it,” Frances said, not wishing to criticize Jan Roettier.
Lord Berkeley ventured to disagree with Frances. He considered that both likenesses were excellent, and remarked daringly that La Belle Stuart could scarcely have been given greater importance had she been a queen.
This remark met with a cold reception; and as it was clear that the King, though he had paid an informal call, had no intention of making it a brief one, the guests severally curtsied or bowed to him and were given permission to depart.
As soon as Charles was alone with Frances, he said without preamble: “Berkeley was right, if tactless. I have given you all the importance you would accept, and in the future I hope to give you more. That rests with yourself.”
Never in all the years she had known him had he so spoken to her, not with the tenderness of a lover or the light-hearted raillery of a good companion, but with the authority of kingship.
“I have never wanted more than I have now,” she said, wondering if it would be possible to preserve the light touch which hitherto had served her so well. “I cannot tell you what a pleasure this enlarged apartment is to me. It has given me the chance to offer hospitality instead of always receiving it.”
Charles examined the gold coin which lay in his palm. He tossed it into the air and lightly caught it.
“As a hostess, m’dear, you will need a multitude of these,” he observed. “Your Privy Purse allowance will scarce be sufficient even for wines and sweetmeats. But yo
u have only to ask, and right well you know it.”
“People are always asking the King for money, but I have no mind to be one of them,” Frances said. “I can manage. I am not extravagant.”
“That I grant you. It is one way in which you and the Queen resemble each other. You are both astonishingly thrifty.”
“The Queen has set me a good example in that way as in all others,” Frances said meaningly, and then spoilt this most correct rejoinder by adding: “Besides, one has to consider the Scots heritage. It always seems to assert itself on the distaff side. I believe I should be quite successful as a wife — in house management, I mean.”
“Successful in every sense, no doubt, but I cannot spare you yet — not for many years — not mayhap for all my lifetime. Not, that is to say, unless I marry you off to some titled dodderer who will ask no more than that you bear his name and superintend his household. Such a spouse could be found for you without much difficulty or delay.”
So here it was at last, thought Frances with bitterness and resentment. The direct proposition. It was with difficulty that she essayed a laugh.
“A titled dodderer! It is not such an attractive prospect. Most girls of my age when they marry expect some gaiety and pleasure and companionship. Children too.”
“Such a marriage would debar you from none of them.”
“But it would be hateful. Living beneath the same roof as one I despised — and with good reason.”
“As for that, one could find a plausible pretext for arranging frequent separations.”
“That’s not what I want from life,” said Frances defiantly.
“Then tell me what it is, for I have not yet discovered it.”
“Only happiness, only content.”
“You can have both at a word. Am I not anxious to give you both? Sometimes I think I love you as no other woman was ever loved, and more than once you have sworn you care for me. Was that a lie?”
‘How would I dare to lie to the King?” Frances countered.
“You have dared much, m’dear. You are treating me ill and you know it, but even my patience with a woman has its limits. I have never yet forced one to my will, but…”
“Charles, if you threaten me, all will be spoilt.”
“What is there to spoil? You have given me nothing.”
“How can you say that? Nobody else has been allowed so — so much, and is my affection nothing?” Frances crossed the room to his side. With a silken swish of her skirts she knelt beside him, her hand on his knee. After a moment, gazing down into her eyes, lovely indeed, but clouded with anxiety, Charles said:
“Frances, have you ever known what it is to long for something so yearningly, so constantly, that for lack of it all else is worthless?”
There was a pause before she answered, but when she did it was, so Charles divined, an honest answer.
“Not as intensely as that, but I have longed… I do…”
“Then, my sweet life, if it is mutual why deny yourself as well as me?”
Down came Frances’ long, shielding lashes. It was natural he should misinterpret her words. She had intended that he should, but now she was in worse case than before. She said childishly and frivolously: “At least if I were married off at your will, I would wish it to be someone who would not look a figure of fun when we were obliged to be seen together. Even a husband in name — well, it would be unpleasant to know one’s friends laughed at him. I remember saying so to ’Rietta when she first told me she was to marry that Orleans popinjay.”
“I will find you someone more personable,” Charles promised. “Zounds! It should be something to any man, young or old, to have you act as hostess for him and to bear his name.”
Not any man of spirit and honour, Frances thought, but she did not say so.
“A Duke’s title — a Duke’s estate,” Charles went on. “I will scrape the royal coffer for you if needs be!”
“Your Majesty requires every guinea that can be mustered for this new war with France,” she submitted. “Could you not put the thought of me aside until we have won it?”
Stooping, Charles put his hands on her shoulders and gazed steadfastly into her eyes. “How many times,” he asked, “have I been induced on one excuse or another to put aside the possessing of you? There was Barbara’s pregnancy and my wife’s illness. There was your religion. There was the devastation of the plague which kept us apart.”
“But was any of that my fault?” Frances asked.
“Sometimes I fancy that your only fault is your virtue, which does but make me love you the more.”
“Then Your Majesty is old-fashioned, for virtue nowadays is unfashionable,” she retorted pertly. “It is expected only of Queens, and sometimes not even of them.”
“I should expect you to be faithful to me, none the less.”
“Well, and so I would be, if it came to that between us…”
“If! At other times you have said when.”
“When then — but, Charles, you must know how difficult it is for me. It means giving up — practically giving up my religion. I am not a religieuse such as the Queen, but nobody, nobody can throw it away with lightness — not even I.”
“Where would be the necessity? What are confession, absolution and penance for, if not for fair sinners?”
“Fair sinners who after a few days of chastity settle down to commit the same sins all over again? You know better than that, Charles!”
“Well, yes, I do,” admitted he, who but for his kingship of a Protestant country would have been of the same persuasion.
“I thought while thousands were dying of the plague, and with no priest to comfort them, how dreadful it would be to die unshriven,” Frances said.
“My sweet love, you are not like to die for many years, and if I am then alive, I promise you that half a dozen priests shall be then to shrive you.”
“Oh, for the love of heaven, no! I should die the quicker for terror. One of those black crows would be sufficient, calling upon me to repent…”
The repudiation was so swift, the miming which accompanied it so vivid that Charles burst out laughing. So did she. It seemed, mercifully, as though his sombre mood had passed, and there might be no more talk of marriage to one whose complacence would be bought with a title and estate…just as Lennox had said, she remembered.
“What am I to do with you?” Charles demanded half-comically.
“I don’t know. I cannot endure to be rushed.”
“Rushed! God’s truth! When I consider the many months… I’m no saint, whatever you may be.”
“I don’t think I am. Probably I’m no more than rather stupid.”
“If you loved me…”
“I’m fonder of you than anyone else,” she protested. “There is nobody else. Oh, Charles, it’s true. I really am immensely fond of you.”
He lifted her up and set her on his knees. He smothered her face with kisses until she turned it into his shoulder. He fondled her and heard her giggle and knew the cause. The fashion had changed of late, and she was wearing a dress shaped and stiffened to her slender figure, and high in the neck with a pointed lace collar. There was little to reward his exploring hands other than pleats of silk and whalebone. Charles shook her then and put her away from him. But he was not angry. Blessedly he was never angry for very long.
“Why won’t you have me?” he asked bluntly.
“I haven’t said I wouldn’t — one day. Why won’t you understand? I was very young when all this started, and I was flattered and foolish and fond of you. But there’s so much to make it hateful — to be the King’s mistress, I mean.”
“And so much you will miss if you are not the favourite who becomes the King’s mistress,” he retorted. “This, my lovely Frances, is not a state that can continue for ever. The strain is a killing one for me, and bad enough even for you. You’re not the merry, thoughtless girl of a year ago.”
“No,” she agreed.
“What will it
be like, think you, if I send you away for ever, because of the fool you are making me? You have no money and I dare swear your mother, good mother though she is, would rather see you under my protection than adrift without it. Oh, she’d weep and wring her hands and swear that it was by no wish of hers, but she’d soon reconcile herself, and be concerned to know if I’d made a sufficient settlement on you. ’Twould be different if you were a great heiress, but…”
“There is always the religious life — a convent that would receive me,” Frances said.
“It’s not the first time you have made that threat. What reality is there in it?”
“Very little,” Frances admitted truthfully. “It would be a last resort.”
“And more acceptable than to belong to me, with every honour that could be given to you, and the love of all my heart?”
“Not all your love. There is the Queen…”
Charles sighed heavily. He said: “Not even for you will I sacrifice her, poor, devoted soul. And even if I were sufficiently base, you, Frances, would oppose it. The fondness I have for her is different in kind. God help me, am I the only man who finds it possible to love two women?”
“No, you are not, but…if only I were not also so attached to her.”
“Over and over again I have told you that it will not harm her. It will be the end of Barbara’s reign. If I have not broken with her entirely it is because of you who tantalize and deny me. If I seek her from time to time it is to forget, and that, La Belle Stuart, is something any man would understand though you may not. See now, I will strike a last bargain with you. I will possess myself in patience for yet a few months, until you are nineteen and past this year of indecision.”
“But that is so near,” Frances exclaimed. “It is only three months.”
“And an eternity to me. Make up your mind. Either you come to me then, without love if it must be so, or I will see no more of you. You have three months in which to consider.”
Lady on the Coin Page 19