Lady on the Coin

by Margaret Campbell Barnes

  “God’s peace!” exploded Charles, irritated now by Catherine’s unusual obtuseness. “I’m not accusing the man of murder — the deaths were a mischance. Margaret Lewis was ailing when he married her, and young Elizabeth Cavendish died in childbed. He’s a mercenary fellow though. Both those young women had large fortunes, and you may have heard the story of Elizabeth Hamilton, whom De Gramont subsequently married.”

  The Queen had not, and she listened attentively as Charles briefly related it to her, and then she said thoughtfully: “That is De Gramont’s story, but it may not be true in every particular. I do not like the man. He has a malicious tongue. Did the Duke himself mention this matter of a dowry?”

  “No. I heard of his demands through Elizabeth Hamilton herself.”

  “And then she got her dowry and married De Gramont. It seems to me that this may have been her object all along, since they are reputed to dote upon each other.”

  Charles was struck by this, and Catherine added tellingly: “Frances is poor and can have nothing beyond her personal possessions, yet he has evidently not allowed that to influence him!”

  Unable to establish the unpleasant quality of avarice, Charles said no more of it.

  “He will have to prove his worthiness before I allow this marriage,” he pronounced. “I have heard from divers sources that his affairs are in the greatest disorder, and I am convinced that if Mam were here she would insist on having a complete statement from him, and that a suitable settlement is made on Frances. Mam would never allow her to throw herself away on a dissolute young fool facing ruin.”

  Catherine shook her head in perplexity. “How can that be when he has such great possessions, though for the time they may be, as you say…ah, what is the word I seek…?”

  “Involved,” Charles supplied.

  “Which they need not be, or need not be for ever,” the Queen pointed out. “It has happened, has it not, with others who are the owners of big estates? They outrun discretion, and must learn to retrench. Frances is well qualified to help her husband in this way. You will see, Charles, she will reform the young man who is so extravagant and reckless, though his generosity is a redeeming feature, for you told me of how he helped our Navy.”

  Reluctant justice forced Charles to admit it, though he listened to Catherine with an unusual discontent. He did not believe she was anxious to be rid of Frances. Whatever others might think, he was convinced that Catherine knew that she was not his mistress. It was possible, however, that she divined his ultimate purpose, in which case she would be shocked as well as grieved, since Frances was young and an innocent. Catherine still had illusions about him, one of which was that in all his affairs it was the woman who was chiefly to blame, and had taken advantage of his weakness not only because he was irresistible — though Catherine was firmly convinced that he was — but because surrender to him meant power, prominence at Court, jewels, titles and general glory.

  Nobody in their senses could accuse Frances of such grasping ambition. She desired nothing beyond the ephemeral pleasures of the moment, and the one signal honour he had conferred on her, that of sitting as the model for Britannia, had not turned her pretty head. She had said laughingly, yet had meant it, that her little Roman nose was why she was singled out for this distinction.

  Finding no comfort in the Queen’s society, the King soon left her for his own apartments. He was not beaten, had no intention of giving up the chase. Procrastination, he decided, might do more for him than sterner means. It was in his power to banish Lennox, but if he did that would but strengthen Frances’ love for him. That she was in love, or near to it, Charles could not doubt, though what she could see in the young wastrel was beyond his comprehension. True he had looks and a certain reckless daring, but so had dozens who from time to time had cast languishing glances at her. Lennox had little wit or polish, nor had he the gift of winning friends. He could be downright to the point of boorishness, and his chief interest so far as the King could judge was in his Kent estate — pulling a perfectly satisfactory mansion to pieces and building it up again in some fantastic style at enormous and unnecessary expense.

  Never could Charles have supposed that Cobham Hall and Lennox’s plans with regard to it were intensely attractive to Frances. He did now suspect, however, that he was far from understanding her. There were unplumbed depths in her character which only made her the more desirable to him. A stubborn virtue beneath her surface charm and frivolity, a lack of greed and a womanly tenderness which had been in evidence during the Queen’s serious illness. If Catherine were to be believed, there was also financial acumen. “A pest upon all women!” muttered Charles irately. But he knew that he wanted Frances more than ever.

  The strength of this desire was exemplified the following day when Lennox was commanded to attend upon the King. In a suave battle of wits he was no match for his royal adversary, for even one as downright as Lennox dared not level accusations against him. He was forced to accept the King’s assurance that he wished him well and had only Frances’ interests at heart. She was still very young and must be protected. The King had heard disturbing rumours about Lennox’s debts and general standing, for which his passion for gambling was mainly responsible. His liabilities must be plainly set forth, and naturally he would be expected to make a reasonable settlement upon his bride.

  “Were the Queen Dowager in England, she as Frances’ patroness would be, I warrant, more difficult than myself to satisfy,” Charles said benevolently, subjecting the harassed young man to his famous charm. “Your betrothed is still so young that there can be no reason to speed this marriage, and indeed, cousin, it would offend propriety, for your second wife has but recently died.”

  “Fifteen months ago, Your Majesty,” Lennox said.

  “Even so, it is scarce seemly.”

  Lennox yearned to say that this was nonsense as the King well knew. In any case his second marriage had been a miserable fiasco. The Duke chafed because it was impossible to speak openly. Would Charles, had Catherine died, have waited more than a few months before marrying Frances?

  Charles went on to say that not only he, but his wife, his mother and his sister were all devoted to Frances, and that her future must be assured. However illustrious Lennox’s lineage, this was of small account if he was indeed tottering on the verge of financial ruin. Lennox denied it. Then it would be the easiest matter in the world to prove it, Charles said, and mentioned tentatively the sum that should be secured to Frances as her marriage settlement.

  “Two hundred thousand pounds would be reasonable,” Charles said nonchalantly, and indicated that the interview was at an end.

  Lennox’s brain reeled. He was speechless. But for the fact that Frances was impatiently awaiting him, he would have shut himself in his own room, there in an extremity of anger and desperation to drink himself into a state of oblivion. As it was, he was coldly, dismally sober when Frances received him in her salon, and it was she who poured out wine and pressed it upon him. She did not even remonstrate when Lennox finished the bottle. There would be time enough for that when they were actually married,

  “God knows all I have is yours,” Lennox said, “but without crippling not only Cobham but the lands in Scotland, it is beyond my power to find such a sum. Even so, it would mean inflicting hardship on tenants by indiscriminate rent raising, as well as allowing property to fall into disrepair. In addition to this, the work on Cobham would have to be abandoned and some of the ancestral treasures would need to be sold. Even then the sum raised might fall short of what he describes as a reasonable settlement.”

  “But I could give it all back to you,” Frances said. “Could you not promise to settle such an amount on me, for you well know I would never ask it of you? You would trust me, surely?”

  “Oh, my Heart, of course I trust you,” Lennox groaned. “But do you imagine for one moment that that will satisfy Charles? Far from it. Betrothal is one thing, marriage another, and he will not permit a date to be fixed
for our wedding until the money is produced in hard cash. Even that will not content him. I must first show him that every debt is cleared, and I have many debts.”

  “Most men in your position have,” Frances said comfortingly.

  “No,” Lennox denied with an effort. “They have not, for they are not such reckless fools. It is true the estates were encumbered when they came to me, but I should have been able to disentangle myself by now. I have been wantonly spendthrift, and have made things worse by gambling, horse-racing, a dozen other madnesses — not only the restoration of Cobham, and the privateer venture…”

  Frances was undismayed. She said: “Once we are married we can live much more simply, though I promise you I will not let it press too hardly on you.”

  “Nothing will be hard then,” Lennox said; “but the King, for all his smooth ways and his vaunted kindliness, has the cunning of a fox. He will put up one obstacle after another.”

  Frances surprised him by laughing. In spite of her concern for her distracted lover, she was unwillingly amused and felt something of the lurking admiration for Charles’ adroitness that he on occasion had felt for hers.

  “It reminds me of the old Greek legends,” she said.

  “What old legends?”

  “You must remember — stories in which the hero was commanded to perform the most impossible tasks before he was permitted to marry the girl he wanted, who was usually in danger of being sacrificed to some unspeakable monster.”

  “Charles does not fall far short of one,” Lennox said angrily.

  “But I have no intention of being sacrificed. Take heart! The Queen at least is our friend.”

  “Unless he influences her against us.”

  “Much though she loves him, I don’t think he could. She will stand by us.”

  “Frances, have you the strength and courage to go through so much for me?” Lennox gazed earnestly at her, and the sea-blue eyes, serious as few people had seen them, gazed back at him.

  “Yes,” she said, “but it is for myself as well.”

  “But I am no paragon, my sweet. I love you to distraction, but much that Charles pointed out to me is true. I swear I will reform, if only because married to you it would be an agony to see you miserable and regretting it. Yet I know it won’t be easy.”

  “Well, I know it too,” Frances said, “but that makes no difference. It’s a challenge to us, and I vow I will never fail you. We will make a beautiful home for ourselves and for those who will come after us. Though we may sometimes be separated, for I do not forget that you hold high appointments in Scotland and elsewhere, you will never be lonely, for even if I am left behind at Cobham my love will go with you.”

  “Why should you be left behind? I will take you everywhere with me,” he protested.

  Frances shook her head and said: “That may not be possible. Good wives are often compelled to stay at home to guard their lord’s interests. Besides…there may be children. I hope there will be, though I am a coward. The thought of childbirth has often made me dread marriage.”

  “Then you shall have none. I do not forget my poor Betty, and…”

  She interrupted him. “I shall fight my fear, for I shall want children. We shall both be battling against our weaknesses. We must learn to trust each other.”

  “It is easy to trust where one loves,” Lennox said. “Yesterday it was enough to know you would marry me, that you cared enough to promise me. Now I am grasping at more. Your love, my sweet.”

  “But I do love you,” she said as though surprised. “Once we had met I could never put you wholly out of my mind, and that evening when you were so angry with me…oh, I thought I hated you, but it was not hatred which kept you in my mind through all those dreadful months of the plague, when I knew not where you were. I prayed constantly for your safety. People say I have a cold heart, but it lifted when I saw you yesterday. I do not suppose I am a passionate person, but I can be a tender one.”

  “Oh, my sweeting,” Lennox said, “how can I bear to be separated from you? Yet that is one of the conditions the King made. I am to leave for Cobham and there give all my attention to settling my affairs.”

  “But surely you can be in London from time to time? We are betrothed, and how can he forbid you to see me?”

  “He will. Justifying it by saying he has a care for your welfare.”

  “What absurdity that is,” Frances remarked scornfully, “when all he sought was my downfall. But I do truly believe that as time passes he will become more reasonable. Nobody can deny his careless good nature, and mercifully he has so many more important matters to consider that he will not concentrate on us. We must be discreet, but we can yet meet — here in these rooms, which when you are in London will be barred to all others. Who is to know if you ride up from Cobham, not in that great coach, but on horseback? It is not necessary to stay in your Bowling Green apartment. There are inns where you would not be noticed above any other traveller.”

  This sensible scheme delighted Lennox. They sat together on the window-seat and made their plans. On these stealthy visits he must, Frances instructed, wear sober clothes. He must stay at quiet, unfashionable inns where it was unlikely he would meet any of his friends, and when he visited her it must be under cover of darkness.

  As they talked, Lennox had his arm about her, and her head was on his shoulder. When he kissed her she experienced a delicious pleasure and responded to him as she had never been able to respond to the King. It was an exquisite satisfaction to her.

  “Don’t look too far ahead,” she urged, pressing upon him the creed which had always been hers. “It is wonderful the way things turn out, if one does not worry too much. Though I have been worried, terribly worried lately.”

  “Not any longer,” Lennox said masterfully. “We are not the King’s chattels.”

  They parted that day with mingled hope and love and grief. Lennox promised that he would ride up to London the following week. It would be wise, they agreed, if he now left London without delay, since to linger would be to arouse the King’s anger. But she would wear his ring, Frances promised, for he had already told her of a diamond-surrounded sapphire which had belonged to his mother, and which, as it had fitted her slender finger, should also fit Frances’. Lennox promised either to send the ring by trusted messenger or to bring it with him on his next visit.

  So with lingering embraces they took leave of each other, having no reason to suspect that before their next meeting yet another disaster was to fall upon London.

  That week at Court was even gayer than usual, and Frances danced at a great ball given in honour of the Queen’s birthday, as though the meaning of care was unknown to her. And indeed, having taken a decisive step, knowing that her betrothal was openly acknowledged, she did feel a thousand times happier.

  Lennox, as good as his word, had despatched a messenger from Cobham with a small, heavily-sealed package, and when Frances opened it there was the beautiful sapphire accompanied by Lennox’s first love letter, in which he told her that she was his treasure, the heart of his heart.

  Frances wore her ring openly and triumphantly. The Queen admired it. The King looked glum but made no comment. Frances’ fellow maids-of-honour all congratulated her. Kind Lady Denham, whose tapestry-work was famous, promised her that she should have a beautiful screen as a wedding-present. Lady Suffolk supposed that her wedding would be the big event of the following spring.

  Brilliant though the ball was, the Queen, who was in mourning for her mother, could not take part in the dancing, but sat on a dais with the King, who out of respect was also unable to dance. Frances wore a black and silver lace gown which she and her maid had fashioned, and looked more beautiful than anyone else. A few evenings later the Court attended a play at Drury Lane, and Frances wore her hair in a new style. “Very fine,” as Pepys recorded, “done up with puffs as my wife calls it.” It was a style which did not commend itself to him, though it gave the effect of golden butterfly wings. Frances st
ill acted her butterfly part, though her mind was preoccupied with her dreams.

  That night she was restlessly unable to sleep, and, gazing out of her window, she saw to her astonishment that there was a deep red light above the buildings which seemed to be spreading over the City. Two years before there had been a strange light in the sky, but that had been caused by a comet, which according to the astrologers foretold many ills — war, fire, pestilence and disaster. War there still was, and pestilence there had been. Surely, thought Frances fearfully, this could not be yet a second warning from heaven?

  But then she remembered hearing some talk of a fire which had started in a baker’s shop in Pudding Lane, a district unknown to Frances. The flames, it was said, were proving difficult to quench. But that in the case of a London fire was always a problem, since the streets were so narrow and the wooden eaves of the houses almost met across the thoroughfares. It looked as though this wide-spreading fire must be causing much havoc.

  Thereafter, all Londoners took part in a fantastic nightmare. The stench of burning buildings was almost intolerable as the fire spread onwards to Cheapside devouring all before it, whole streets and many charming gardens as well as the houses of rich and poor alike.

  The Thames was congested with boats of every description, loaded with the unfortunate people who had been helping to save their homes, and now crouched amongst the odd pieces of furniture they had been able to rescue.

  The Lord Mayor, who was in ostensible control, was half-demented and issued orders that nobody obeyed. Swarms of distracted citizens streamed past Whitehall towards Charing and Piccadilly. Frances heard with horror that the fire had attacked London Bridge and that houses and warehouses built upon it had all been destroyed, though the bridge itself, being built of stone, was inviolate. There was talk of moving the Court to St. James’s, as Whitehall itself was said to be threatened, and she saw some of the most valuable royal treasures loaded upon carts, which drove off to Hampton Court. She also saw the King at his best, and the thought came to her that if she could have ever loved him she must have loved him now.