Lady on the Coin

by Margaret Campbell Barnes

  The Queen’s hand rested for an instant on Frances’ bright hair. She had no reproaches for her, or at least none other than the inevitable: “If only you had told me!”

  “Oh, I wish I had. I wish I had.”

  “And now,” pondered Catherine, “what can be done to help you and your unfortunate lover?”

  “If you would but intercede for me, Madame, that I may marry him and leave the Court; or if that is too much to ask, that I may be allowed to retire into a convent. Then, perhaps, the King will pardon Lennox.”

  The Queen shook her head doubtingly. “It would be better for you to marry the Duke,” she said.

  “But how can I? The King has forbidden it until Lennox can find this vast sum of money to settle on me, and that will be a matter of years.”

  “To advise marriage, and a hasty marriage, is a great responsibility,” the Queen said, gazing searchingly at Frances. “Are you certain that you truly care for this young man? You must not marry him as a means of escape. You must love him, Frances.”

  “I do, oh I do!” Frances vowed.

  “It is not easy for me to help you. Not easy for any wife, royal or otherwise, to defy her husband, and yet how can I stand aside and see your life ruined? I am very fond of you. I trust you and I believe you to be chaste.”

  “There has never been anyone,” Frances said simply.

  “That is as I supposed, and I will intercede for you, though I do not promise immediate results. You must both have patience.” And then the Queen added meaningly: “There would be more hope of success were you already wed.”

  Still kneeling on the floor with her head against the Queen’s knee, Frances was deep in thought. She realized that she could not expect more explicit advice. Already the Queen must feel that her loyalty as a wife had been strained to the utmost.

  “Will the King ever forgive me?” Frances wondered, and the Queen replied:

  “There are few who have gainsaid him that he has not forgiven — eventually. His is not a revengeful nature.”

  “Oh, Madame, I know it,” Frances agreed eagerly. “He can be the very soul of kindness, and this fancy he has for me will soon be forgotten when I am not constantly in his sight.”

  “We can but hope so. Do not think I wholly blame him. Whatever your motive or past motive, you have tempted him with your promising ways, and there are few men who could resist such temptation. If you marry the Duke I do beg of you to give him no cause for jealousy by your kindness to others.”

  “There will be no such trouble,” Frances avowed confidently. “Men are well enough as companions, to talk to, as dancing partners, but I have never wanted more from them, or wished to give more. In marriage, of course, it is different. Then it is a wife’s duty to give all.”

  The Queen smiled and sighed. She, herself, was a passionate woman, and the full force of her passion was given to her husband. Frances, she suspected, was of a very different nature. She was warm-hearted, she would make a good wife, but it was unlikely that physical union would stir her to the depths. Would it be on her children that she concentrated the full force of her love? Catherine did not suspect that Frances’ great yearning was set upon something inanimate — a home such as she had lost before seeing it.

  “Keep to your own rooms for the next few days,” Catherine said. “His Majesty will not seek you there, that I promise you, for he will believe me when I tell him that you are greatly upset. That you have confided in me will act as a check — and a shock. I shall also assure him that even if the Duke were sufficiently foolhardy to risk visiting you, you would not permit it.”

  How forgiving she was, Frances thought, pitying the sadness of the Queen’s lustrous eyes. She had learnt to accept the King’s infidelities, feeling perhaps that her childlessness was a contributory cause for them.

  As Frances rose to her feet the Queen embraced her, and to Frances it was as though she was not only blessed but bidden farewell. It was only after much thought that she sat down at her desk to write Lennox an ill-spelt but eloquent letter in which she told him almost word for word what the Queen had said.

  “She did impress upon me,” Frances wrote, “that the King would be the reddier to pardon, if I were allreddy your wife.”

  The letter despatched, she waited eagerly for a reply, the suspense hard to endure. Within a few days the messenger from Cobham delivered a long letter from Lennox, containing detailed instructions over which Frances pored. She read them several times and memorized them.

  The scheme as outlined by Lennox was simple, but there were one or two suggestions she dismissed as impossible. They would involve others and perhaps to their lasting disgrace. After more thought she called her maid Alice to her and told her she planned to give her a short holiday.

  “A day and a night,” she said. “’Twas only last week you told me you had a new little brother and would fain journey to Islington to see him.”

  “But how can you do without me, Mistress?” Alice asked. “You are not yet well.”

  “Oh, but I feel much better today,” said Frances, having feigned an illness which was largely imaginary. “And Harriet will be here to wait upon me. It will be a good opportunity for you as I shall not be leaving my rooms, and can manage without you. I will give you extra money for a seat on the post-chaise and to buy a present for the baby.”

  Alice could not resist this enticing suggestion and she was profuse in her gratitude. When she had gone Frances sighed with relief, though the long hours of the day stretched before her and seemed as if they would never pass.

  The girl Harriet who waited on her was dismissed before dark set in, and Frances then, in the space of a few hours, had much to accomplish. During the day she had been shaken by occasional fear, but now there was no time for fear. She judged, and rightly, that Barbara Castlemaine was no longer bidding her maid spy upon her. Although her non-attendance at Court was explained by ill-health and the need for rest and quiet, Barbara probably supposed she was in disgrace and was no longer acutely interested in her. With ordinary good fortune, therefore, she should be able to leave the Palace unobserved.

  Her preparations were swift and practical. She could take nothing with her beyond a small parcel to be hidden beneath her cloak. She could not be sure of guarding this, or even of guarding herself, for the danger of the next hour was far from negligible. Had anyone suspected that she was about to embark upon such an adventure there would have been consternation. “But please God,” thought Frances, “nobody will know until I am in safety.”

  Lennox, in his letter, had instructed her to confide in her mother and to borrow one of the Queen Dowager’s coaches, but Mistress Stuart was at Winchester visiting friends there and knew nothing of the latest events in her daughter’s life. After all, those that were most vital had occurred within the space of a week. Mistress Stuart had approved of the betrothal, but had left London at the time of the Great Fire and had not returned to Somerset House. Frances was glad of it, though she would not have called upon her mother for aid even had she been near at hand. She was not even certain that it would have been forthcoming. Mistress Stuart might well have hesitated before incurring the King’s wrath.

  Now would Frances take Alice with her. The girl, being innocent of all knowledge, could not be blamed and would easily find other employment in the Palace.

  It might be possible, Frances supposed, to pick up a hackney coach, but many of these were plied by rogues who could not be trusted to carry an unprotected girl to her destination. On the whole, she judged she would be safer by herself, trusting to the darkness of the night and her own speedy feet.

  The possessions she collected were few enough. A night-robe and a few toilet articles were wrapped in a silk scarf. Then she pondered over the contents of her jewel casket. Some jewels she could take with her, for they had been anniversary presents from admirers, of whom Lennox would feel no jealousy. There were also a few trinkets given by the Queen. But those that were the King’s gifts must be left be
hind.

  “And more than ever angry that will make him,” Frances mused, “but there is no help for it with Lennox to consider. Besides, I never want to see them again.”

  So the pearl necklace and the diamond star, a bracelet studded with emeralds and a jewelled locket containing a miniature of Charles were left in the casket with a scribbled note to say it was to be delivered to the King, the contents being his property. The other jewels Frances distributed about her person, concealing them beneath the dark dress she had selected to wear. Over all she wore a shrouding black cloak, with a hood that covered her hair and could be drawn about her face.

  Thus clad she was ready to start. The night was stormy and this favoured her, though having succeeded in leaving the Palace by a side-door and unobserved, she gasped as the cold air struck upon her.

  Fortunately she knew the way and in a coach had once or twice passed “The Beare at the Bridgefoot”, a well-known tavern on the Southwark side. Dark though the night was, there were lights from many windows, and in the shadow of the houses Frances sped on her way, fearing that at any moment she might be set upon by one of the many thugs armed with knives and daggers who infested the streets.

  Although restorations in the ravaged city were now under way, and the rubble had been cleared, the devastation was appalling, and in the additional disorder there had been many brutal attacks from thieves. Respectable citizens would not venture from their homes, and the coaches of the wealthy were protected by outriders and postilions armed with pistols. In addition, bunches of brawling apprentices were usually abroad, brandishing staves and prepared to use them indiscriminately.

  Frances had unusual courage, but she had heard so many gruesome stories that the chill of fear was upon her. No woman, young or old, of her status had ever been abroad at this hour without protection. Down the Strand she went and towards Ludgate. It seemed to her to be by an especial dispensation from Heaven that the streets were comparatively empty, though for this the weather was responsible. The rain was lashing down and a strong wind tugged at the folds of her cloak, which she clutched around her. At last she was at Ludgate; and although a few who passed had brushed against her, nobody had molested her, intent as they were on battling with the wind and the rain.

  London Bridge was a sorry sight, with all the houses and buildings that had once fringed it now in ashes. The river was high here, and as Frances crossed the bridge a watery-looking moon came forth from behind banked-up clouds and she saw the darkness of the water. A man, burly and roughly clad, came level with her, and tried to peer into her face, he clutched at her cloak, but he was very drunk, and as Frances desperately pushed him away he slid on the wet stone and gave her the chance to run.

  She was still running and was drawing her breath in painful gasps as she arrived at “The Beare at the Bridgefoot”. There she saw Lennox’s coach, and, wild though the night was, he was pacing up and down outside in his impatience.

  At first when Frances breathlessly uttered his name she did not attract his attention, but then she touched his arm and he stared at her incredulously, realizing that she had come on foot and was drenched beneath the shrouding cloak. Her hood fell back and he saw her pale face and wide eyes and wet strands of bright hair.

  “What happened? For the love of God what happened?” he demanded.

  “Nothing. I am here. I am safe.” The dangerous journey accomplished, Frances was only overjoyed to see him again.

  “But alone — and you walked! The danger…”

  “Such as it was, it is over. Should we delay, my lord?”

  “Not for one minute!” He handed her into the coach, and the coachman whipped up the horses. Lennox tenderly removed Frances’ drenched cloak, replacing it with his own.

  “I made no doubt but that your mother would send her servants with you. You should not have ventured. God’s truth! When I think of what could have happened to you! Why did you leave your maid? I deserve to be hanged, drawn and quartered for the peril you were in…”

  Anger at himself and concern for her found expression in a flood of stammering words. Frances, laughing now, put her hand across his mouth.

  “Hush! You could not know. My mother still tarries at Winchester, and perhaps ’tis for the best, as no blame can rest on her. Alice would have been nought but a responsibility. I had no choice but to take the risk.”

  Their lips met and Frances put her arms around his neck. She had no regrets. For the first time in her life she was really free.

  “At Cobham all is in readiness,” Lennox told her, “and the priest will be waiting. The Queen was right. By the time Charles hears that you have gone we shall be man and wife.”

  Twenty

  Frances never forgot her first sight of Cobham Hall, beautiful even in the cold light of a pitiless March morning. It was still very early. They had driven throughout the night along the old Kent and Dover roads, and although six horses were harnessed to the coach they had made slower progress than Lennox had allowed for in his calculations. The coachman was drenched, for all his protective leather livery devised for such weather, so were the postilions, and the horses were exhausted by the time they arrived.

  Frances was comparatively fresh, for she had slept the greater part of the journey, cradled in her lover’s arms. As she descended from the coach, she stood for a few moments as though spellbound, and not even Lennox shared the most wonderful moment of her life. Here it was at last, the home of which she had so often dreamed, though in her imagination it had been a composite picture of her parents’ house in Scotland and the old engraving and sketches of Cobham Hall. Neither these pictures nor her imagination had done justice to its beauty.

  With utter satisfaction her gaze dwelt on the mellowed red brick of which the great house was built; on the octagonal turrets, the uneven clusters of Tudor chimneys, the many windows. It was more entrancing than she had dared to expect, and if so on this miserable, rainy morning, how exquisite it would be when the sun shone; when the trees were in leaf and the flowers blooming in the acres of gardens which spread further than her eyes could see.

  Lennox, who had given up a few minutes to concern for the weary horses and praise to the coachman, turned to see Frances standing as though in a happy trance.

  “It is — oh, it is rapturous!” she cried, as he took her hand in his. “There are no words…oh, how happy I shall be to live here with you.”

  She was steeped in a sense of blissful unreality as she stepped over the threshold of her new home. The servant were lined up to receive her, and smiling at them Frances stood there in her plain gown with Lennox’s cloak still around her shoulders, her head bare, and her shoes soiled with the mud of the London streets. When the wedding ceremony was performed in the private chapel a few hours later, it could not have been more simple, with only the head servants at Cobham Hall to witness it. Frances remembered how Lady Suffolk had said that her wedding would be the great fashionable event of the spring, and, thinking of this, she laughed as she gazed at her very new husband, who was now urging her to partake of the elaborate feast which for the whole of the preceding day the servants had been preparing.

  “Not fashionable,” Lennox admitted, “but nevertheless an event which will be talked of for many a long day.”

  By tacit consent they spoke little of the wrath which was certain to fall upon them. Neither was really dismayed when they considered this. There had been no choice for her, Frances considered, as between honour and dishonour.

  “I pin my faith to the Queen,” she said. “She cannot turn the King into a faithful husband, but in other ways she has much influence upon him.”

  What more wonderful place for a honeymoon than Cobham in the spring-time? Love had come to Frances with a great sweetness, and at times it had a fairy-tale quality.

  Together she and her husband studied architectural plans, and the work, which during the last year had come to a standstill, was now started again with a new enthusiasm. Lennox had no secrets from her, for he
soon discovered that he had married not only an extremely beautiful girl, but one who possessed a latent flair for household management, and a talent for stretching money rather than a readiness to allow it to slip through her fingers. Within weeks Frances had thought of many economies, and not such as to unduly restrict Lennox. It would, of course, be years before they were out of debt, she acknowledged, for they were committed to the extensive alteration and redecoration of Cobham, but this in the end would be justified as it would double if not treble the worth of the property, as well as giving them both pride and joy. Frances could see now, if she could not see before, how impossible it would have been for Lennox to raise the money for the fantastic settlement upon which the King had insisted.

  But there were many ways in which the ordinary mechanics of living could be simplified. The house was over-staffed, and even Mrs. Harvest, the head housekeeper, admitted that if some of the rooms in the wings not at present in use were shut up it would be an advantage.

  “Not the beautiful rooms,” Frances said earnestly, “but there are clutters of smaller ones which in time, though it will take years, we shall rebuild and enlarge. Mrs. Harvest has two under-housekeepers, but she is fretted by the younger woman and thinks her not honest. She will be glad to be rid of her. There are so many servants that there is not enough for them to do, and it is the same with the gardeners. The grounds are large, but much is parkland, and I have already seen under-gardeners spending half their time in the stables, where they do but hinder the grooms.”

  “The wages are not large,” Lennox said, touched and amused by her serious expression, but inclined to think that little more than a few pounds would be saved by the clean sweep that she proposed.