Lady on the Coin

by Margaret Campbell Barnes

  “Then you have missed me a little?” Charles asked eagerly.

  “More than a little, and I have sorrowed to be under the ban of your displeasure and to know that I had brought such on my husband.”

  “You are happy with him?” For the first time there was a note of constraint in the King’s voice.

  “Very happy. Do not be angry with me for confessing it.”

  “How could that make me angry. Since you are married to him I should be a churl indeed not to wish you happiness. The madness of love when it is starved and ungratified passes at last, but friendship remains. I know of nobody with whom I could have a happier friendship. However, husbands are apt to be jealous of me, and allowances must be made for them.”

  Frances replied thoughtfully: “I don’t think Lennox will be jealous, or not too jealous. He has great faith in me, and I in him. We would not betray each other. It is true that he is of a serious nature, but I, too, can be serious sometimes. It does not annoy him that at other times I am given to laughter.”

  “If it did, he would be an even greater fool than I take him to be,” said Charles tersely.

  “Oh, Sire, I wish you could be friends for my sake,” Frances pleaded. And then, struck by another thought, she asked, “Does the Queen know of this visit?”

  “Zounds! No! She would be beside herself fearing that all infection had not passed. I shall not tell her for a few days, not wishing to alarm her. But she has talked much of you and has wished these many weeks that we could be reconciled, and you once more about her person.”

  “I wish that too,” Frances owned. “Her Majesty was endlessly kind to me.”

  “Well, we shall see,” The King caressed her hand as he said: “We cannot do without you at Court, and you must not be allowed to bury yourself at Cobham, delightful though it may be.”

  This started Frances on a description of her country home, and the King listened with indulgence thinking that she was like a child with a new toy. But when he heard how she had stood on high ground in the park to watch the Dutch ships sail up the Medway, and afterwards had done what she could to supply Prince Rupert with venison and provisions, and had sent ammunition to Dorset, he applauded her spirit.

  They were thus talking, the King sitting on the side of the big bed with Frances’ hand in his, when Mistress Stuart came in and exclaimed at the sight of him. Then Frances had to tell her how he had rowed down the river and had climbed over the wall. Mistress Stuart scarcely knew whether to be more scandalized or flattered that the King should have undertaken such an exploit. She was glad indeed that her daughter and son-in-law were no longer in disgrace, but somewhat apprehensive as to Lennox’s reactions to this unconventional visit.

  But Lennox took it calmly enough when Frances told him, which was not until the next day, for the King left before he returned, and Lennox was somewhat flushed with now more unaccustomed wine-drinking and was ashamed of himself. Frances, however, had expected this after the several days in which he had only left her in order to search for apothecaries’ shops for lotions to relieve the dreadful irritation of the rash.

  Soon she was out and about again and very delighted the Queen was to see her. Her beauty was only slightly dimmed and a clever use of cosmetics disguised blemishes which gradually became fainter.

  Catherine was charming to Lennox and laughed so heartily over Charles’ unconventional visit to Somerset House, and spoke of it so openly, that nobody could possibly think it was a secret assignation. She watched Frances and Lennox with more attention than they guessed and satisfied herself that they were truly happy and deeply attached to each other. As for the King, it was as the Queen had thought. He was no longer tempestuously in love with Frances, but he did delight in her company, and there was no doubt of his very real fondness for her.

  In the early autumn, after she returned from a stay of some weeks at Cobham, Frances gave a grand supper-party for the King and Queen at Somerset House, and it was then announced that the Queen had been pleased to appoint the Duchess of Lennox and Richmond one of her Ladies of the Bed-Chamber. At the same time, the King bestowed a gift upon her. One of the gold medals struck to celebrate peace with Holland, which bore Charles’ head upon it and Frances in her robes as Britannia. The medal had been set by the King’s goldsmith in a circle of diamonds, and it hung from a long gold chain, also set with diamonds.

  Tactfully, Catherine then presented Lennox with a miniature of herself.

  The Bed-Chamber appointment carried with it the tenancy of a house — a charming Pavilion — in the Bowling Green at Whitehall. Samuel Pepys, calling to see Lennox there by appointment, on business connected with his yacht, described it as a little building with fine rooms. Lennox struck him as “a mighty good-natured man”, but Pepys was disappointed not to see Frances, who was once more at Cobham.

  Indeed, she spent at least half her time there, which might have caused difficulties had her appointment at Court been much more than a sinecure, and had the King been less engrossed with the sparkling Nell Gwyn.

  Barbara Castlemaine had fallen into the background, though the King was never to discard her altogether. In fact, in order to atone for his neglect of her, she was soon given a new title, that of the Duchess of Cleveland, which was no doubt some satisfaction to her, as she could now claim a rank equal to Frances’. Together with the title was the gift of the fabulous Palace of Nonsuch in Surrey.

  The Queen had no protest to make, for she recognized that title and estate were both payments considered due to the status of a past mistress who had borne the King’s children.

  The wording of the bequest and the new titles bestowed upon Barbara and her children stated that these were due because of the great services rendered to the Crown by Barbara’s father and other members of her family. Naturally it deceived nobody.

  Twenty-Two

  The golden years, as Frances herself called them, swept past with speed. She was conscious of this speed and wished foolishly that she could bid Time stay to loiter for a while. It seemed to her that she had barely seen the tight buds of the daffodils and tulips unfold, and walked beneath the lilac and laburnum trees, than it was summer with the roses in full bloom. And then with scarcely a pause the golden leaves from the trees would be scattering on the grass and swirling in clouds as the strong autumn winds stirred them.

  Happy though her marriage was, there were drawbacks, for, although Lennox no longer drank to excess or risked large sums on gambling, there were occasional backslidings for which Frances was prepared and of which she made light. For a girl in her early twenties she was a remarkably sagacious wife, and in his letters when they were apart Lennox gave her every praise. The partings, alas, were far too frequent, and were brought about by Lennox’s various official appointments, and also because he was desperately striving to improve his financial position. Of this he said little to Frances, for she was all too conscious that she had brought him nothing on their marriage, when he was already heavily in debt.

  Several of those debts she had since cleared by her determined economies, but it was impossible to keep up their almost regal position and also to continue with the improvements to Cobham Hall without heavy expenditure.

  Lennox left her to superintend these for a few months when he received word from the Earl of St. Albans, who was in France, that if he would present himself in person at the French Court he would be put in possession of the fief of Aubigny.

  As this would mean a substantial addition to his revenue, Lennox set forth with the least possible delay. Frances might have gone with him but for her Court appointment and her preoccupation with Cobham. His visit was to have been a short one, but various matters combined to lengthen it, and many letters were exchanged while Lennox was a guest of the Queen Dowager. Mistress Stuart was also on a visit there, and Frances might have felt the more disconsolate to be left behind, but that the King had told her he was negotiating for his dear Minette to pay a visit to England.

  “Will that horrid hu
sband of hers allow her to visit England without him?” asked Frances, knowing that but for the Duke of Orleans’ jealousy Henrietta would have paid more than one visit ere now.

  “That of course is the obstacle,” Charles allowed, “but Louis, who seldom interferes and who usually backs his brother even when he is at fault, assures me he will be adamant about this. Minette will come alone, and the fact that it will be as an ambassador will force Monsieur to agree.”

  “An ambassador?” Frances was puzzled.

  “One who proclaims the goodwill now existing between our two countries,” Charles said glibly.

  Too glibly, for neither Frances nor the Queen, who was present, believed him. But Frances had never been interested in politics and had avoided being used as a pawn in any such complicated game, and the Queen from the first had been scrupulously careful not to ask questions. Hearing much of the way in which the Queen Dowager had interfered in State affairs with the result that many said she was responsible for the downfall and execution of Charles I, Catherine had decided that she would hold aloof unless her husband confided in her from choice, in which case she would show him by her discretion that she was worthy of confidence.

  After much procrastination, Lennox was awarded his hereditary dues. Even then he delayed his return, for news reached him through his friends Lord Ashley and Lord Bath that a new embassy was being sent to Poland, and that an application to be appointed Ambassador might be favourably received by the King, more especially if this were made by letter, for there was no denying that, although Charles was not now sensually in love with Frances, he continued to resent her husband.

  When Lennox’s application was refused, he returned to England and to Cobham, where Frances was eagerly awaiting him.

  There was much for him to see, for the work on the central building had made good progress during his absence, and on that first day of his arrival there was also much to talk about. Frances, naturally, wanted to hear all that Lennox could tell her about the Duchess of Orleans, about Mistress Stuart and her sister and brother. Sophie’s betrothal to Sir Henry Bulkeley, a younger son of Viscount Bulkeley, had recently been announced. It was not a particularly brilliant marriage, though his father was Master of the King’s Household, but Sophie was in love and very happy, and Frances was delighted because on her marriage she would be living in England.

  “Though I have no doubt the Queen Dowager will miss her,” she said. “She is so fond of Sophie, and she does so hate changes in her household.”

  “The Queen Dowager is looking very frail,” Lennox observed. “She has aged much recently. She is an amazingly good friend, and so is Madame, who wrote herself to the King with the wish to forward my Polish application. But, as you have heard from Bath, I have been refused.”

  “I feel certain that was not out of enmity,” Frances said.

  “For what other reason then? I have had sufficient administrative and diplomatic experience in Dorset and Scotland.”

  “Dearest, I think the King is sincere when he says that such appointments are unworthy of your rank. You are, after all, his cousin, and a lesser man could well fill this post. Besides — oh, there are other reasons. We are like to be separated as it is when you are in Scotland on business there, and the King knows this will be a grief to me. How could I be with you in Poland? We knew when the Queen appointed me as one of her Bed-Chamber ladies that it would keep me in England.”

  Lennox smiled sardonically. “Not even at your word can I believe that Charles would be moved to sympathetic dolour were we separated. I grant that his love of you has become more rational, but he takes great pleasure in your company, of which he would have more were I away.”

  “But he would dislike to seem responsible,” Frances argued. “Usually I know when the King is sincere, and so does the Queen. She and I have talked of this. If you are given a European appointment it will be as an Ambassador Extraordinary. Even then the King might hesitate before sending you so far away.”

  “Because he has so much fondness for me that he would fain keep me about his person? My sweet, why try to disguise the truth. We both know that in his eyes I am a dull dog. Time after time I have seen him look from you to me with genuine puzzlement as to how you can prefer me to him as a lover.”

  “I cannot imagine why that should perplex him,” cried Frances indignantly. “You are much younger, you are much better looking and you love me and me alone. How can he think that a woman prefers to share a lover?”

  “But such a lover!” Lennox mocked. “Charles’ worst enemies do not suggest that he is ill-versed in the sexual arts. Even my Lady Castlemaine, with her extensive experience, has been heard to say that no man is a match for the King in bed.”

  Frances, the fastidious, made a gesture of disgust.

  “How could I ever have admired that woman?” she wondered. “For I did, you know, when I first came to Court. All I can say is that I never coveted the King as a lover, and if he had become mine I could not have endured it. Whereas you, my dear lord, are vastly agreeable to me.” She added with deepening colour: “I hope much that it is so with you.”

  “I find it wretched to be away from you,” he told her. “But you well know the necessity of some such appointment — that is to say, unless Cobham is to go to ruin. My only regret is when I think of the great marriage you could have made.”

  It was the old flirtatious Frances who smiled demurely and cast down her lashes. “But indeed I always had an ambition to be a Duchess, and to be called ‘Your Grace’,” she confessed. “Do not worry too much about the debts. We shall straighten ourselves out in time. We are young and have years ahead of us. All that daunts me is this necessity for partings, and I do understand the King’s reluctance — not because he particularly wants you here, but he would not have it said that he has taken as a model the King in the old Bible story of Uriah the Hittite. He might have been unscrupulous had he still wanted me as much, but praise be to heaven he doesn’t. The small-pox may have been a blessing to me!”

  “Absurd! You are as beautiful as ever.”

  “I wonder — I look at my face in the mirror and I wonder. Perhaps I am still fair only in your eyes, my dearest.”

  “What! With Mulgrave making a perfect ass of himself over you, and openly avowing that I treat you brutally? But for the absurdity of that elegy of his, I’d a mind to call him out for it.”

  “How could you when you were in France? And I dealt with milord Mulgrave. I sent for him and went over those precious verses of his line for line, reading them to him with great expression, so that he was well out of countenance. ‘Wife to a tyrant you by fate are ty’d’,” quoted Frances with scorn. “So that he might no excuse for spreading abroad this calumny, I showed him some of the gifts you had sent me from Paris with the messages attached. By the end I had him on his knees praying for forgiveness. And that was not the end of it, for the Queen also rebuked him. All at Court know the contempt I have for milord Mulgrave and have made a mock of him.”

  “It seems then as though he has been sufficiently punished,” Lennox said, laughing. “He is fortunate, none the less, that I have never greatly concerned myself as to what men say of me. It would be different if calumnies were attached to you.”

  “They were in the past, but not now,” Frances said. “The new story is that my chastity is like to make me dull. The Queen, the Duchess of Buckingham and myself are linked together as three prudes. Yet we are all in love with our husbands, though how poor Mary can be with that heartless Buckingham…”

  The last words brought Frances into her husband’s arms and she clung to him. “It would break my heart were I to be a disappointment to you,” she murmured.

  “My lovely wife, how could you be?”

  Lennox caressed her and the shadow of doubt was dispelled; a not infrequent doubt which was caused solely by her self-knowledge. She did love him dearly and exclusively, but her nature was not a passionate one, and when she willingly surrendered to his desire, she f
elt no urge to provoke it. His tenderness and his companionship, their tastes which were so much in accord, meant far more to her. But for his innate gentleness in his dealings with her, she would, she knew, have recoiled from the act of love, but this never-failing gentleness had set up an adoring gratitude which made all his faults seem trivial. There could never be anyone else for her, that Frances knew, but sometimes she wondered if he were equally well-satisfied. It was true that he told her he was, but she knew that Mary Buckingham’s love for her graceless husband was so consuming that he could ignite a fever in her, and she suspected that Catherine’s passion for Charles was much the same.

  Because Frances was conscious of the lack in herself, she was the more determined to be of value to Lennox in other ways.

  The fact that they were as yet childless was rarely mentioned. Lennox, she was sure, wished for a son, if only because Cobham and the Scottish estates would then descend to a direct heir. But at the same time a family entailed additional expenses and he was not loth to postpone them.

  “I might be jealous if I saw you with a babe in your arms and showering your love on it,” he said on that first night of reunion, as in the curtained four-poster bed he clasped her in his arms.

  “But you are not of a really jealous nature, and how could I love a child better than I love you?” Frances asked.

  “It happens sometimes with women,” Lennox stated, caressing the beautiful, slender body. He might have added that with such sweetly passive women motherhood could give a more intense joy than wifehood, and Frances had grieved desperately, though to her own surprise, when she had suffered a miscarriage. “We can wait. I am well content as it is,” he assured her, and Frances also was content to fall asleep in his arms, for in that great bed designed for marital love she had been often lonely for him.