Lady on the Coin

by Margaret Campbell Barnes

  Mistress Stuart shrugged. “You cannot expect men to feel as we do, and if it were not Louise de Kéroualle, it would be somebody else. Neither grief for Madame nor consideration for the Queen will prevent the King from seeking new mistresses.”

  “The more I think of the Queen, the more grateful I am for my own happiness,” Frances said. “I deserve it far less than she does.”

  “As though happiness is bestowed upon the deserving. It is more generally the reverse.”

  Frances was fain to agree that this was true. The decrees of fate were bewildering. She was the more bewildered, not knowing whether to rate it as good or ill fortune when the King at length decided to send Lennox on an important mission. He was appointed Ambassador Extraordinary to Denmark with the object of forming an alliance with the English and the French against Holland.

  Lennox was jubilant. This was better than Poland, or than Italy, which he had coveted later. Now he could forgive Charles for refusing him these appointments, and even believe in the stated reasons for such refusals, since this embassy to Denmark was to be distinguished by a lavish magnificence consistent with sending as its Ambassador one of exalted rank, who was by birth one of the Royal House of Stuart.

  “But it’s so far away,” lamented Frances, for the first time wishing she could hold him back.

  “Not so far as Poland, sweet, and no farther.”

  “It seems farther because it is all by sea — a dreadful passage so ’tis said. How long will you be away?”

  “It’s impossible to be sure — some months, perhaps a year.”

  “If it is as long as a year I shall come out to you. I care not how terrible or dangerous the voyage may be.”

  Her face was strained and her eyes glistened with tears as Lennox said soothingly: “It is scarce likely to be so long — not unless the Danes prove so obdurate against this alliance that no living soul can prevail with them. But I have no doubt of myself, for the longing I shall be in to return to you will give me such eloquence and such application that there will be no holding out against me. How could I have a better spur than to regain all my lost happiness here?”

  “I wish I did not care for you so much, depend on you so much,” Frances sighed, and pulled his arms tighter around her.

  “But what a misery I should be in if you did not. How could I leave you if I thought another could take my place with you?”

  “Oh, as for that you can go with an unclouded mind. No one individual ever did interest me to a consuming extent, and since we married it has been only play-acting when I showed anyone even a slight interest. As the country people here say, all my eggs are in one basket.”

  “Try to be glad,” he urged, “that I am at last being given the chance to show that I can be of real value. Then there will be future appointments which won’t take me so far away from you.”

  “How can you tell? It might be Siberia next time, and even Denmark will be sufficiently comfortless. Something assures me that you won’t like it there. I expect Will Shakespeare drew a very true picture of the Danes when he wrote Hamlet. All gloom and vengeance.”

  Lennox smiled at her inconsequence and then became serious. “It’s the old story, sweet: apart from the distinction which I own I covet, there is the money which will go far to clear our debts and set us up in ease. But this I shall leave in your hands, for you are as prone to save as I am to spend.”

  “I shan’t have any temptation to spend,” Frances mourned. “What pleasure would it be for me to entertain without you, and what inducement to buy new, fine clothes when you are not here to see me wear them?”

  She did, however, try to show some enthusiasm as the days passed, for much though he hated to part from her, Lennox was elated. At last Charles had shown some recognition of his ambition and diligence, which Lennox since his marriage had endeavoured to impress upon him. Frances knew that had he been content with herself and Cobham and his responsibilities in Scotland she would have admired him less. She could not expect or genuinely wish him to be so engrossed with her that all ambition was stifled. Men, according to her creed, had to be ambitious in order to fulfil themselves, and it was as necessary for her to be proud of him as to love him. Therefore, thrusting her grief aside, she did her utmost to help him in his preparations for this glittering adventure, and was glad that for once extravagance was justified by his grant from the State, to enable him to make a magnificent impression when he arrived in Denmark.

  His tailor was making him new clothes in the latest fashion, many of them luxuriously fur-trimmed, which was a necessity for the climate. His equipage was breathtakingly splendid. A large staff was to accompany him, including a new associate, one George Henshaw, who was selected as adviser, secretary and general manager.

  Henshaw, who had formerly held similar appointments, was at first somewhat sceptical of this magnificent aristocrat, and was prepared to treat him as a figure-head. But even before they sailed he had changed his mind about Lennox, appreciating his enthusiasm, though he was inclined to think that the ostentatious display was inordinate and would be wasted on the Danish Court. However, the King considered this a necessity, since Lennox was “an Ambassador of the greatest quality that England had ever sent to Denmark”.

  Frances, who had never had tremendous sums of money to spend, and through necessity had become clever at stretching a moderate allowance, was wide-eyed at the expensive liveries provided for the servants, and at the new coaches, each with sets of harness for six horses. The family coach had impressed her with its luxury, but this was as nothing compared to the great velvet one of gold and silver, adorned with fringes, and the secondary coach lined with crimson velvet.

  People came and went at Cobham to whom Frances acted as hostess. There were high officials from the Admiralty and many from the Court, who were impressed by Lennox’s new diplomatic importance. Lord Essex, who had been his friend for years and who was a former ambassador to Denmark, was frequently at Cobham to give Lennox information about the people with whom it was now his mission to establish cordial relations.

  Unknown to Frances, Lennox left her in Essex’s care. He had made a new will of which Essex and Sir Charles Bickerstaffe, another close friend, were joint executors. He arranged that by power of attorney Frances was to receive all moneys accruing to him during his sojourn abroad, and by request the weekly payments by the Exchequer for his ambassadorial expenses were to be paid direct to her.

  Much of this was only fully known to Frances after his departure. By mutual desire they were left alone at Cobham for the last two days. It was April, and the weather was mild and sunny. Hand in hand they roamed the grounds where primroses were massed on the banks and grouped around the trunks of immense trees. In a great grove daffodils and jonquils, planted the year before, were now breaking their sheaths. Soon the laburnum trees would be falling gracefully in a shower of golden rain.

  Lennox’s heart was wrenched by so much beauty, and by the even greater beauty of the girl who walked by his side. He would have given much now to have been taking her with him, and once again assured her that their parting could not be for longer than a year and possibly for less.

  “Are the Danish women very beautiful, I wonder,” Frances said. “I did ask milord Essex, and he says they are not to be compared with those in England, but it could be that he only wishes to please me.”

  “Beautiful or not, you well know that it would matter nothing to me,” Lennox retorted, “unless there should be some face that faintly recalls yours and sets me yearning the more keenly for you.”

  For the last time they went over the great house, and Lennox spoke to the workmen who would have little more to do at Cobham until he returned. The music-room that Frances had desired as an extension of the banqueting hall was now complete. Frances, whom this beautiful room never failed to entrance, gazed at the golden Inigo Jones ceiling and the walls which had been exquisitely marbled by the order and design of Lennox’s uncle. The somewhat inadequate minstrels’ galle
ry alone discontented her.

  “To be truly magnificent and in keeping with the ceiling it should be gilded — but gold leaf is so expensive,” she said.

  “Nothing will be too expensive if this appointment is the first of several. Wouldn’t it divert you to have such work started while I am away?”

  “No.” She shook her head emphatically. “I have loved carrying out our plans together these last years, but it is something we share. I want it to be that way. Not my ideas, but ours. I shall be here from time to time, but I expect I shall live mostly at the Pavilion. The Queen will need me, or she says she will.”

  “The King might be saying the same but for his Breton mistress. I should be grateful to her. Do not try to outshine her, my sweet. You could so easily succeed and turn his thoughts back to you.”

  “I doubt it. Poor, dear Charles is really very lazy, and when he looks back I fancy he wonders at the disproportionate amount of time he spent on me. Of course he likes a little opposition — I believe Louise put up quite a show of modesty and resistance, but Charles knew it was an act and that he would win. With me there was always the doubt, and he must think now that, even had he succeeded, such patience and energy were scarcely worth while.”

  “No,” said Lennox, doing his royal cousin reluctant justice, “you are wrong. He genuinely loved you.”

  “Well then, if he did, it is, as poor ’Rietta said, fortunate that he can be kind — a good friend — when passion has passed.”

  “I wish I were as positive that it had passed. Promise me you will tell me in your letters if he makes any attempt…”

  “I promise you. And you must give me yours, my dearest — not as regards other women, but for your health’s sake…”

  He put his hand across her lips. “Don’t say it. I swear to you. Never more than two bottles, however depressed I may be. I’ve stayed that way for over a year.”

  “I know you have. It sounds formidable to me, but I suppose not to you.”

  “Barely sufficient to moisten a dry throat.”

  “Then don’t, for pity’s sake, allow those Danes to provoke you into making long speeches, or your throat will be too dry for endurance.”

  The jokes were feeble that last day, and that night when they made love Frances was angry with herself because his passion meant comparatively little to her and his tenderness everything.

  “There will be nobody else, I swear it, however long we are apart,” Lennox whispered as he strained her to him. “’Twill not be hard to live as a monk, for there is no woman but yourself that has ever set me afire.”

  Many a time before he had told her so, and she believed him, though wondering and grateful, for in her heart she knew that only one who obsessively loved her would be content with her inadequate response. Yet she adored him, and when they parted the next morning she was steeped in bitter grief.

  The gorgeous cavalcade set off from Cobham, with Frances fighting back her tears as she waved farewell. Later in the day her mother arrived to keep her company, though only for a week.

  During that week Frances gave all the necessary instructions to Jarvis Maplesden, the agent, and Roger Payne, the steward. The workmen were paid and dismissed until their ducal master should be again in residence, and when Frances left it was with the promise that she would be there again in June.

  The great coach bore her and Mistress Stuart to London, and, leaning back in her corner against the velvet cushions, Frances remembered the refuge it had been to her on the night of her elopement, after the frightening adventure of speeding unattended from Whitehall to beyond London Bridge.

  Wonderful Lennox had been to her on that eventful night, and wonderful ever since then.

  For a long while Mistress Stuart respected her daughter’s silence, glancing at her sympathetically from time to time. Frances’ eyes were closed, and she looked pathetically limp.

  “Try to take each day as it comes,” Mistress Stuart ventured at last, “and you will be surprised how quickly they fly.”

  Frances opened her eyes and looked at her mother with a dazed expression. “Oh yes, Maman. I am sure they will,” she agreed, “but I wasn’t thinking of Lennox just then — but of the other Charles.”

  “The King? Oh, my dear Frances, I am sure you need not worry. It must be so clear to him by now that Lennox alone has your heart. He has not sent him off to Denmark, as I have heard some ill-conditioned people whisper, in order to get rid of him.”

  “Of course he hasn’t. If that had been his object, he could have sent my lord to Poland or Italy when he begged him to ages ago. I was thinking gratefully of the King, because at last he has seen fit to reward one who will be diligent and faithful on his behalf.” And then, with a short laugh, Frances added: “But if there had been any such design, if I were a treacherous wife willing to gratify him in my lord’s absence, how — how disconcerted he would be when he at last possessed me.”

  Mistress Stuart was slightly scandalized. “What an extraordinary thing to say,” she reproved. “But then you so often say extraordinary things.”

  “Do I, Maman? But perhaps my thoughts are even more extraordinary — sometimes. The King in not possessing me was, I dare say, more fortunate than he realizes.”

  “Really, Frances! I don’t understand you. To hear you, one might think…”

  “What?” enquired Frances, fixing her with her bright eyes.

  “Well — er — I hardly know — that you were cold and unloving…”

  “Never that! But, Maman, there are different ways of loving, are there not? Tell me, with you and my father, was it a wild, fierce ecstasy?”

  Mistress Stuart made an effort to cast her mind back to youthful raptures now almost entirely forgotten.

  “But certainly,” she said without hesitation. And then, believing she probed Frances’ thoughts: “My dear child! A loving wife can never give her husband too much. Does not the Church teach us that married love is sacred, a sacrament — that all is sanctioned within marriage. You must not be ashamed or fancy a sin where there is none.”

  “I do not fancy that, Maman,” Frances said truthfully, and her eyes were sad.

  Twenty-Four

  Throughout that summer, spent mainly with the Court at Windsor, Frances strove to be reasonably happy. This seemed an obligation since her husband in his letters urged cheerfulness upon her. They were both young, Lennox wrote, and they had all their lives before them. Soon this separation would be over and in time to come would seem no more than a bad dream.

  Frances believed him.

  “Oh, why did I believe him?” she cried heartbrokenly, less than a year later.

  Why hadn’t some instinct warned her that the long lifetime together was a myth, and that his days were numbered? Then, whatever the claims of her Court appointment, she would have travelled to him, braving the long journey, making nothing of the headaches, the sickness that when she travelled was inevitable.

  With no such prescience, patience had seemed a merit, and she counted each day that passed as one that lessened the time of separation. From her point of view nothing could be better than that Lennox should dislike Denmark, and yet be making such good progress with the diplomatic negotiations. Not unsure of him, she yet knew that to men, especially to men such as Lennox, women were not essential, whereas to her life without him was a shadow-show. But she wanted the King to be proud of him.

  And so he was, and astonished, too, when reports of the progress Lennox made came through in the despatches sent from Copenhagen.

  When Lennox did make friends they were true to him. Henshaw had speedily become his devoted adherent, and had written of him glowingly, assuring Lord Arlington, the Secretary of State, that the Duke was so competent there was scarce anything left for him to do. It was Lennox in person who had treated with the Danish statesmen and who had impressed them with his capacity.

  Charles, reluctantly generous, made Frances happy by his belated appreciation of her husband. The Queen, sympathizing f
ully with her, had taken care to repeat every word of praise that the King uttered.

  “He knows now that he was mistaken,” Catherine said, “and that you made a wise choice. When Lennox returns there will be real friendship between them and his gifts as an ambassador will not be neglected.”

  Frances had her own part to do and was assiduous in her application to her husband’s concerns, accounting to him for all the money which came into her hands. Roger Payne, who was devoted to Lennox, wrote of Frances to him with unstinted admiration. The Duchess, he stated, was “the only instrumental cause of clearing all difficulties in your business, and the serving of Your Grace’s interests here.”

  Frances divided her time between Court life and life at Cobham. Every letter from Lennox was an illustration of his love for her — his “dearest Heart”.

  Jarvis Maplesden was instructed to hand over to her Lennox’s own coach horses, as Frances’ set of greys, he thought, must be jaded, while his had now been sufficiently rested. Maplesden assured Lennox, when he answered his letter, that on leaving Cobham after her latest stay there Frances had gone off in the coach driven by the six rested horses.

  Later, hearing that she was occupying herself with redecoration to the Whitehall Pavilion, Lennox sent instruction for five hundred pounds to be used for this purpose. Frances knew that she could effect all the improvements necessary for less than half this sum.

  And so the months passed, so purposelessly, so trivially when seen in retrospect. There were the hunting parties at Windsor, the balls, the masquerades. Frances had felt remorseful sometimes because her life was so much more pleasurable than her husband’s, who found the climate and the Danes thoroughly uncongenial. “Never was a man so weary of a place as I am of this,” he wrote to Lord Essex. Henshaw was equally emphatic. “This,” he complained, “is one of the dullest places that ever mortals laid out their precious minutes in.” But all was going well, and both men hoped that their mission would be completed by the spring.