The French Mistress
Page 1
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Author’s Note
QUESTIONS FOR DISCUSSION
Praise for the Novels of Susan Holloway Scott
The King’s Favorite
An Historical Novels Review Editor’s Choice
“This is a wild joyride through Restoration England, with Nell firmly gripping the reins. Susan Holloway Scott is so intuitive with period language and so involved in the psyches of her characters, that you are at all times there with them, seeing what they’re seeing, feeling what they’re feeling—and always, always rooting for the petite whirlwind of a heroine.”—Robin Maxwell, author of Mademoiselle Boleyn
“This is an entertaining . . . fictionalized memoir that brings alive from an ‘insider’s’ perspective a transformation period in English history as Cromwell is out and the Stuarts are back in. Nell comes across as intelligent and witty as she uses double entendres to get the better of hypocrites who claim to know what is morally best for others (sounds so contemporarily familiar). Genre fans will appreciate the life and times of The King’s Favorite, as the ‘Duchess’ of biographical fiction Susan Holloway Scott provides an insightful seventeenth-century tale.”
—Midwest Book Review
“Witty and fascinating, this fast-paced tale brilliantly conjures the bawdy, glorious court of Charles II as well as the gritty reality of seventeenth-century London. Natural storyteller Susan Holloway Scott handles her subject with thrilling expertise—her Nell Gwyn is at once outrageous, tender, and unforgettable. The King’s Favorite is a luscious read.”—Susan Fraser King, author of Lady Macbeth continued . . .
Praise for
Royal Harlot
An Historical Novels Review Editor’s Choice
“Having previously provided a fictional memoir of Sarah, first Duchess of Marlborough, Scott brings to vivid life another of the seventeenth century’s most notorious, brazen, and powerful females. If anything, Royal Harlot is an even more assured, nuanced, and colorful portrait of a woman and her age. . . . In her intriguing portrayal, Scott tempers Barbara’s rapacious sexuality while presenting a Charles who seems far less frustrated with her tempestuousness than the historical record indicates. And although the real Barbara was better known for her ambition and avarice than her maternal devotion, the novelist incorporates her motherhood to good effect. Among this novel’s many strengths are Scott’s impressive depiction of time and place, her evocation of the Restoration-era mind-set, the exuberance of the period, and her sure, succinct presentation of complex historical events. The reader can well believe that this is a memoir penned by a woman who—in reality—was clearly too busy living to ever write one!”
—Margaret Barr, The Historical Novels Review (Editor’s Choice Pick)
“As in her popular Duchess, Scott captures in her latest historical novel the brilliance and hard beauty of Barbara Palmer (Lady Castlemaine), the Merry Monarch’s most famous and enduring mistress. . . . Scott finds a careful balance in Barbara, not salvaging her as a sinner, but giving her something of a heart under all that reputation.”
—Publishers Weekly
“The Countess of Castlemaine, labeled the Great Harlot of Charles II, never denies or regrets her nature in this fascinating rendering of an outrageous love affair that defies convention and public outrage in Restoration England. . . . Relating the details of Barbara’s fictionalized life, the author takes into account the historical events and unusual influence of a powerful woman in the Restoration court, fleshing out the countess’s adventures with gusto, her flaws all the more glaring in the waning years of her power. All in all, this is a thorough and imaginative re-creation of Palmer’s long career and her extraordinary talent for manipulating circumstances to her own advantage, an informative and plausible treatment of the controversial life of a successful woman in a man’s world.”—Curled Up with a Good Book
Praise for
Duchess
Named a Booksense Notable Book by the American Booksellers Association
“Wonderful . . . whisks the reader into a period rife with intrigue, love, sex, war, and religious strife.”
—The Historical Novels Review (Editor’s Choice Pick)
“All the trappings of supermarket tabloids: intrigue, treachery, deceit, and sexual scandals.”—Publishers Weekly
“Susan Holloway Scott has brought to life the racy world of post-Restoration England in her richly researched and beautifully written Duchess.”—Karen Harper, author of The First Princess of Wales
“No dry dust of history here, but a vivid portrait of an intriguing woman with all her flaws and strengths. Rich in period detail, the novel also has all the ingredients necessary for a compelling read: conflict, suspense, intrigue, and the romance between Sarah and John Churchill, one of history’s great love stories.”—Susan Carroll, author of The Huntress
“Compelling; it grips the reader from the very first sentence and never lets go. Scott does a wonderful job of bringing Lady Sarah and her world to life.”—Jeanne Kalogridis, author of I, Mona Lisa
“As wickedly entertaining as Sarah Churchill herself. . . . Scott brings Sarah blazingly alive in all her sharp-edged beauty and determination. Not to be missed!”—Mary Jo Putney, author of A Distant Magic
• ALSO BY SUSAN HOLLOWAY SCOTT •
THE KING’S FAVORITE
A Novel of Nell Gwyn and King Charles II
ROYAL HARLOT
A Novel of the Countess of Castlemaine and King Charles II
DUCHESS
A Novel of Sarah Churchill
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First published by New American Library,
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First Printing, July 2009
Copyright © S
usan Holloway Scott, 2009
Readers guide copyright © Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 2009
All rights reserved
REGISTERED TRADEMARK—MARCA REGISTRADA
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA:
Scott, Susan Holloway.
The French Mistress: a novel of the Duchess of Portsmouth &
King Charles II/ by Susan Holloway Scott.
p. cm.
eISBN : 978-1-101-08218-8
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
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For L.C., the other nerdy history girl.
Prologue
LONDON
June 1685
You have heard much wickedness spoken of me, haven’t you?
Don’t pretend otherwise, I beg you, for long ago I learned to see dissemblers for what they are. I know the truth, just as I know every word and breath of the hateful slanders that have been hurled at me. It is what comes of being a loyal daughter of France, here in this foreign land. I cannot change who I am, or what I have done. The English will always despise me, and that cannot be changed, either.
It was not always so, of course. Once, before I’d gone to Versailles and the great court of King Louis XIV, I was a girl like any other, shy and trembling, innocent of the power of my nascent beauty. But how then could I have guessed my future, or how my fate, my fortune, my very heart, would carry me across the cold gray water and into the land of my enemies? How could I have foreseen that I would come to love one king so that I might please another?
Fate, fortune, and games of the heart. None of it means anything now. All I can offer to you is the truth. The truth, as I swear to it by every star in Our Lady’s heaven.
Whether you will choose to believe my telling, or lap up the lies of others—ah, that will fall on your conscience alone. Mine, you see, is clear.
And so I will begin.
Chapter One
BRITTANY, NEAR BREST
October 1668
I leaned a little farther from the window of my chamber, over the curling red ivy and the stone sill warmed by the late-autumn sun. All around me lay my family’s lands, the fields cropped close and brown after harvest, and beyond that, in the distance, the slip of silvery sea. For eighteen years, this had been the length and breadth of my world, but now, today, that would change.
I pushed the window more widely open to look down at the hired carriage that was to bear me away. A groom held the heads of the leading horses while two footmen hoisted the well-worn traveling trunks (once my mother’s, and now mine) with my belongings and lashed them onto the back. I could hear Papa in the hall, loudly delivering directions to the carriage’s driver while my father’s dogs yipped and yapped with excitement over so much commotion.
I laughed softly, unable to contain my delight. I had just passed my eighteenth birthday, and finally I’d have what I’d always wanted: within the hour, I would begin my journey to Paris, and take my place at the royal Court of Louis XIV.
“Louise, please, away from that window,” Maman said as she entered my chamber, clapping her hands briskly together to garner my attention. “If your father sees you displaying yourself like some ill-bred harlot, he’ll change his mind, and keep you here, as you’d deserve.”
“Yes, Maman,” I said, swiftly drawing myself back into the room and adding a small curtsy of contrition for good measure. I’d not risk anything to vex my parents now, not with my dream so near to my grasp. “As you say, Maman.”
Maman frowned, and traced a small circle in the air before me. “Turn about, turn about,” she ordered. “Let me see you.”
Dutifully I turned for her, letting her judge me this final time. In my opinion, there’d be little for her to fault. The petticoat and jacket for my journey had been newly made to Maman’s own exacting taste, a soft yet sturdy blue trimmed with burgundy velvet ribbons, and cut to show me as she wished me to be, modest and well-bred. Around my throat were the only jewels I owned, a strand of coral beads with a small gold crucifix, less for ornament than as protection against the wickedness and sin Maman was sure I’d encounter at Court. My thick dark hair was drawn back so tightly from my face that not a single wayward curl betrayed itself, the thick plaits pinned into a knot and hidden beneath a starched linen coif edged with a narrow band of lace.
I was proud of my appearance, and why shouldn’t I be? Everything proclaimed me to be exactly what I was, the elder daughter of the Comte de Keroualle and the granddaughter of the Marquis de Timeur. I was a sweet-faced virgin from Brittany, fresh as dew from my education under the holy sisters of the Convent of St. Ursula Lesneven, and as achingly innocent as I could be of the great world beyond my father’s lands.
Yet Maman’s face showed no pleasure in me, nor approval. It was often that way. Upon first meeting, most people remarked on my mother’s piety and saintly resignation long before they noticed her beauty, a most rare thing in a woman, and I seldom met her exacting standards.
“Where are your gloves, Louise?” she asked. “No lady would be without them.”
“They’re here, Maman,” I said, retrieving them from the top of the chest. “I haven’t put them on yet because the day is so warm.”
“The day’s warmth should be as nothing to your modesty, Louise.” She sighed, as if my uncovered hands were the most grievous disappointment imaginable. Perhaps they were. She dressed herself with sober elegance, and if the dark colors and plain linen collars and full sleeves that she favored were no longer stylish, they were always immaculate, with never so much as a smudge, much like Maman herself.
“Is it any wonder,” she continued, “that I pray so much for the Blessed Mother to guide you where I have failed?”
“You’ve not failed, Maman.” At once I felt the familiar, dampening guilt that always plagued me where Maman was concerned. She was endlessly good, and I would never be good enough, and that truth was a sorry burden for any daughter to bear. “My sins come from my own weakness, not yours.”
She shook her head and sighed wearily at the trials of having such a daughter. “You must make the most of this opportunity, Louise. You have great beauty, a gift from the heavens. In Paris the gentlemen will gather to you like bees to the sweetest blossom. You must take care, and not be misled by idle gallantry or a handsome, laughing face. A sober gentleman of rank and honor, Louise. That is what you must choose for your husband. If only your father—”
“I know, Maman,” I said quickly, hoping to avoid once again hearing the misfortunes of our family. During the civil wars known as the Fronde, my father had supported the royal family and fought for the young King Louis, as was just and right, but with great sacrifices to his personal estate.
Once the king was restored to power, Papa had been too proud to join the other nobles in Paris clamoring for restitution in return for loyalty, and thus no lucrative appointments or gifts of gold had found their way to
our distant château. To Papa’s endless regret, there had been barely enough money to provide my older brother, Sebastien, with an officer’s commission once he’d finished his schooling, and none left now to offer suitable dowries for me or my sister, nor even to admit us to a suitable convent as brides of Christ.
Instead I’d been made to understand that my future must be of my own construction. Though I would be paid one hundred and fifty livres a year for being a maid of honor—an amazing sum to me at that time!—that was as nothing for my future, and besides, it would soon be consumed by the staggering costs of living in Paris. Now I must not only beguile a wealthy, honorable gentleman into wedding me for my own sake alone, but also persuade him to share his gold with my parents and support them in their dotage, as any dutiful son would: a weighty responsibility indeed for my youthful shoulders.
“I know what is expected of me, Maman,” I said. “I know what—”
“You know, you know, you know,” Maman repeated in a dolor ous singsong. “Oh, Louise, if only you were truly as wise as you claim! Do you know the burden these fine new clothes of yours have placed upon your poor father? Do you know how we will be forced to dine on mutton and turnips so that you might shine before the gallants at the Louvre?”
“But I do know, Maman,” I said earnestly, though with the blind optimism of youth I doubted very much that our château’s cook would be expected to prepare turnips and mutton. “And I will be ever grateful to you and Papa for—”