The French Mistress

by Susan Holloway Scott

  “Thank you, Your Highness,” I said softly. My dear Madame! Even in death, she seemed to be looking after me, and I promised to light another candle to the Virgin Mother on behalf of her soul.

  “You are aware of the devotion shared between Madame and her brother His Majesty the King of England,” he continued. “Although Madame had become one of our family and represented our interests faithfully, her brother trusted her more than any minister or ambassador, and without her nothing would have been accomplished in Dover. You begin to understand, mademoiselle.”

  I nodded, not trusting my voice to reply. My being chosen to accompany Madame to Dover, the lavish new clothes that had been given me, the praise I’d not sought from Lord de Croissy, and the warnings from Madame I’d not wished to hear, even how I’d been permitted to linger at Court after her death without any other place being offered to me. I understood now. I understood everything.

  “We cannot lose that sweet voice in his ear, whispering in favor of France.” He smiled suddenly, the twin crescents of his tiny mustache curving upward. “We would have you be that voice, mademoiselle. The voice of France.”

  “I—I am honored to be chosen, Your Majesty,” I stammered. I tried to remind myself of my ambition, and that this was exactly what I wished, what I wanted, what I’d already agreed with Lord Buckingham. I tried to remember the magic I’d felt when the English king had smiled at me, and better still, when he’d kissed me.

  I tried, and failed, for what was being proposed to me now sounded sordid instead of glorious. There was no mention of me becoming the new queen, and not a breath of love. My maidenhead, casually offered as a token from one king to another: where was the glory in that?

  “It was no choice. There is no other lady who could do this, you see.” He clasped his hands together, his eyes bright with enthusiasm. “His Grace the Duke of Buckingham has already asked for you to accompany him on his return to London to accept a place in the household of Her Majesty the Queen of England, but it is assumed that the king, not the queen, will be most pleased by your appearance in London. Our cousin is fascinated by you, mademoiselle, and again we must praise you on your success at Dover. You will find it easy to achieve a final seduction, but then, who knows more of such affairs than a beautiful young Frenchwoman?”

  He laughed, pleased with his wit and his plan, but my head was full of questions—questions that, because of his exalted rank over me, I could not ask unless he gave me leave.

  “You will be richly rewarded, of course,” he continued, “both by us and by our cousin, who is by all accounts most indulgent with ladies. In return, there will be certain expectations of you. You must make sure that he confides in you as he did in Madame, and relay what he tells you to us. You must take every opportunity to support our cause to him, and dissuade him from returning his sympathies to the Dutch.”

  Again I nodded, overwhelmed. I was not merely to be a gift, a plaything. I was to be a spy in the bed of the King of England, coaxing him ever closer to France, and if I were ever to be discovered—Ah, even I recognized the infinite danger in that.

  Yet still the king continued on. “Most of all, mademoiselle, you must keep your role a secret from the English. They can know none of this, especially not our cousin. No matter what affection you may come to feel for him, your loyalty and your duty to France must always come first.”

  “Yes, Your Majesty,” I said softly, taking his reminder close to my heart. He was my king, and I’d no choice but to obey. I was a Keroualle, and for hundreds of years my family had prided itself on their complete loyalty to the throne. My dear brother had given his life for France. What the king now asked of me was as nothing compared to that.

  “You may rely entirely on me, Your Majesty.” I bowed my head, both in fealty and beneath the terrible burden of my new role. “Entirely.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  ON THE ROAD TO DIEPPE

  September 1670

  Ten days after Madame’s funeral, I found myself in the Duke of Buckingham’s lavish traveling coach on my way to the port at Dieppe, where we would be met by a royal yacht, and carried thence to England. With me I’d a half dozen trunks with all my belongings, including the new gowns I’d acquired before Dover and several others, even more lavish, from the same seamstresses, which had been ordered without my knowledge.

  I hadn’t questioned the sudden appearance of this new finery, any more than I’d questioned how, for the first time in my life, I’d acquired my own lady’s maid, a plain, quiet young woman named Bette. Since my private audience with the king, I’d learned to accept things like these without questioning them. It was all part of the same grand plan that was sending me to England. If what Madame had negotiated was called the Secret Treaty, then surely I’d become the most secret clause attached to it.

  A secret I might be, yes, but I was no longer ignorant of the circumstances of my new situation. Though the king had given me only the most basic facts, others among his ministers had been more forthcoming. From them I learned that the king himself had suggested I be trusted with my new role, based largely on what Madame had confided to him. I was flattered, of course, but I also wondered what exactly Madame, who’d always been so protective of me, had told him, and now, sorrowfully, I’d never be able to ask her myself. The French ministers believed the English king to be a clever, crafty man, but entirely vulnerable where women were concerned. Over and over they congratulated themselves (but not me) on having found a Frenchwoman suitable for their purposes, until I wearily began to feel like the wooden horse of ancient Troy, being drawn to the gates of Whitehall Palace.

  The English gentlemen were no better. The English ambassador, Mr. Montagu, fair crowed, convinced his reports regarding my grace and beauty had brought about my appointment, and would soon also result in an extra measure of royal favor cast his way. I’d letters from Lord Arlington and Sir Thomas Clifford, as well as from their ladies, remembering themselves to me with agreeable welcomes, and doubtless hoping I’d remember them to the king, too. As unfamiliar as I was with the English Court, I doubted that every new attendant there received this amount of attention from ministers of the privy council. In truth it seemed that everyone in London must consider me already at least a royal mistress, as if neither I nor the English king had anything to say in the matter.

  It was, of course, that same royal gentleman whose letter I most desired, just as I realized full well I’d be disappointed. Even in the less formal English Court, His Majesty could scarce be expected to take time from ruling to write to me. For now I must content myself with my memories of Dover, and my heady dreams of the future.

  Helping to tend and nourish those dreams with the greatest care had been His Grace the Duke of Buckingham. With the first version of the new (though false) treaty duly completed by the French and ready to be reviewed again by the English, he had devoted his last weeks in France to being my near-constant squire. I soon learned that while the duke’s once-handsome features had faded, his gift for charming persuasion remained in full, seductive flower. I vow he could coax the fish from the seas and the birds from the sky, if he wished it or, more likely, if he thought he could turn it to his benefit.

  He deftly perceived my loneliness, and how much I yearned to quit the sorrows of the Palais-Royal. He told amusing stories to make me laugh, something I’d nearly forgotten how to do in those melancholy times, and he was never above mimicking others to make his jests more amusing. I ignored Madame’s warnings of how faithless the duke could be, and likewise ignored my own misgivings, not the least of which had been the way he’d grabbed my arm by the canal. Granted, I was young and foolish and more vulnerable than I realized, but he was also quick to see how ready I was to leave off my old world for a new one with more promise, and he fed my ambitions. Whenever he could contrive to be with me, he took care to fill my willing ears with whatever he calculated would please me best—a dubious companion for any lady, as later I would come sadly to understand.


  But then I gladly listened as he praised my face, my form, my grace, and predicted that not just the king, but all England, would come to admire me. He painted himself as my champion, and took full claim for my new advancement. He swore he’d been the one to convince His Most Christian Majesty to part with me. He told me again of his scheme to use me to displace the duchess of Cleveland from favor, and also more of the confidential plans for a royal divorce. He spun wild fancies of banishing the present queen to a distant island for safekeeping, and of me, garbed in cloth of gold and strands of pearls, placed on the throne in her stead—such glorious, romantic fancies that I indulged in again and again until they began to take on the golden luster of reality. In his company, I could forget that I was meant to be a spy (a most perilous forgetfulness), and instead thought only of being loved by a king.

  Three days alone in a coach with the duke, however, had stolen some of the glow from this new champion of mine. At his insistence, we’d traveled without stopping except for refreshment and to change horses, stealing sleep as best we could in the coach.

  Or rather, the duke slept, and I did not. Newly fortified with wine at every stop we made, he sprawled with abandon across the seat opposite from mine in the carriage, perfectly unconscious of my presence. He rested his boots, dirty with the muck of the various inn yards, on the leather cushions, closed his eyes, and instantly snored away, the ends of his mustache blowing gently with each puffing, noisy breath.

  I had never spent any time in such close and constant contact with a gentleman, and as my despairing exhaustion grew, I could not help but feel my own discomfort, and be more convinced than ever that I’d not the fortitude for Christian martyrdom. Weariness sharpened my critical faculties as well, and as the carriage rolled through the countryside, I took note not only of the duke’s ceaseless snoring, but the sourness of his breath, the flecks of tobacco on his waistcoat, and how his linen was not exactly as fresh as a great noble’s should be.

  By the time we finally reached our inn in Dieppe, I could have wept with joy. Politely declining his offer to share dinner, I fled upstairs to my room, undressed and, after washing with Bette’s assistance, fell into a deep sleep, blissful in my duke-free solitude.

  I awoke the next morning greatly refreshed, my room filled with cheery sunlight and Bette drawing back the curtains to my bed to present me with my morning chocolate and biscuits. But along with my breakfast, she brought me disturbing news.

  “The innkeeper wishes me to tell you, mademoiselle,” she said as she handed me a porcelain cup, “that His Grace the Duke of Buckingham departed last night, and sailed for England with the tide.”

  I gasped with surprise. “That cannot be, Bette,” I insisted. “The innkeeper must be mistaken. His Grace would never abandon me like that, and risk displeasing His Majesty.”

  “Forgive me, mademoiselle, but he has,” Bette said sadly. “I did not believe it myself, and after he told me, I asked others to make certain. There was a letter here awaiting His Grace, a letter written addressed in a lady’s hand. His Grace read it as soon as it was presented to him, exclaimed loudly in English, and immediately made plans to find passage and sail.”

  “Then surely he left a letter of explanation for me,” I said promptly. “Doubtless he’d no wish to disturb me last night when he was called away, and chose to explain his departure in a letter. He wouldn’t leave without that courtesy.”

  But Bette only shook her head, the long lappets of her linen cap swaying gently back and forth against her cheeks.

  “Forgive me, mademoiselle, but there is no letter,” she said. “His Grace is gone, and without leaving word for anyone as to when he would return.”

  I dressed at once, determined to find the answer to this mystery for myself. The cold truth brought little comfort. His Grace had in fact received a letter from a lady, his mistress the wanton Countess of Shrewsbury. Waiting in Dover for him to return to England, she had felt that her time had come to be delivered of their bastard, and had written to beseech him to join her as soon as was possible.

  I could now understand his haste on the road from Paris, and why, too, he’d felt such urgency to leave in the night. A woman giving birth is always in peril, no matter whether the child is legitimate or not. But I’d scant sympathy for his abandonment, and none at all for his having done so without so much as a hasty note of explanation or promise to return. He’d not only disappointed me, but his master His Majesty as well. I had been left behind with as little ceremony as a broken wheel, and with as little warning, either.

  Having always been well cared for in my life, for myself or as part of a larger party, I’d no idea what to do next beyond waiting. I could only pray that His Grace would in time return for me, or at the very least send the royal yacht to collect me, as he’d promised. Not even a gentleman as blithe as the duke would dare risk the displeasure of two kings.

  But the innkeeper and his wife viewed my situation in a different light. They considered first my youth and beauty together with my costly clothes, and then balanced that against the duke’s much older and more worldly appearance and his hasty disappearance, and finally decided that I represented a seduction followed by a disappointed elopement. Delicately the innkeeper’s wife inquired whether I would soon be expecting the arrival of my father, or perhaps an older brother, to retrieve me home. Loath to confess my true situation (and truly, who would believe it?), I could only sigh forlornly and shake my head.

  But as the days stretched into a week and my letters to His Grace went unanswered, the innkeeper began to regard me with less charity. An unattached yet beautiful young lady residing in a public inn without a suitable escort or companion too often attracts unsavory mischief, and can quickly become a bane to those who wish to keep a respectable house. Further, my dwindling personal funds were casting me nearer each day to impecuniousness, and in desperation I finally wrote to the English ambassador, Ralph Montagu, in Paris to advise him of my plight, and beg for assistance.

  At once Mr. Montagu wrote to reassure me and apologize for the duke’s neglect, and soon after an escort drawn from his own household arrived in Dieppe to join me. More important, he wrote to Lord Arlington in London, describing how Lord Buckingham had seemingly forgotten me. Immediately that good gentleman sought to repair everything that the duke had put awry. He dispatched a royal yacht to collect me along with the ambassador’s escort from Dieppe, and further, he and Lady Arlington invited me to come directly to their own lodgings in the royal palace (instead of the French embassy, as had been previously arranged) as their guest.

  He also regretfully informed me of the depth of Lord Buckingham’s neglect: for though the duke had left me for his mistress, that lady’s distress had proved premature, as is often the case. But instead of returning to me in Dieppe, the duke had gone with his paramour to London, and thrown himself once again into the merry distraction of the town without a single thought to spare for my welfare.

  I was by then thoroughly weary of Lord Buckingham and disgusted by his careless ways, and ready to confess that, in choosing my English allies, I’d erred mightily. Lord Arlington with his black-plaster’d nose might be less amusing than the duke, but he was also vastly more reliable, and with grateful relief I accepted his invitation.

  In my lonely hours at Dieppe, I’d had much time to reflect on my situation. I’d resolved not to be led again, as I had been by Lord Buckingham, and to listen more closely to my own counsel than to that of others, who would wish to use me for their own purpose. In the final reckoning, only I would be accountable for my success or failure, and my misadventure with the duke had only served to hone my ambitions to a keener edge.

  Thus on a brisk, brave afternoon in September, I finally arrived in London, and made ready to claim it as my own.

  Just as Paris was to France, London was the greatest city in the country of England, and also like Paris and the river Seine, London straddles a river of its own, the Thames.

  Beyond that, on that
first day on the deck of the yacht, I could see no other similarities.

  Paris is an ancient and elegant city, filled with fine houses, palaces, and churches handsomely made of stone, with gardens and parks, all carefully planned to please the senses. I had heard that London was an equally ancient city, first contrived by the conquering Romans of the mighty Caesars. But my first eager glimpse as I arrived by the river showed little to reflect so glorious a beginning. The most substantial edifice of stone to be seen was a walled, fortified castle called the Tower of London (or so I was told by one of the sailors, who also proudly pointed out the place’s pet ravens—a macabre sort of pet, by my lights); here both the highest prisoners of the state as well as the crown jewels were secured.

  The rest of the buildings we passed were a squat jumble of timber and plaster, with only a few wrought of stone and brick, and everything crowded to the very edge of the river’s banks. Instead of inspiring towers of cathedrals rising high into the sky, there were only shingled roofs and a forest of dirty chimneys, each spewing a foul smoke that I later learned came from the Londoners’ preference for sea coal in their fires.

  Because London served as a port, I saw more symbols of trade than anything else, unappealing warehouses and goods stacked high. The river itself was so clogged with vessels that it made for an incommodious passage, and an unpleasant one, too, from the numbers of coarse watermen and sailors calling and shouting fierce oaths at one another. The fact that I was sailing in the king’s own yacht made no difference, either, and I was shocked by the lack of respect shown to it.

  “They know His Majesty’s not aboard, mademoiselle,” explained the Comte de Grammont, one of those carefully chosen and sent to escort me by Mr. Montagu. This agreeable French nobleman was a fond acquaintance of the English king and had lived for many years here at his Court, having been banished by Louis from France for some long-forgotten peccadillo. I could have no better guide upon my entry to London, or one more willing to speak freely by way of educating me.