“She told me none of this,” he declared. “If she didn’t trust the French physicians, then I could have sent her Englishmen.”
“It wasn’t so much a matter of trusting the physicians, sir, as her not wishing to hear what they told her,” I said. “I believe she knew how ill she was, and feared the worst. If she let no doctors near her, then she could pretend her woes were only another passing complaint that would cure itself.”
“But that is madness!” he exclaimed. “Why would she have done such a thing?”
“I can only guess, sir,” I said, taking great care with my words. “But she did fear that if she showed any weakness before Monsieur, he would have forbidden her to come to Dover. And that—that she could not have borne.”
He shook his head. “My poor Minette,” he said, his voice bleak with despair. “How could I have not known at Dover?”
“She’d not wish to cause you worry, sir, or take your care from the affairs,” I said. “She was so delighted to be here in England and in your company that I don’t believe she felt any pain or suffering while she was here, until the day we left. I’d never seen her more gay, more filled with joy and happiness. That is how she’d wish to be remembered, sir. That, and for the great love she always carried for you.”
He rose abruptly, going to stand before the window with his hands clasped tightly behind his back. He stared out at the park, at the gold-tipped oaks and the first visitors beginning to walk on the crossing paths. In the distance I could hear the drums of the changing guard on the Parade, dogs barking and the rumble of a carriage as it drew before the palace. I doubted the king perceived any of this. Instead I guessed his head was filled with visions of his youngest sister, laughing as she danced on the beach with her arms outstretched and her faced turned up to the sky.
I stood (for of course I’d risen when he did, as anyone did in a royal presence) in respectful silence before the settle, determined not to interrupt his reflections. Given the endless demands a king must have on his time and person, I was sure the best gift I could offer at such a time would be silence and whatever peace that came with it.
“Thus you do not believe Her Highness was poisoned?” he finally asked, to the window and not to me.
“I fear she died of many things, sir,” I said gently. “But I do not believe malevolent poison given her on the day of her death was one of them. No, sir, I do not believe that was so.”
“You would then absolve d’Orleans and the Chevalier de Lorraine?”
I addressed his back and broad shoulders. “I do not believe either is guilty of that particular sin, sir.”
He made a low growl of scorn. “You would say that Louis is innocent as well?”
“I would, sir,” I said with full conviction. “He was devoted to Madame, sir, and if you’d but seen his—”
“I’ve seen enough of Louis and his devotion,” he said wearily. “More than enough.”
“Yes, sir,” I said softly, and sighed. I’d done as he’d asked, and I’d done what Louis had asked of me as well for the sake of France. No one could ever say otherwise. I’d told the truth, yes, or at least what I’d told was true. I could only pray that Madame’s immortal soul would understand what I’d done, and forgive me for it, too.
At last the king turned, and came to stand before me. He’d changed there by the window, drawing upon some private strength deep within. His face was now composed, his emotions tidily buried again, and though I knew he’d not been ashamed to weep before me earlier, I doubted he’d do it again, leastways not today.
“I thank you, mademoiselle,” he said, his more usual genial self. In this he was like his cousin: both kings had the most cordial manners. “For your honesty, your loyalty, and your love for my sister.”
“I am honored, sir.” I curtsied in acknowledgment, my black skirts spreading around me on the sanded pale floor.
“I rather think the honor is mine.” For the first time that morning, he smiled. Not with joy, or merriment, or even amicable pleasantness, but with more of the same sorrow that seemed to lace everything he did. As much as I understood—how could I not?—I wished to do whatever was needed to ease that sorrow. I longed to make him happy, to smile with delight and to laugh with joy. That was what I thought when I gazed up into his deep-lined, handsome face, and further, it was what I resolved to do.
No wonder, then, that I smiled as warmly as I dared in return. “Surely Your Majesty’s honor must be the most valued in all of England, sir. How could one such as I merit so great a prize?”
“Because of who you are, mademoiselle.” He narrowed his eyes slightly, studying me as if for the first time. “I do not know how it’s possible, but I vow you are even more beautiful than I recalled. Might I ask the privilege of calling on you again, mademoiselle?”
I opened my eyes widely with a pretty show of incredulity, for I understood well the game he’d begun.
“But you are the king, sir,” I protested, “and these rooms lie within your palace, in your capital city, within your country. Why should you ask my permission?”
“Because while I am a king, mademoiselle,” he said, his voice low, “I am first a gentleman, just as you are a lady, and deserving of my respect.”
He was standing over me now, with little respectful about how he was looking down at me, and most especially down at the swell of my breasts. My gown was first mourning, yes, but the plain linen kerchief pinned over the front of my bodice was of the sheerest linen, more enticing than modest.
I let my smile fade, letting him dictate what came next. King or commoner, men were much alike in such circumstances. I was certain he wished to kiss me, and certain, too, that he’d act on the impulse. I’d already kissed him once in Dover, and I expected to kiss him again now. One kiss, I decided, and no more, yet still my heart raced with nervous anticipation. He bent lower, and I raised my face toward his, letting my lips part in unspoken invitation.
Yet as he slipped his arm around my waist, he glanced down and frowned. He shook his head and sighed, his gaze still fixed on my black gown.
“Minette warned me away from you in Dover,” he said heavily, “and she was wise to do so. For us now, so close to her death, it would be wrong.”
“Now you are the wise one, sir,” I said, and though I thought my own weeping was done, the mention of Madame’s concern for me was sufficient to send another tear slipping from my eye. Even in death, she would protect me. “What is wrong now may in time turn round to be right. One never knows what fate may bring, sir, or what tomorrow holds for us.”
“Tomorrow,” he repeated. “I will return to you tomorrow, Louise.”
“Please do, sir.” I smiled as he used my given name, and felt that single tear puddle in the dimple on my cheek. “I should like that above all things, and so, I believe, would Her Highness.”
Quickly, before I thought better of it, I leaned up and kissed him on each of his cheeks in turn, the way we French do by way of salute. Surprised, he smiled crookedly, and touched his fingers to the place on his cheek where my lips last had been, fair disarming me with that alone.
“She would,” he said. “She would. And so, I vow, will I.”
I learned during that first fortnight that the king was a gentleman who kept his word, particularly when it pleased him to keep it. Early each morning he came to call on me, exactly as he’d promised, and some days he came in the afternoons as well. Although Lady Arlington had promised to be present, she never attempted it again after the king had sent her away during the first visit. Nothing was said of this arrangement; it simply happened. As soon as His Majesty arrived, the servants were dismissed and the door was closed and latched for exclusive privacy. I was happy enough to be left alone with the king, and he hardly objected to having my company to himself. Neither Lord nor Lady Arlington asked how we passed the time in their front room, though I suspect they were like the rest of the Court, and envisioned His Majesty and me engaged in every manner of lascivious play. I wi
ll grant that they’d excellent reason to expect such was the case. As astonishing as it seemed, the stories I’d heard from Madame of his many conquests were apparently underestimated rather than over-, and even the genteelly reticent Lady Arlington could name a score of former conquests without effort. The king’s infatuation with me at Dover had become widely known, and, royal Courts being what they were, all in Whitehall (and beyond) assumed that I had capitulated as soon as he had pressed his desires, the way it had been with all the others.
The truth, however, was far less titillating, as truth so often is. Behind that latched door, the king and I would sit together on that same settle. I would offer him refreshment after his walk in the park, and whether it was tea, coffee, wine, or ale, I poured and served him myself with an artful grace that he much admired. What man does not like to have a beautiful woman dote and fuss over him in an obliging fashion, letting him imagine how that same eagerness to please him by way of a silver chocolate mill would likewise be the same in the bedchamber? While he sat with his cup or glass, he would tell me of his day, his dogs, and the weather, until before long we would inevitably be once again drawn to speak of Madame. As close as these two royal siblings had been, their lives had been so separated by the cruel vagaries of war and fate that in fact I had spent more time in Madame’s company than had the king. However belatedly, the king now seized the opportunity to learn more of his sister’s life in Paris, a life he’d unfortunately shared only by way of her letters, and he never tired of hearing me recount the most ordinary details concerning Her Highness.
I suppose I could have turned petulant at this, or been vexed by having the king so close to me, yet wishing to speak exclusively of another lady instead of directing his attentions toward me. I wasn’t, not at all. Madame would always be far too dear to me, and in fact I took my own comfort from speaking of her, just as he did in listening. It was as if I were once again with Madame in the confidence of her bedchamber, though instead of hearing her speak of her brother, now I was speaking to him of her. If such a thing were possible, his devotion to his sister only made him glow more brightly in my esteem, for it is a rare man indeed who will be so open about those he loves.
Was it any wonder that I treasured the intimacy of our conversations, or that I valued this time alone with the king to experience his intelligence, his loyalty, and his wit without having to share him with others? I’d no doubt that he was in fact the first gentleman of his realm. No other could come close. I might have been sent to him as a sort of gift (and certainly an agent) by my king, yet it was as a woman I sat beside him on the settle, eager to be dazzled by his person and company.
Thus we conversed, and held each other’s hands as good friends will, and when the hour came for him to take his leave, we would kiss in parting, again as friends, not lovers. The presence of Madame’s spirit was too strong between us to permit anything more, nor at that time did we wish it. In his eyes, I’d become an extension of Madame herself, representing not only those last happy days at Dover, but also embodying many of the same qualities that had made her so dear to him.
I suppose the rest of the Court would have roared with laughter to see us so restrained, the great libertine prince and the virgin he’d brought clear from France to deflower. I’ll grant, too, that shared grief and solemn mourning must seem a most curious foundation for the lasting love that grew between the king and me.
Yet so it was. For when those two weeks were done and the first stage of mourning with it, the king had come to know me not as a wanton or one more maidenhead that he’d victoriously claimed, but as a lady and a friend. Away from the public rooms of the Court, he had seen me at my best. He’d relished my beauty, yes, but he’d also been pleased by my loyalty to his sister and thus to his family. Alone together, where he’d not be judged by his intolerant English subjects, he’d delighted in my very foreignness, in the thousand small ways a French lady knows of making life more enjoyable.
I’d learned my lessons well at Madame’s side, and already I was putting them to most excellent use here in London. To him I was now Louise, not mademoiselle, and while I still called him by his title and always would, in my thoughts he had become only Charles.
Too soon this time was done, and reluctantly the king decided I must be presented to the queen, and assume my duties as a maid of honor. With the end of September, the first stage of our mourning for Madame was officially done, and there could be no further excuses made for keeping me apart from the rest of the Court.
I was eager to join the others, too. In these weeks, I’d come to a significant decision regarding my future: not to yield to the king for as long as I could hold him at bay. Resistance and denial were difficult gambits to maintain, infinitely more complicated than the simple bliss of surrender. But I’d learned that saying no to a gentleman who always heard yes was a powerful lure, and the longer I could refuse him, the more secure my place would ultimately be.
I could tell His Majesty’s desire for me had increased at least a hundredfold since I’d come to Whitehall, and maybe more. I was the same jewel he’d coveted in Dover, but because I remained beyond his possession, my value had only grown. I’d become the greater prize in his eyes, to be pursued no matter the cost or risk.
And as for me: what did I desire? Why, that was answered easily enough.
I wanted it all.
Chapter Fifteen
WHITEHALL PALACE, LONDON
October 1670
“Is there anything I might fetch for you, ma’am?” I asked, leaning down closer to the queen so I might hear her reply over the musicians. “More sherry, or another orange?”
“Thank you, no, mademoiselle, I am sated,” she said, shyly patting my sleeve as if that would compensate for her heavy Portuguese accent. “What makes me best happy is you here.”
“Thank you, ma’am,” I said, and once again took my place behind her armchair. She twisted around to make sure that I was there, then smiled and fluttered her fingers, heavy with rubies and diamonds, to me before she turned back to watch the dancers.
Best happy, indeed, I thought. I’d only served in Her Majesty’s household for three weeks, yet already I’d become one of her favorite ladies. I’d not planned it to happen, especially when I considered the growing attachment I bore toward her husband (and now my Charles). I’d merely treated her with the respect and deference that was due her rank and person, and performed whatever small tasks she’d required, the same as I’d done for Madame.
But Catherine of Braganza was nothing like my first mistress. Small, squat, and dark, she had the misfortune to be wed to a man who adored ladies who were tall, graceful, and fair, and if they were clever and amusing, all the better. The poor queen possessed none of these attributes, and though she’d been the Queen of England for nearly a decade, she still struggled with the English language and a lisp caused by her protruding front teeth. She suffered from severe headaches and a wealth of other ailments that limited her time abroad from her bedchamber. Worst of all, she’d not done what as a royal princess she’d been born to do, which was to provide an heir to her king.
Though Charles did not appear to fault her for what was so obviously her shortcoming in this area and not his, the rest of the Court was not so kind. She reminded me of a certain girl who’d attended convent school with me: a plain, unlovesome girl who was tolerated only because her father was a wealthy wine merchant and she an heiress. Behind her back, however, she’d been the butt of all our cruelest jests and most mocking imitations, and so it was now with the pitiable queen.
In a rare moment of supreme unfeeling several years before, Charles had even insisted that Catherine accept the then Countess of Castlemaine as a lady-in-waiting, with the predictable results. Lady Castlemaine had done nothing in her post except to claim her income and scorn Her Majesty at every opportunity, while the poor queen had been thoroughly humiliated by that lady, and her own husband’s lack of regard.
Yet I had liked Catherine as soo
n as I’d been presented to her, and pitied her, too. Though I was not so shy as she, I could sympathize with her, and since I’d also come from another Court much like her native Portugal where ritual and protocol were rigidly obeyed, we could commiserate with one another about the lack of manners and politesse at Whitehall. Our conversations could take peculiar turns, for I spoke no Portuguese and she no French, leaving us to muddle about in our differently accented English, but even that drew us closer, foreigners in a strange land. Further, we shared the same faith in the Roman Church, and she soon invited me to take mass with her in her private chapel, and make confession to her priests, a lovely, welcoming offer in that den of untrammeled Protestantism.
As a result of all this, she now claimed me as one of her dearest companions, and wished me always at her side for the Court’s entertainments, such as this one tonight. Surely she must have known of Charles’s interest in me and mine in him, however wrongful and adulterous it might be. He made no secret of it, and besides, she’d seen enough of his predilections to guess what would come next. But though she was queen, this poor lady was so desperate for trust and friendship that she overlooked this flaw in me, and embraced me as if I were her dearest friend from girlhood.
Now she beckoned to me, and obediently I stepped forward to listen.
“I am chill, Louise,” she said, touching her shoulders to demonstrate. “Pray fetch my shawl to me. The red one of silk.”
“Yes, ma’am, as you please,” I said, though I could not fathom how she could be cold. The company around us was very close, with far more people squeezed into the palace’s Banqueting Hall tonight than was comfortable for dancing. I liked this room above all others I’d thus far seen in Charles’s palace: a large, double-cube room built fifty years before by his grandfather King James I, for the purposes of dining, masques, and other entertainments. It was elegantly proportioned and beautifully decorated, with artfully carved columns and volutes and much gold leaf on the carvings and a glorious painted ceiling overhead, and by my reckoning, it was the only chamber in the entire rambling warren of Whitehall that was worthy of any palace.
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