The French Mistress

by Susan Holloway Scott

  The tall arched windows that lined the walls beneath the galleries should have offered breezy relief, but because the queen was often cold like this, the king had ordered the windows to remain shut for her sake. To the rest of us, the room was now a-swelter, an unseasonably warm evening made warmer still by the heat from the scores of candles and the exertions of the dancers as well as the close-packed guests.

  Still at the queen’s side, I waited for the musicians to finish their tune and the dancers to leave the floor so I could cross to Her Majesty’s quarters. Some of those in the great room before me I already recognized—Lord and Lady Arlington, Lord Monmouth, Lady Cleveland, the Duke of York, Prince Rupert, Sir Thomas Clifford, Lord Buckingham (that vile, neglectful rogue!), Lord and Lady de Croissy—but many more I did not, and in a way I was grateful that my duties placed me squarely at Her Majesty’s side, and apart from the vigorous activity on the floor, well fueled as it was by wine.

  At last the music stopped with a few raucous shouts to mark its conclusion, and I made my parting curtsy to Her Majesty.

  “I’ll be back directly, ma’am,” I promised. But I had gone but a few yards when a firm hand closed round my arm.

  “Mademoiselle de Keroualle,” the king said, his smile warm and his swarthy face flushed darker still from dancing, “pray come dance this next with me.”

  “Oh, sir, please,” I stammered, flushing with confusion. I’d not expected to be recognized in any special way by the king this night, and he’d startled me. I’d seen him from afar, of course—Charles was so much larger than other gentlemen that he always stood tall in any crowd—but he’d been as occupied with other courtiers as I’d been with the queen. Now I glanced back to that lady in her red plush-covered armchair, as guilty a glance as could be. “Forgive me, sir, but Her Majesty has only just sent me on an errand, and I—”

  “You may be excused, mademoiselle,” the queen interrupted. I was surprised she had overheard us and her expression showed her to be both wounded to be abandoned, yet sadly resigned, too. “Go to His Majesty, yes.”

  “Yes,” he repeated, nodding cheerfully at her before he turned to beam at me. “You must dance now, mademoiselle. It’s been doubly ordered by a king and a queen.”

  “But I do not know these English dances yet, sir,” I protested, trying to pull away. “I’ve no wish to seem clumsy before the company. Another time, once I’ve—”

  “I’ll have them play a dance you know,” he said, drawing me closer. “A sarabande. Every lady at my cousin’s Court can dance a sarabande.”

  He stopped a passing footman, and sent the man off to give the music master his instructions. He slipped his arm around my waist so I’d not escape and drew me through the crowd toward the floor. Nor could I protest any longer in good faith, for he was right: every French lady was taught to dance a sarabande, and I was no exception.

  But to make this complicated dance my first performance before so many with the king as my partner was surely tempting the worst of fates. With its triple steps, dragging measures, and elegant, practiced gestures, a sarabande was a dance with scores of traps for the unwitting or unwary—or, as in my case, for the very nervous. If I stumbled or tripped now, or turned one way while the king turned another, why, that would be all that anyone here would remember of me: that French maid who was so vastly dull and clumsy when she dared to dance with His Majesty.

  “Come now, Louise, don’t play timid,” he teased as we took our places with the other couples on the floor. “Else everyone will believe I’m so poor a partner that you’ve no wish to dance with me.”

  “I fear it will be the other way around, sir,” I said unhappily, “and that others will wonder why you bother with me.”

  “Oh, I doubt that,” he scoffed, taking each of my hands to begin, yet pointedly studying me at the same time. My gown was still plain, but of a soft gray sacernet with a muted, dull finish that showed my own coloring to excellent advantage, and the lack of trimmings and ribbons displayed both the neatness of my waist and the ripe bounty of my breasts. “Any man here would take you for his partner, my dear. Lucky I am that I claimed you first.”

  I opened my mouth to remind him that luck had little to do with the choices of kings, but the music began first, and I’d no choice myself but to pay heed to it. I listened to the rhythm and matched my steps both to it and to the king mirroring me, and before long I’d fallen into the magic of the dance exactly as he’d predicted, even enjoying myself. I’d known from Dover that Charles was an accomplished dancer, full of energy and grace, and no doubt he regarded the sarabande as one more of his sports, like racing horses or tennis, to be mastered and won.

  Yet as the dance progressed, however, I realized it wasn’t the pursuit of a stuffed leather ball that Charles was considering, but me. There is a sinuous, suggestive quality to a well-danced sarabande that can make those watching blush. For this reason, we were forbidden to learn it at school, and it wasn’t until I was at Louis’s worldly Court that Madame’s dancing master had taught me the steps and the elaborate gestures that went with it. Two partners can explore more interesting postures than in other dances, more unabashed display to each other, and more opportunities, too, for brief exchanges of flirtatious conversation, which of course Charles employed.

  “Your dancing is superb, my dear,” he said, shifting to French so others around us would have more difficulty in overhearing. “You’re too modest, pretending otherwise.”

  “Dancing is important at the Court of His Most Christian Majesty, sir,” I said, teasing him with a primness at odds with our movements. Now that I’d overcome my first uneasiness, I was enjoying myself thoroughly. Though there were several other couples on the floor with us, we were the only pairing that was being watched and, I guessed, admired, too. “Every lady knows her steps.”

  “And I’ll wager every gentleman is grateful for it, too,” he said with approval. “You’re looking surpassing beautiful tonight, Louise.”

  “Thank you, sir,” I said, turning artfully beneath his raised arm. “I venture that you are likewise a vision of manly grace to rival Apollo himself.”

  He laughed at the silliness, even as the compliment pleased him. I liked how his dark eyes sparked when he was happy, a twinkle (if that, too, were not so foolish a word to apply to the eyes of a king) that had a conspiratorial gleam that was most engaging. By that I knew he was happy now to be dancing with me, most happy, and the very male half smile confirmed it.

  “If I’m to be Apollo,” he said, “then you shall be my fair Diana.”

  “Ah,” I said as I turned beside him. “The virgin goddess, yes?”

  “The only one on Mount Olympus,” he said, his voice so low and dark that I blushed prettily to hear it, as doubtless he’d intended. “A sorry fate for any goddess, that.”

  “I do not know if she’d agree, sir,” I said archly. “She’s also the goddess of the chase, from having never been caught.”

  He chuckled wryly. “And the moon,” he said. “That’s hers as well.”

  “A new crescent moon, beautiful and silvery pure,” I said. “A most suitable emblem, I should say.”

  “There’s such a moon in the sky tonight, you know,” he said. “Step outside with me now, sweet, and I’ll show it to you.”

  “Truly, sir?” I asked, and laughed. “Was all that other nonsense only to invite me into the moonlight?”

  “It was meant to disarm you,” he admitted freely. “If I’d asked you outright, you never would have agreed.”

  I turned on my toes, spinning my skirts against his legs. “Who’s to say I’ve been sufficiently disarmed to agree now?”

  “Come with me at the end of this dance,” he said, “and we’ll decide together.”

  I didn’t answer as I turned away, letting him fear I’d decline. I might still; I wasn’t sure. As much as I longed to bask in the moonlight with Charles and share whatever mischief he’d planned, I knew I’d do well to be cautious. He could be most p
ersuasive, and like every king, he did not like to be denied.

  “Name a favor,” he said when we faced each other again, “and if I can oblige, then you must, too.”

  “Then dance next with Her Majesty, sir,” I said, naming a favor that I was sure would cast his plans askew. It was a calculation, yes, but it was also a true favor, for I’d seen Catherine’s disappointment when he’d asked me instead of her. “You danced with her to begin the evening, and not since.”

  He frowned, genuinely confused. “What manner of favor is this, Louise?” he asked. “Is that your wish, or hers?”

  “It could be both, sir,” I said, and smiled beguilingly up into his face. “Kindness given is often rewarded.”

  At that moment the dance ended and I curtsied.

  “Very well, Louise,” he said, his answering bow perfunctory. “You’ll have your kindness.”

  He left me, heading directly to where Her Majesty sat and offering her his hand.

  “What a peculiar sight,” the gentleman beside me said. “Was that your doing, Mademoiselle de Keroualle?”

  I turned, and recognized him at once. “My Lord Rochester! I am honored, my lord. I’ve not seen you since last year in Paris, in Madame’s drawing room in the Palais-Royal.”

  “A veritable lifetime.” He bowed, and winked slyly. “Much has changed since then.”

  “Indeed, my lord,” I said, thinking sadly of Madame. The earl had changed, too, and not for the better. He was still handsome, still dressed to the very teeth of fashion, but the first hint of decay that I’d observed last year had blossomed and grown. He was now thinner, his cheeks more pale, and the brightness in his eyes seemed more feverish than wholesome. I remembered how these had been the first signs of Madame’s final illness, and I prayed for the young earl’s sake that I was mistaken.

  “Indeed, yes,” he said blithely. “You, for one. I recall you as a veritable mouse in Paris. A beautiful mouse, to be sure, but a mouse that hid quaking near the wainscoting. Of all the ladies about Madame, I never would have imagined you would be the one to leap so far. Now look at you!”

  I raised my chin in defense. “Am I no longer beautiful, my lord?”

  “Oh, beautiful, yes, yes, but no longer a mouse,” he said, “unless you’re a most clever one, with your eyes intent upon seizing the cheese.”

  I laughed to hear myself described as any sort of mouse, but like everyone else, the earl was too occupied in watching the king lead his queen to the floor. Charles was being kind to her, too, smiling warmly at her with genuine affection. Some men are faithless in their marriage from disliking their wives, but that could never be said of Charles. I remembered how Lord Buckingham had vowed the king would banish and divorce his queen for her barrenness, but to see him with her, I doubted he’d ever do anything so cruel, even for the sake of his succession. Faithless, yes, a hundred times over, but never cruel. It was a bitter realization for me, of course, because of all my giddy, girlish dreams of becoming queen myself, and a pox on Buckingham for feeding me such nonsense as fact.

  I watched them dance, watched how Charles gallantly did his best to show Catherine off to advantage and mask her missteps. If I could but claim a measure of that devotion for myself, I thought wistfully, if I could have a share of his heart for my own!

  “Don’t be glum, fair mouse,” Lord Rochester said, doubtless reading my face. “You’re already to be congratulated, you know. If what I’ve heard is true, then you’ve managed to take hold of the royal cods without spreading your own legs. Quite the admirable accomplishment.”

  My cheeks grew hot at his bold vulgarity, and I did not answer it.

  “Ah, you blush, mademoiselle,” he said, amused. “Thus the scandal must be true. A French virgin! No wonder you’ve dazzled the king. Virgins at this Court are as rare as a snowflake in the Arabian desert, and as fragile, too. The only other one I recall to confound poor Charles was Frances Stewart, for all it brought her.”

  “Forgive me, my lord,” I said, purposely chilly to show my disapproval. “But I do not know the lady.”

  “You wouldn’t,” he said, more entertained by my manner than chastised. “Her time at Court was done long before you appeared. At the time Frances Stewart was another fair flower nurtured in Louis’s Court, with the most stubborn maidenhead in all Creation. The king laid siege to it for years with no relief, and in the end the lady ran off to wed the Duke of Richmond and gave away cheap what she could have sold high.”

  “For years?” I repeated thoughtfully. I’d no idea there was such precedence before me. To be a duchess would be a fine prize, true, but I’d other ambitions beyond that.

  “Long enough to drive the king near mad with lust,” he said. “He was in a righteous high dudgeon after that folly, I assure you.”

  I glanced at him sideways, unable to resist his scandal-mongering. “Was the lady ever able to return to Court?”

  “In time, yes, after the fire in the king’s prick had found another bush to burn,” he said. “She returned a new-made duchess, but no one cared. She’d taken the smallpox soon after her marriage, you see, and her loveliness was thoroughly ravaged.”

  “How dreadful, my lord!”

  “Oh, aye,” he said carelessly. “They say poor Richmond was inconsolable. What is worse than being saddled with an ugly wife?”

  I frowned again, deciding that whatever illness was plaguing the earl was poisoning his tongue as well as his body. “Are you always so cruel to ladies, my lord?”

  “Not the ones I like,” he drawled. “Go on, mademoiselle, try me. Ask my opinion of any lady you see here. I vow there’s at least half a chance that I’ll not slander her.”

  I glanced about the room, determined to test him. The dance was done, but before the king and queen had finished their courtesies, a tiny, copper-haired woman had sprinted onto the floor to claim it as her own. Her boldness was rewarded by cheers and laughter, and the king himself stopped to greet her. At once the musicians began to play a sprightly jig, and all alone this brazen little creature began to dance, prancing and hopping as if possessed by demons, her skirts spinning shamelessly as high as her garters.

  “That one, my lord,” I declared, pointing to the dancing woman. “I’ll venture you cannot say anything good of her.”

  But to my surprise, his face softened. “What, of Nell? What could I say that she hasn’t said herself ? She was born a whore and a happy one at that, and so she’ll die, unrepentant and merry.”

  “Nell, my lord?” I asked, looking at the infamous actress with new interest. I’d pictured someone with more presence, more beauty, a woman able to command the stage. I’d never imagined this vulgar little creature with her hair tumbling down, kicking her feet high in the air before her. It was one thing to see the king with the queen, and even with a famously extravagant beauty like the duchess of Cleveland, but another entirely to picture him with any woman so common as this. “That is Nell Gwyn?”

  “Who else could it be?” the earl asked, smiling fondly as he watched her. “Aye, that’s Nell, and you won’t hear me say a cross word against her. So there’s your proof of my rare geniality, mademoiselle, though I wager it’s not what you’d expected.”

  None of it was what I’d expected, no. I watched as the king laughed and applauded Nell Gwyn’s jig, and watched, too, with pleasurable relief as he turned away from her to escort the queen back to her seat. The actress was left alone on the floor with her cheek turned up for a kiss that didn’t come, there with all the Court as witness. Then she cackled uproariously to cover her disappointment, and plunged off into a crowd of male courtiers to do who knew what.

  “Prepare yourself for boarding, mademoiselle. The king’s bound this way,” the earl said. “You, Nell, and the queen, too. I vow he’ll take to juggling at Bartholomew Fair with this many balls in the air.”

  I paid the insolent earl no further heed, but made my way at once to Charles’s side. He’d executed the favor I’d asked, leaving me no choice but
to fulfill mine in return. Not that I wished to refuse. Having seen him merry with other women chaffed sorely at my pride, and made me all the more eager to have him to myself in that moonlight, no matter the perils.

  Without a word he claimed my hand, raising it briefly to his lips before he began to lead me through the crowd of bowing courtiers and from the room. I smiled with blushing triumph, even as I knew I’d be the centerpiece of tomorrow’s tattle. Let them talk, I decided, full of bravery and bluster myself. I’d know the truth and so would the king, and that was all that mattered to me.

  But as we neared the door, the impudent small actress popped up before us like a child’s jumping jack. I suppose she felt she still merited more of Charles’s attention for her vulgar dancing, yet this was astonishingly forward even in the English Court.

  What came next, however, was far, far worse.

  Tipping her head at a sharp angle, the actress cocked one hand over her head and the other at her waist, an exaggerated mockery of the sarabande’s elegant postures, and, of course, of me.

  “Parley-voo-hoo-hoo, mon’sir?” she asked in a low English parody of French. “Dance-say à la frog, mon’sir, o-wee, o-wee?”

  Others around her laughed and sniggered at her foolishness, but the king did not.

  For myself, I was simply too shocked to respond.

  “There now, Nelly, enough,” Charles warned with more mildness than I thought she deserved. “We’ve no need of that.”

  But she wasn’t done. Still holding true to her mockery of the sarabande, she took several purposely clumsy steps, ending so she was facing me. Then she screwed up her face into a terrible grimace, making her eyes into the narrowest of slits.

  I gasped as if I’d been struck a blow. In a way, I suppose I had. As with many people, my sight was weak at a distance, and without thinking, I sometimes would squint by way of compensation. Though I’d not been aware of it this evening, I must have done so when surveying the company, long enough for this dreadful woman to have seized upon it as a flaw, and turned it now against me.