The French Mistress

by Susan Holloway Scott

  What I wished most to achieve by my refurbishing, however, was to create a rare sanctuary within Whitehall for Charles. As I saw how tired and wearied he was made by his duties and the demands of others, I determined to make my rooms the one place where he could be at his ease. I’d leave the jugglers and the singing whores to Mrs. Gwyn’s parlor. In my rooms, Charles could recline on the softest cushions while sipping the finest of wines. I acquired an excellent Parisian chef, who could concoct the most delectable of dishes to tempt Charles, and I made sure everything was served to him on the finest porcelain, silver, and crystal, all, of course, of French manufacture. Everything was designed to please him, without any compromise.

  Most of all, I made sure that when he came to see me, I, too, was exactly to his taste. I took care to be exquisitely dressed and coiffed and perfumed, and always wore the jewels he’d given me. I spoke to him in French, not only because it was a softer, more gracious language to the ear than the grating harsh sounds of English, but also because, as Charles himself noted, French had been the native tongue of his mother, the late Dowager Queen, and thus bore the pleasantest associations for him.

  But it was what I said to him—or more precisely, what I didn’t—that mattered most. I never lectured him on politics, or made demands of him, or slandered others. I listened to all he said, and let him direct the conversation as it pleased him most. In my lodgings, he truly was KING, unchallenged, unrivaled, and absolute.

  Was it any wonder, then, that he called on me as much as he possibly could? Or that he fell into the agreeable habit of coming to my rooms nearly every evening that spring, to the neglect of Mrs. Gwyn and her tawdry puppet shows and ale? Or that we would lie sprawled across my bed with the windows thrown open to the early-summer eve and his head pillowed upon my lap, sipping canary wine and listening to the nightingales calling to one another in St. James’s Park?

  Yet as sweet as all this was for us, the rough world outside my door was no more agreeable to me than it was to Charles. The expectations from all quarters that I bring my friendship with the king to its inevitable consummation were becoming more and more forceful. Not only did Lord de Croissy and his wife continue to press me on this point, but also Lord and Lady Arlington, whose wonder was so great that Her Ladyship once asked me directly if I preferred the Sapphic way of love, to have put off the king for so long.

  That was certainly not true, as Charles himself could attest. As the spring had slipped into summer, I’d permitted him more and more small, delicious liberties with my person, withholding only the final capitulation of my weary maidenhead. But my virginity had become such a source of jeering discussion in London that even the French craftsmen I’d employed had made jests about it among themselves when they’d thought I’d not overhear. In fact, the entire small community of French people who resided in London had come to believe that I was somehow betraying France by not lying with the English king.

  I’d heard this from many sources, yes, but I’d not realized quite how widely discussed I’d become until one day early in June, when Bette brought me a small package that had been delivered to my door. I recognized the mark at once as belonging to the Seigneur de Saint-Évremond, and I smiled with pleasurable anticipation. I was glad for the diversion. Charles had spent much of the summer at Windsor Castle with his cousin Prince Rupert and other gentlemen, fishing and riding, and because the queen remained at Whitehall, I did, too. A bit of scandal and innuendo from the seigneur was exactly what I needed after so much time in the exclusive, tedious company of the queen’s ladies.

  The seigneur was an older French gentleman, a dear friend of Madame’s, and now banished by Louis over some misunderstanding or another. But France’s loss was London’s gain, for the seigneur had become a most amusing author, filtering his thoughts on politics, history, and famous personages through his libertine’s glass into essays that he circulated among his closest circle. I was now happily one of them, and I eagerly opened the seal to read his latest words. By the various comments written in the margins, I guessed that the essay had already passed through the hands of several others, and likely more as well, for the seigneur commonly sent several copies of each work about among his friends for discussion. The sly title—“Problem in Imitation of the Spanish”—only hinted at the contents, but as soon as I began reading, I understood. The essay was contrived as a letter of advice to a lady, and though my name was not employed, a child could have guessed that the lady being advised was Louise de Keroualle.

  My heart raced as my gaze flew across the page, reading as swiftly as I could. My careful virtue was ridiculed, my cautious steps toward Charles’s bed denounced as empty, teasing torment. All of French-speaking London, people I’d trusted and regarded as my dear acquaintance, must be laughing at me because of this, and I felt sickened and exposed.

  Yet the more I read, the more I realized that the witty advice meant to entertain contained more than a kernel of genuine wisdom that I might do well to consider.

  Perhaps, mademoiselle, it is vanity that makes you repulse what you most desire. Perhaps now you are vain enough to be pleased only with yourself and your honor; yet soon you will tire of this empty satisfaction, and you will need the riches of another’s love if your life is to be truly enjoyable. Otherwise your pride will make you return to France, mademoiselle, and France will toss you into a convent to be forgotten, as has happened to so many others before you. Even if you deliberately choose this gloomy retreat, you must still be considered worthy to enter it. How will a virgin do penance if she has done nothing and loved no one?

  The letters blurred through my tears. I hadn’t thought of my honor as a vanity. I’d wished to set myself above the Mrs. Gwyns of the Court, to be better than they so that in turn I might better please Charles. Yet what greater vanity is there than in believing that oneself is better than all others? What if I’d already sacrificed my only chance at love by holding myself too high above the king? I was nearly twenty-two, perilously old for innocence. What if I were left like the virgins the seigneur described, left with nothing and no one, with not even so much as a memory to repent?

  I blinked back my tears to read the final words:

  Even if there is scandal in loving without reserve, mademoiselle, it is the heavier hardship to go through life without love.

  Without love, without love: the words echoed in my heart like the tolling of the most solemn bell. I let the seigneur’s letter drop from my hands, and fled to my prie-dieu. I gathered up my rosary and knelt before the little diptych of Our Lady. I bowed my head and closed my eyes, and prayed for guidance. I prayed for Charles, and I prayed for myself, my forgiveness, and my own miserable, selfish soul. I doubted that this was the course that the seigneur could have predicted, but the realization I did make was likely the same one he’d wished for me.

  I do not know how long I stayed upon my knees. The evening sun had faded from the sky, and behind me Bette had lit the candles. But when finally I rose, I knew my heart and my purpose, just as I knew I was never meant to live my life without love.

  Eagerly I leaned forward from my seat, wishing to be the first in the carriage to spy the king. “Oh, my lady,” I exclaimed, “how I wish we were at the beginning of the course, so we could see the race begin!”

  Leaning back against the leather cushions, Lady Arlington smiled indulgently at my excitement. “Horse races are much like everything else, Louise. The finish accounts for far more than the beginning. No one recalls the start, but everyone knows the winner.”

  “But what if His Majesty has a poor showing at the start?” I asked anxiously. A score of dreadful possibilities filled my head. I could not quite believe that Charles himself would take his place among the other riders. I’d seen the earlier contests and the wild, thundering abandon of the horses and the men as they raced along the course. Though I knew Charles was a skilled horseman, he was also forty-one, and I feared for him among so many much younger and more reckless gentlemen. “What if his hors
e stumbles on the course, or he falls behind, or—”

  “Or nothing.” Her Ladyship laughed, her heavy-lidded eyes watching me with droll amusement. “His Majesty will not falter, Louise. You’ll see. He’s likely the best rider of the whole lot here today. Having you here to watch will only inspire him, I assure you.”

  “Very well, my lady.” I sighed restlessly, my gaze intent on the distant crowd of horses and men where the race would start. This was the first time I’d been included in one of the parties here to Newmarket for the fall race meetings. Charles loved racing with a passion, and not only did he keep a large royal stable here for breeding, but he sponsored numerous races as well to encourage the sport, offering sterling plates and cups as prizes. Twice a year the little town swelled to accommodate all the courtiers who joined the king, plus all those others who simply followed the races. Every inn was full and every house let, and several years ago Charles himself had finally built himself a small palace directly in the center of town for his own use.

  I wasn’t staying in Newmarket, but for the past two weeks I had resided near Thetford, as a guest of the Arlingtons at their country seat of Euston Hall—a large, beautiful new house in the French style, and much more appropriate than raucous Newmarket for what was planned this night.

  “You do look uneasy, Louise,” Lady Arlington said. “Is it the race that worries you, or tonight?”

  I looked up swiftly. “I’ve not changed my mind, my lady.”

  “I should hope not!” She laughed softly. “Even if you had, I don’t think His Majesty would allow it now, not after the pretty dance you’ve led him for so long.”

  “I told you before, my lady,” I said, more defensively than I’d intended, “it’s what I wish. I wouldn’t have accepted your invitation otherwise.”

  She smiled archly, and I blushed. We both knew the truth. If I’d the power to go back and reorder my life, I would not have confided my intentions to Lady Arlington, but simply welcomed Charles one night to my bed, and that would have been the end (and the beginning) of it.

  But instead Lady Arlington had seized upon my deflowering as an event to be celebrated, even shared, and before I’d quite realized how it had happened, I found myself made the merry centerpiece of the autumn meetings. It was the only reason I’d been invited to Euston Hall, and everyone knew it, as if I were some sort of pagan sacrifice. All had been instantly arranged in such a manner that I could not refuse to accept, nor had I seen Charles alone here at Euston to ask if this was what he’d wished as well.

  With gloomy certainty, I’d guessed that he did. He liked spectacle and sport and I knew he liked me, and combining the three together must have been irresistible to him. And, of course, he was king, and free to do whatever he pleased without consequence. Now my only choice would be either to weep and bleat like a lamb brought to slaughter, or to try to make the event my own as best I could. I’d always wished to be the center of the Court, and after this, there’d be no doubt that I would be.

  “It’s understandable for you to have misgivings, my dear,” Her Ladyship said as if reading my thoughts. “Every maiden does. But the king is no ordinary man, nor will he be an ordinary lover. Surely you’ve found that to be true in part already, yes?”

  I nodded, blushing furiously. Oh, how was I to survive this day and the night that would follow?

  “You won’t disappoint him, Louise,” she said, and smiled slyly. “Nor will you, I believe, be disappointed by Old Rowley.”

  I frowned, not understanding. “Old Rowley, my lady?”

  “Ha, I thought sure you would have heard that by now!” She rolled her eyes toward the heavens and laughed. “Old Rowley is the name of the largest and strongest of the king’s stallions standing stud in his stables. They say he’s sired hundreds of foals, yet never tires at his labors, and is always eager for more. It seems only natural that His Majesty be called after him in jest, doesn’t it? Ah, look, the horses are off.”

  At once I turned back toward the course. The race was long, nearly four miles across the flat field, and I’d plenty of time to try to sort the dozen riders from one another. It didn’t take long for them to begin to separate, with some fading and falling back while the stronger horses and riders pulled ahead. Soon the race was between only two, and now I could recognize the king as one of the leaders. Like all the riders, he wore a bright ribbon sash across his waistcoat, but I’d no trouble telling him apart. It wasn’t just his height and size, but how he rode, with bold daring yet perfect ease, the way he did most everything, and in a manner that was thrilling to watch. With the finish in sight, he crouched low over his mount’s neck, urging him onward.

  Unable to keep still, I hopped from my seat and thrust my head and shoulders from the coach’s window, adding my cheers of encouragement to the others from the great crowd gathered at the finish.

  “Faster, sir, faster!” I shouted, my fists clenched with excitement. “Go on, sir, faster!”

  I will not presume to claim my encouragement made the difference, but at the last instant the king’s horse surged ahead of his rival and across the finish mark first. The crowd’s cheers rose to a wordless roar as the drums rolled and the trumpets sounded to celebrate the race’s end and the king’s victory. One by one the others finished, too, and all the riders continued on to slow and cool their horses. Only the king and the next two riders returned to claim their shares of the crowd’s acclaim, and it wasn’t until then that I realized that the gentleman the king had beaten was his own son, the Duke of Monmouth, an admirable feat. Men and boys surged around them to offer their congratulations, while other ladies cheered from their coaches like ours, or from the covered pavilions on the nearby hill.

  But Charles had already spotted Lady Arlington’s coach and me with it, and as quickly as he could, he urged his weary horse toward us. To my eye, he had never looked more handsome: astride his noble mount like an ancient warrior, the silver spurs on his boots glinting in the autumn sun and the white sleeves of his shirt billowing about his arms and open at the throat. His close-fitting waistcoat displayed his lean yet manly chest to full advantage and his riding breeches performed the same service for his well-muscled thighs. His face glowed from his exertions and his victory, and I blush to recall exactly how virile and ripe with animal energy he did look. Not even the heroes of the romances I’d once read with Madame’s ladies could ever rival such a picture, nor could those maidenly heroines experience the same sweet swell of pleasure I felt when he smiled at me. It was in that moment, too, that I realized that I loved him or, more properly, that I admitted it. I loved him; and that simple realization gave wings to my own desires, and put aside my worries over what would happen later that evening.

  I loved the king, and he loved me. Were there ever more foolishly innocent words conceived in this world?

  “Congratulations, sir!” I called happily. “I’ve never seen such a race!”

  “It was all Jupiter’s doing, not mine,” he said, patting the neck of his mount as he smiled up at me. “That, and knowing I’d see you at the finish.”

  I grinned helplessly, too overwhelmed by his beauty and the affection I felt for him to speak. That remained for Lady Arlington to do, as she leaned from the other window of the coach.

  “I trust you’ll be joining us again this evening at Euston, sir?” she asked, as if there were any doubt. He and his brother, the duke, had ridden to Euston from Newmarket every night of the last week.

  “Nothing would keep me from it, Lady Arlington,” he said, yet though he addressed her, his gaze remained entirely on me. “I shall be honored.”

  “So shall we,” she said, and looked at him coyly. “I only hope you’re not so weary from your riding that you won’t be strong company for us tonight.”

  I blushed again, fully understanding her meaning, and so did the king.

  “Ah, my lady, you know better than to question my stamina,” he said, chuckling. “I could be in the saddle from dawn to dusk, yet still be
able to ride the night through.”

  Skillfully guiding the horse alongside the coach, he pulled the blue sash from around his chest and looped it over my head. I laughed, too, from the silly pleasure of it, and smoothed the silk ribbon over my shoulders and chest. The silk smelled of horse and leather and his own sweat, and I relished the intimacy of it.

  “There’s my token for the day, Louise,” he said, his face close to mine, and filled with ardent desire. “I promise to pledge you another soon, eh?”

  “Oh, yes, sir,” I said breathlessly, leaning forward to kiss him warmly. When our lips parted, he grunted with male satisfaction, doubtless thinking of what (or who) lay before him at Euston.

  “Until tonight, Louise,” he whispered roughly. “Until you’re mine.”

  He touched his hand to his breast over his heart, a tender salute I’d not expected, and smiled crookedly as if to remind me he was still my Charles. Then he nodded to Lady Arlington and steered his horse away and back to the others.

  “My dear, my dear,” Lady Arlington mused beside, “surely this day you must be the most fortunate lady in the kingdom. Old Rowley, indeed. I told you earlier, didn’t I? In all things, it’s the finish that matters most.”

  Indeed, I thought, as I stroked the ribbon sash lightly over my cheek and breathed his scent upon the silk. I watched him ride away and smiled happily.

  Indeed.

  “There you are now, Louise.” Lady Arlington took me by the shoulders and began turning me around so I could see myself reflected in the glass. “Come now, miss. Don’t wax shy with us.”