The French Mistress

by Susan Holloway Scott

  I let him guide me in the choice of my pose and attire. We settled on having me sit in a pastoral landscape with a waterfall in the distance behind me, and in the guise of a shepherdess, though no true shepherdess would ever be lolling quite so indolently. I wore not a gown such as I’d choose for Court, but a rich silken version of undress, a loose-fitting red gown clasped together with jewels over my shift. It was clear that I wore no stays beneath, and clear, too, from how my breasts were freely offered for admiration that I was a mistress, rather than a wife or daughter.

  My only requests to Master Lely were simple ones. I asked that he show my hair as I always dressed it, with clusters of curls on either side of my forehead (a style that, to my amusement, was now being much copied by other ladies), and that he not give me heavy-lidded eyes like Lady Cleveland’s, as he did with so many of his portraits, but show mine as they truly were, almond-shaped and tending to tilt upward at the corners. He laughed, but was happy to oblige, and when the picture was done, Charles declared it one of Sir Peter’s finest, though never so beautiful as the original.

  Such a pretty compliment set me to blushing, but what made me happier still was how Charles ordered my picture hung at once in his bedchamber, where he’d see it as soon as he rose each morning. To do so, he likewise ordered an older portrait of Lady Cleveland shifted to another room entirely. As for Mrs. Gwyn, there were no portraits of her at all that I’d ever seen within the king’s chambers.

  And that, of course, pleased me very much indeed.

  My swelling belly caused little remark at Whitehall. Such was the king’s omnipotence, that it was assumed that any woman who lay with him would in time quicken with his child. That Mrs. Gwyn had given birth to her second bastard, another son, on Christmas Day was seen as only one more example. The only amusement came from the speed with which the royal seed had managed to impregnate me, an apparent record for the king. But given the other concerns around us, even that was soon forgotten.

  Lord de Croissy was, naturally, overjoyed, as was His Most Christian Majesty. After seeing Lady Arlington’s diamonds, I had expected to receive at least their equal from Louis, perhaps more. Instead he sent me his congratulations, and a gift of only a thousand gold livres. Though I thought this thoroughly ungenerous, even disrespectful, of him, I knew to protest would be the gravest folly, at least at this juncture of my life. Later, perhaps, when my position was stronger, I could make my displeasure more properly known. For the present, I simply accepted the gold and sent my thanks.

  I was fortunate to suffer few discomforts with my pregnancy, and continued with my duties to the queen. To my surprise, she was not jealous of me, as I’d feared she’d be, but kind and solicitous for my welfare. Perhaps this was because, unlike Lady Cleveland, I had never grown too proud to cease being kind to the queen, or to show her the respect her royalty required. She in turn rewarded me with her favor, which in Whitehall I treasured greatly. She asked me daily how I fared, and whether I believed the child a boy or a girl, and all the other things natural for women to discuss if the child I was carrying was not her husband’s. When my belly became too apparent to overlook in a so-called maid of honor, she tactfully elevated me to Lady of the Bedchamber in her household.

  Charles, too, continued to be as ardently devoted as before, perhaps even more so. My changing body delighted him, doubtless because he himself was the reason for it. I knew how much it grieved him that the queen had never given him a rightful heir, and I suspected part of his pleasure in seeing me swell now was that it confirmed the fault was not his. Whether kings or not, all men do like to see the proof of their own virility, and as the weeks slipped by, I was the very image of glowing fecundity, my cheeks rosy, my belly high and round beneath my petticoats, and my breasts full and proud.

  One afternoon in early March, I went walking in the park with the two young daughters of the Duke of York, the Lady Mary and the Lady Anne. It pleased His Grace that I speak to them in French, to improve their knowledge of the language. I had a fondness for the motherless princesses, and because I had known the Lady Anne in Paris when she, too, had been in Madame’s household, it was an agreeable enough way to pass an afternoon. The elder princess, the Lady Mary, was by far the more appealing, a tall, spirited, beautiful girl who favored her Stuart blood, while the Lady Anne sadly continued to be plain and afflicted with rheumy eyes, though shyly eager to please. Bundled against the cold, we had planned to feed stale bread to the ducks that still gathered on the canal when one of the king’s pages came running toward me.

  “Mrs. Carwell, if you please,” he said breathlessly, using the common name I’d come to be called by the English who could not manage my French one. “His Majesty wishes you to come at once.”

  Fearing the worst, I gave the two princesses over to their attendants and hurried after the page, who led me directly to the king’s privy chamber. There I found Charles pacing back and forth in such a righteous fury that I nigh expected smoke to puff from beneath his wig.

  “Where were you, Louise?” he demanded even before the page had left us alone. “I needed you, and you were not to be found.”

  “I was with the Lady Anne and the Lady Mary, sir,” I said, still breathless from following the youthful page, and because we were alone, I dared to sit without his leave. From the papers scattered on the long table before his chair, I guessed he’d been attempting some sort of work, but the way his chair was shoved back and the pen tossed aside also told of how futile that attempt had been. “What has happened? What is—”

  “How the devil do you manage de Croissy?” he demanded. “I know he sees you often enough. How have you not throttled the rascal by now?”

  “Has he been here to vex you, sir?”

  “ ‘Vexing’ does not begin to express what that arrogant, impertinent, officious—Ah!” He broke off in a wordless exclamation of furious disgust, and instead struck his palm so hard on the table that the ink bounced and splattered from its little well. Unlike most gentlemen, Charles seldom used strong oaths, and the fact that he was tempted now showed how very much the marquis must have angered him. He glanced at the spilled ink and nearly swore again, then looked at me.

  “Come,” he said, charging around the table to seize my hand. “You already have your cloak. Walk with me.”

  He marched me briskly down the halls, his expression so black that no one we passed dared greet him, only bowing or curtsying in fearful silence. As we left the palace, two of the king’s guards fell in at a respectful distance behind us, yet still Charles did not speak, half dragging me across the walks and paths. I was not accustomed to such a pace of exercise—while he walked each morning, I was content to remain abed—and I was also four months with child, and finally I’d had enough.

  “Please, sir, I beg you,” I said, scarce finding the breath to speak. “I cannot continue like this.”

  He stopped abruptly, and looked down at me as if seeing me for the first time. At once his expression softened and shaded into remorse.

  “Forgive me, Fubs,” he said, and contritely led me to a nearby bench at the end of the canal. “Are you well? Should I send for anything, or—”

  “I’m well enough, sir, now that we’ve come to roost.” I glanced around us to make sure no one else was within hearing. The day was cool enough that there were few others in the park as it was, and the two guards were keeping others from venturing any closer. I smiled and laid my hand upon his sleeve by way of encouragement. “Now tell me, sir. How has Lord de Croissy vexed you this time?”

  He sighed irritably. “It’s the same as always. You know de Croissy. You know how he is. He grovels and pleads, and then dares to suggest the most preposterous, the most insinuating—”

  “He wishes you to make good your profession of faith as was agreed at Dover,” I said. “That was his request, wasn’t it?”

  “That is always his request,” he answered crossly. “The rascal grabs hold to his notions like a terrier and will not let go. Today, how
ever, he went too far. Today he not only invoked Minette’s name, but my mother’s as well, claiming that my conversion to their Church was a dying wish they had in common. De Croissy wasn’t even in Paris when either of them died. He was here, plaguing me. How does he know their wishes for anything?”

  I sighed. I knew exactly what he meant, for the ambassador’s insistence was a trial to me as well, and on the same difficult subject. “Madame did speak to Her Majesty about it often, sir, often enough for Madame to mention it to me as well,” I said carefully. “She said it was your mother’s hope that, in time, you would choose to follow her lead.”

  He shook his head, not hiding his disgust. “It was always my mother’s hope, Louise, from the moment each of her children was baptized as an Anglican. She succeeded with Madame, and she tried with my brother Henry, though he bravely stood fast against her battery of priests.”

  I looked down at my hand on his sleeve. It was still my duty to France to incline him toward conversion, even if my loyalty toward Charles felt stronger than that to Louis.

  “What of you, sir?” I asked, striving to keep my voice light. “Do you mean to hold fast as well in spite of your promise to France?”

  “I would rather face Louis a hundred times over than my mother once,” he said wryly. “I’ll tell you the same as I told de Croissy. Regardless of the state of my tattered old soul, this is not the time for me to make so momentous a decision for either me or England. The English Catholics are too few and too weak to bear the weight of it, nor would the majority of my people support it. In time, perhaps, in time, but not now.”

  “But what of your conversations with Father Patrick, sir?” I asked, naming the queen’s confessor, an eloquent young priest whom Charles met on occasion to please his wife. “Has he done nothing to quell your doubts?”

  “Please, Fubs,” he said, covering my hand with his own. “I know you speak from concern for me, but it won’t alter my mind. This is not the proper time for a Catholic to sit on the throne of England.”

  I nodded. As far as I was concerned, I’d done as I’d been instructed. As a Roman Catholic myself, I longed for Charles to join me in the True Church to ensure his soul of its rightful place in heaven, just as Madame had. How could I not? But I’d seen enough of England and the English to understand exactly how disastrous his conversion would be, likely costing him his crown, and possibly his life as well.

  “But all is not lost for my Catholic friends,” he continued, and finally he smiled. “I’ve a plan that will bring them great comfort, and will establish England as a land of Christian grace and tolerance. I cannot tell you the finer points of it just yet, sweet, but you’ll learn of it soon enough.”

  “I’ve made plans of my own, sir, though surely not quite so grand as yours.” I glanced at him sideways, shyly, from inside the hood of my cloak. I’d known my news for several days now, but I’d waited for the proper opportunity to tell it to Charles. “I have asked His Most Christian Majesty if I may become a citizen of England instead of France, and he has granted his permission.”

  Charles looked at me sharply. “You did that?”

  “I did, sir,” I said, blushing. “I judged it best for the sake of our child, and for me, and—and because I wished to share that with you.”

  Louis, of course, had seen my request in a different light. He believed that my naturalization in England was necessary to my position with Charles, a clever advantage for him, and that was what my carefully worded letter had suggested, too. But in truth I’d felt myself shifting away from France, and my pregnancy had only convinced me further. I meant to make sure that Charles ennobled our child as he had done with Lady Cleveland’s, and I hoped for an English title and a respectable living for myself, too. It was ambitious, yes, but it also seemed only fair that I be recognized. The honors would come more readily if I were English. It all made perfect sense. My future, my fortune, and, most of all, my love lay here in England.

  “You’d give up France for me?” Charles’s smile slowly spread across his face. “I’m pleased, Fubs. No, more than pleased. I’m honored.”

  I leaned forward and kissed him, my hood bumping awkwardly against the brim of his hat in a way that made us both laugh, and pleased me even more than his compliment.

  “Ah, look, another of my subjects come to pay homage,” he said once we were untangled. He pointed down to a duck waddling across the grass from the canal toward us. The duck stopped, shook his tail, stretched his neck, and quacked up at us expectantly.

  “You see how it is, Louise,” Charles said mournfully. “Everyone wants something of me. Forgive me, friend, but I can’t oblige you today. Leave your petition with the porter, and I’ll see what can be done later.”

  “Here, sir, I wouldn’t wish you to disappoint.” I reached into my pocket for the little packet of crumbs I’d brought to feed the ducks with the princesses earlier. “Better to have a happy subject than one that’s full of discontent.”

  He grinned. “Do you always have bread crumbs secured about your person?”

  “I do when my king needs it,” I said, laughing with him.

  He took the crumbs from me and began tossing them to the duck, and before long a half dozen more hurried to claim their share, scuffling and quacking on the grass before us.

  The ducks were happy, but I was happier still. I’d coaxed Charles from his ill humor, I’d proved my loyalty, and I’d made him smile. What more could I wish from a single afternoon?

  “If it pleases you, sir, I’ve another thought,” I said. “In the future, I’ll invite Lord de Croissy to my rooms, and you can meet with him there instead. I’ll remain quietly to one side, but I’ll promise to intercede if he becomes too unbearable, and spare you the vexation.”

  “What an admirable suggestion, Fubs,” Charles said. “Though I pity you, having to see more of de Croissy.”

  I smiled. “If it pleases you, sir, then I’m content.”

  Such an arrangement would also keep me knowledgeable of whatever the ambassador, and therefore Louis, said to Charles. It would help preserve my place between the two, but I was wise enough not to say that before Charles now. He’d no need of vexation from me, either.

  He scattered the last of the crumbs before the ducks and sat back against the bench, his long legs stretched comfortably before him. He slipped his arm around my shoulders and I leaned against him, my head comfortably against his chest.

  “You can calm me like no other, Louise,” he said softly. “You bring me peace.”

  “If it pleases you, sir,” I said again, “then I am content.”

  And at that moment, I was.

  Within the week, I learned with the rest of England how Charles planned to make the country a place of “Christian grace and tolerance.” It had always been one of Charles’s most admirable ambitions. Having witnessed the strife and wickedness that came from religious intolerance during Cromwell’s Puritan reign, Charles had always hoped that under his rule, religious differences would cease to be an excuse for conflict. He saw no reason why any man could not worship as suited his preference, so long as his faith brought no harm to his neighbor. Those who would most benefit were Catholics, and the various dissenting nonconformists, including Ana baptists and Quakers. These were but a tiny minority of England’s population, with most following the Anglican Church, but it was a minority that had suffered greatly at the hands of the majority. This Charles meant to end.

  He had tried to bring this about once before in 1662, soon after he’d returned to his throne, when he had tried to have Parliament agree to a declaration of tolerance. Parliament, being full of stubborn Anglicans, had refused.

  Now Charles hoped to try again while Parliament was out of session. Reminding his people that, as king, he was in supreme control of ecclesiastical matters as well as secular ones, he issued the Declaration of Indulgence. Not only did this declaration grant to Catholics and nonconformists the right to worship as they pleased within their own homes, but al
so suspended all penal laws against them. It was a bold move, a noble move, and it had scarcely been made before the outcry rose against it.

  As can be imagined, the declaration was seen less as a plea for tolerance than as a marked advantage for Catholics. At once rumor and bigotry overwhelmed any sensible discussion. It was believed the Pope would soon claim England as his own, with waves of invading priests and cardinals determined to forcibly convert every honest Anglican, and to burn his house and rape his women if he dared resist. Exactly how this was to happen, I could not fathom; fear and disgust can persuade even logical persons of the most absurd beliefs.

  Once again the king’s wisdom was questioned. Given that the disastrous Stop of the Exchequer was still fresh in people’s minds, this new declaration did little to help his popularity with his people. Nor did it help that, soon after, Charles also issued a round of general honors. Nearly all of his closest counselors (those who formed the so-called Cabal) benefited: Lord Ashley was made Earl of Shaftesbury, Lord Arlington was granted an earldom and Lord Lauderdale a dukedom. Since these gentlemen were already known to be either Catholics or sympathetic to the faith, their elevation only added to the general hysteria.

  As a Catholic myself, and especially a Catholic personally favored by the king, I immediately felt the fresh waves of hatred and attack. Clods of dirt and stones were thrown at my carriage if I dared to go out, and foul insults shouted at me. The same befell Lady Cleveland, who was likewise of the Romish faith. I feared for myself and my unborn child. Instead of benefiting Charles’s Catholic friends, as he had hoped, the declaration served only to make us less the beneficiaries of a new freedom than the targets of intolerance.