The French Mistress

by Susan Holloway Scott

  “I am glad you came to me, my lord,” I said, gracefully offering him an armchair before the fire. “I’m honored that you found the time.”

  “Only a fool refuses a summons from you, Your Grace,” he said. “How many rooms do you have in these lodgings?”

  I widened my eyes disingenuously. The answer was forty, after my last expansion, not that I’d tell him. “Why, I’ve not counted, my lord. I rely on His Majesty’s generosity in such things.”

  He grunted. “Then I must inform you that His Majesty’s generosity is about to become less so. For the sake of the country’s welfare, it is imperative that he retrench and cut his expenses. If he follows my advice, he should soon see an increase in revenues that will benefit us all.”

  “So he has told me, my lord,” I said. “Yet if I dare to be honest, we both know that the king’s treasury has many parts, and while most contain funds voted to him by Parliament, there are other, more private sources that should remain unaffected by this ‘retrenchment.’”

  “The subsidies,” he said, fair spitting the word from his obvious loathing of those sums. “Of course you would know of Louis’s little offerings, Your Grace. You’re French.”

  “I am,” I agreed. “And you do not like the French.”

  “No, Your Grace, I do not,” he said bluntly. “I would as soon have England as it was meant to be: an Anglican country without Papists or Frenchmen.”

  “But His Majesty doesn’t quite agree with you, does he?” I said, keeping my voice purposefully soft to counter his own vehemence. “While he is willing for the stability your retrenchment promises—even eager for it!—he will not give up all things French in return to please you.”

  His small, tight mouth grew tighter still. “Meaning yourself, Your Grace.”

  I smiled. “Because I please His Majesty, my lord, he chooses to please me.”

  “And if I do not choose to please you, Your Grace?” he demanded. “What manner of punishment are you determined to inflict?”

  I clucked my tongue in dismay. “Oh, I would not call it ‘punish ment,’ my lord. That is far too harsh. But I can incline the king toward you, or I . . . cannot. To be sure, I do not dictate to him, for he is the king. La, I would never be so bold as to even pretend that!”

  “Never,” he said sourly. “What is the price of all this pleasing, Your Grace?”

  “That I be spared your retrenchment,” I said simply. “That when I have a small request of you, that it be paid as before, from that certain part of the treasury.”

  “I will do nothing to forward the French.”

  “I will not ask it of you,” I said. I wouldn’t, either, for his hatred was too deep for him ever to be trusted with anything related to France. But that sat well enough with me. Where the treasury was concerned, I was far more concerned with my own welfare.

  He nodded brusquely, all the agreement I’d receive, but all I needed, too. “Have you any requests outstanding, Your Grace?”

  “Have I?” I repeated, musing, though of course I had. “There is a certain pair of diamond earrings that Lady Northumberland is offering for sale—earrings that would greatly please His Majesty to see hanging from my ears. I believe Her Ladyship is asking three thousand pounds for them.”

  “Three thousand pounds,” he repeated, as if he’d never heard of diamonds worth that sum. “Very well, Your Grace. It will be done.”

  “Thank you,” I murmured. “You are too kind.”

  “Kindness has very little to do with it, Your Grace,” he said curtly, “as we both know.”

  “Then I am pleased that we have achieved this understanding between us,” I said, rising and offering him my hand by way of dismissal.

  He bowed over my fingers, as brief a bob as could be managed. “It’s always pleasing with you, isn’t it, Your Grace?”

  “Yes, my lord,” I said, and smiled. “It always is.”

  That same February, in 1674, Charles finally made peace with William of Orange, and signed the Treaty of Westminster. This treaty was filled with the usual meaningless back and forth of all treaties, of distant ports exchanged and certain policies reversed or enforced. But for England its primary meaning was not only the end of a costly war that few had wanted, but also the end of France as an ally, while Louis continued doggedly to attempt to win on land against William. Parliament, being Parliament, took full credit for this, and viewed the treaty as another victory for an Anglican England.

  Later that spring came a proclamation ordering all priests and Jesuits to leave England, an order pushed through by Parliament that sadly displeased Charles. With the end of the war and its financial drains, Lord Danby’s plans for a more stable economy were already plumping the treasury, and his favor and power were likewise increasing. Now, more than ever, a gentleman’s success in Parliament depended on the deepness of his hatred toward France, as Lord Danby’s success proved.

  There were a good many folk at Court who wondered how I continued to prosper beneath the new treasurer while both Mrs. Gwyn and Lady Cleveland howled about how he’d cut their incomes and refused their requests. I told them nothing. Lord Danby and I had our “understanding,” and it was clear that he’d chosen me over the others. Much to my amusement, whispers rippled through the Court that I must have taken Lord Danby as my lover, for what other reason could there be for his obvious favor? It was so preposterous that I told it to Charles, who laughed, too, and teased me about fancying a man without any blood.

  But I’d another triumph, too. That black-clad crow who’d plagued me for so long, Lord de Croissy, was at last recalled for his ineptitude and irritating manner (as I could have long ago informed His Most Christian Majesty he should have been), and replaced by the Marquis de Ruvigny as the new French ambassador to the Court of St. James. Where Lord de Croissy had often crept perilously close to nagging, Lord de Ruvigny was forthright and direct, and the English did love him for it. Most important to me, however, he recognized at once my significance and my usefulness to both Charles and Louis, and respected me accordingly, which Colbert had never done.

  Even if Lord de Ruvigny’s personal qualities had not recommended him to me, he brought a favor from Louis that certainly did, one that I’d coveted for many years. As pleased as I’d been to be made an English duchess, it was the French title of duchesse that I’d longed for even more, the right to have a taboret of my own and to sit in the presence of the Queen of France. It would mean that I was the equal of Madame de la Vallière, maîtresse en titre who’d been raised on account of her service to the French king. How sweet it would be to know that I’d triumphed over those who’d ignored me when I’d been in Madame’s household, the gentlemen too superior to dance with me, the ladies too fine to know my name!

  What de Ruvigny brought me was the deed of gift for the estates of Aubigny and La Verrerie, the two châteaus, and the duchy that went with it. To my giddy delight, in France I was now Madame la duchesse du Aubigny; more important, it was an estate to be inherited by my son and to mark him as a gentleman in France. At least I could offer him that much.

  It grieved me greatly that Charles had still not formally acknowledged our son’s paternity. My lovely babe was nearly a year old, and it was shameful that he’d nothing but his baptismal name. Charles had offered no answer when I asked, no reason when I pleaded. Surely it wasn’t a lack of affection for our child. I wept from tenderness when I saw how he delighted in our son, holding and toying with him each day with a fondness rare in any father, let alone a royal one. All I could do now was to trust to time, and to Charles.

  “You make a fair country lass, Fubsy,” Charles said, smiling with happy approval as we rode side by side through the Great Park at Windsor. We’d come up from London with the rest of the Court at the end of May to spend the summer months here in the country at Windsor Castle, far from the dust and heat of London. “The fairest of the fair.”

  “I’m no such creature, sir,” I retorted, laughing with him. “How can I be a c
ountry lass if I cannot ride out with you in the midday sun from fear of burning red as a strawberry?”

  “I said you were a fair country lass, and that you are.” He was not so far from a handsome country lad himself, with only a waistcoat instead of a doublet or coat, and the sleeves of his shirt rolled back over his forearms. “The fairest of the fair, with skin whiter than new cream. Is that more to your liking?”

  “It’s more the truth, sir,” I said, tipping my head beneath the wide brim of my straw hat. That braided straw was my single concession to the country, for the hat itself was crowned with my usual white plumes and blue silk ribbons. But even though my pale skin meant I must limit my rides with Charles to dusk, I still relished them above all things.

  Now we were making our way slowly back toward the castle, walking our horses at a pace more suited for conversation than any real progress. The early June evening was drowsy-warm and the sky gray with that rare soft moment between day and night, and the first mists from the river already clung to the bottom of the castle’s ancient walls. The first stars had begun to show and the new moon to rise, and the birds in the trees below the castle were sounding their good-night chatter, as if sharing the last ripe gossip of their avian day.

  “The castle’s handsome tonight, isn’t it?” Charles asked like any other proud landlord. “I’m glad I had the gardeners pull down those scrub trees and that brush around the bottom of the towers. This way you can see those glorious old stones for what they are.”

  What they were was unappealing to me, rough and worn, but I knew better than to criticize Windsor Castle to Charles. Windsor was his darling, his favorite of the many palaces he possessed, and the one he lavished endless attention and expense upon. To the rest of us, it was a drafty, ancient fortification, but to Charles it was a magical place, and deserving of the legions of architects, carpenters, plasterers, and painters he routinely turned loose in the name of “improvements.”

  “You’ve done a great many things that I can see, sir,” I said loyally. “Some large, some small, but all to the benefit of the property.”

  “It’s fortunate I’ll have the whole summer now to continue,” he said, and from his thoughtful expression, I knew he was already envisioning the next trees to be planted or pulled up, new staircases added and floors redone. “Four months is not much time.”

  “Four months is a splendid amount of time, sir,” I assured him. “You’ve never brought the Court here for so long before. It will do you much good to be away from London.”

  “It will,” he said, his thoughts still on the castle. “Tell me, Fubs. Does Windsor come close to what my cousin does at his place at Versailles?”

  “Oh, sir,” I protested diplomatically, “it has been many years since I’ve been to Versailles.”

  “No, no, pray be honest,” he insisted. “Don’t you judge Signor Verrio’s new paintings in the presence chamber to be every bit as fine as anything Louis can muster?”

  I smiled fondly. Windsor was greatly improved, yes, but it would never compare to the glorious splendor of Versailles. But like every other gentleman, the more Charles begged for honesty, the less of it he truly wished to hear; and like every other lady who loved her gentleman, I would tell him exactly what he wanted.

  “Windsor is magnificent, sir,” I declared. “Even Louis would be impressed.”

  He grinned with happy pride. “I thought as much. You do approve of your own rooms?”

  “How could I not be more than content, sir?” Indeed, how couldn’t I? Mrs. Gwyn had been given the lease to some sort of low house in the town of Windsor, but I was the one who had a suite of rooms furnished to my own taste in the castle, there as part of the royal apartments. “Truly you are generosity itself.”

  “Only the best for you, my dear life.” He drew off his hat and leaned across the space between our horses to kiss me, both with affection and desire. Though we’d just celebrated his forty-fourth birthday, he was as vigorous as ever, and after he’d kissed me, his gaze lingered over my throat and breasts with growing interest. “Your skin is most wondrous fair, Fubs. I never tire of it.”

  I smiled wickedly, my lips ripe and inviting from his kiss. “If it pleases you so, sir, then catch me, and I’ll show you far more.”

  I kicked my heels to urge my mount onward, and laughed merrily as he chased me. Of course he caught me. Of course I’d wished it. Of course we both were pleased, and pleasured.

  I doubted I could ever be happier than I was that day, my life any more splendid or my love more perfect.

  I was only twenty-five, and not half so wise as I believed. But happiness is too often followed by sorrow, and gilded splendor can turn to humbling ashes in an instant. And as for love—Ah, love can prove the most fragile of all.

  It was raining the morning I discovered the first sores.

  Restless, I’d slipped from my bed early, before Bette had brought my breakfast. Never one to lie abed past dawn, Charles had long ago left me. I’d heard the rain all the night long and it rained still, drumming hard against the castle walls. Because the wind had blown from the west, I’d been able to keep my bedchamber windows open, for besides the heaviness of summer rain the air itself was heavy and poisonous. All had made for a poor night for rest, and I yawned as I stood before the nearest window to stare across the sodden lawns and dripping trees. August was nearly done, and with it our time here at Windsor. There’d be no picnics or other merry pleasures today, I thought, and idly rubbed my hands together.

  And winced. They hurt, my hands, a pain that stung in the way a scalding or a blister did. I turned my palms open and held them to the rainy light, and found a peppering of spots the color of worn copper. Some spots had already opened into sores, their surface glistening where I’d rubbed them together.

  With a frightened little cry, I ran to my dressing table and bent before the glass, frantically turning my face from side to side to spy out any hint of other such spots. Was that a tiny one, there, scarce more than a freckle at the corner of my mouth? Swiftly I twisted about to turn the sole of my bare foot toward the window’s light. I saw more spots, more sores, my pale skin now marked with the most shameful of banners.

  “Good day, Your Grace,” Bette said with her customary cheer, my tray in her arms. “Why are you from your bed on a morn such as this? Back beneath the sheets, now, and I’ll fetch you your chocolate properly.”

  Fearful she’d see my distress or the reason for it, I hurried to do as she’d bid, slipping swiftly into the bed with the sheets drawn high. With the tray resting against her hip, she smoothed the coverlet and set the tray upon it, the same way she did it every morning. She poured my first cup of chocolate and passed it to me, the tiny silver spoon balanced flat over the top. But the shock of my discovery had set my hands to trembling, and as soon as she’d put the cup in my fingers I let it slip, spilling chocolate over my fingers and onto the pale green silk coverlet in foaming brown rivulets.

  “Forgive my clumsiness, Your Grace. Forgive me!” she exclaimed, as if it had truly been her fault. At once she took my hand to wipe it clean with the hem of her apron, and as she did, she gasped.

  “Your poor hand!” she cried. “Oh, Your Grace, what has happened?”

  I pulled my hand away, cradling it close to my chest as at last I began to weep.

  “Is it from all that riding about, Your Grace?” asked Bette with coaxing concern. “Come now, let me see it. There’s plenty of salves that will cure that. I’ll venture it’s from wearing your gloves too tight while you held the reins in this hot weather.”

  I shook my head and held my palms out for her to see. There was no use in hiding the sores from her. She’d see them soon enough, as would the rest of the Court.

  Her eyes widened with shock, then filled with such acute sympathy that I almost could not bear it. She knew what she saw, as did I. How could it be otherwise, when we’d both been so long at Courts and among profligate courtiers and highborn libertines?

  �
�I’ll send for His Majesty’s physicians directly, Your Grace,” she said gently. “And for His Majesty, too.”

  “At his pleasure, Bette,” I whispered wearily through my tears. “Only at his pleasure.”

  Of all the humiliations I’d suffered in my life, surely this was the worst. To have my bedchamber invaded by long-faced medical gentlemen, there to inspect and handle my most private parts and make the most indelicate of inquiries into my habits, was beyond shaming. Having Charles there beside me with his hand upon my shoulder only made my mortification infinitely worse.

  Now there are those who will scoff at the notion of a woman who lives such a life as mine having any scrap of shame or conscience, but I assure you that I remained at heart a modest lady, especially when compared to the flagrantly lewd conduct of my rivals. I’ve always believed it was part of my attraction for Charles, that I reserved my wanton pleasures for only him. Likewise I’d sadly known he’d not shown me the same fidelity, nor was it in his constitution to do so to any woman. It had little to do with love. There was simply a part of his being that craved the variety that no single mortal woman could ever supply. I knew of the whorehouse frolics organized by Lord Buckingham and the parade of nameless low women escorted up the back stairs to the royal bedchamber as surely as I knew of Mrs. Gwyn and Lady Cleveland. But I’d never suspected I’d be so publicly confronted with Charles’s faithlessness, or so painfully.

  “Morbus Gallicus is a most pernicious disease, Your Majesty,” explained Sir Henry Scarborough, Charles’s chief physician, in the most baleful tones.

  “Here, now,” Charles warned. “I’ll ask you not to lay blame on the French for this.”

  Sir Henry bowed, but pointedly did not apologize to me. Did he think I was too stupid to understand his Latin, or that he’d just described my affliction as the French pox?

  “Forgive me, Your Majesty,” he said, bowing like any other practiced courtier. “For clarity, I shall employ the simple vulgar name of the pox instead. The sores must be left uncovered to help drain the pus, and thus draw the foulest of the humors from the body. While the wells of Bath and Tunbridge are chosen by many for this purpose—Tunbridge’s chalybeate springs are said to be particularly salubrious—I myself prefer a more aggressive course of hot mercury baths, enemas, and vapors.”