The French Mistress

by Susan Holloway Scott

  “No one would dare, Your Grace.” He solemnized the patent with his signature as first minister, and prepared the wax for the privy seal. I looked at that wax as it melted, and considered how much its glossy red seal would bring to my son’s life. My son, His Grace, Lord Richmond. I’d have to practice saying it without the awe I now felt.

  The patent also meant that because my son was now recognized as Charles Lennox, gentleman, without the bastardy of being merely Charles de Keroualle, my duchy in France could now be his as well. That blotch of molten wax, now being impressed with the great seal of England, had made my son three times a duke in the space of a few seconds: a considerable inheritance of honors for a gentleman not yet three years in age!

  “Thank you,” I said softly as I took the signed and sealed patent from Danby’s hands. “I’ll leave you to prepare for your journey tomorrow.”

  He made a wry, unhappy face. His wife was widely known as a bullying shrew, and I could imagine well enough why he’d not anticipate a visit with her family.

  “A word or two before you take your leave, Your Grace, if you please,” he said. “Perhaps it’s wise we speak here before I go from London.”

  He gestured for me to sit, and intrigued, I did. My midnight conversations were seldom of politics.

  “You have heard that the Duke of York has given his interest more fully to Buckingham and Arlington?” he asked. “The two have been observed much at St. James’s, and now are boasting of their new alliance.”

  “Alliance, ha,” I scoffed, more with disgust than anything else. Even in a political world that thrived on selfish opportunism, Buckingham, Shaftesbury, and Arlington stood above all others, or perhaps crawled lower. Like sunflowers in the sun, each turned his face toward whichever cause or party seemed at that instant the one with the greatest potential for personal gain and profit. Most currently they seemed determined on any course that ran counter to Danby’s.

  Through this untidy sea Danby had in turn continued his best to steer the government toward an Anglican England and Crown, financial stability, and dissolving ties with Catholic France while strengthening them with the Protestant Dutch. He labored hard within Parliament, hoping to persuade them to vote funds to the king that would be sufficient to free him from the constant, binding need of supplementary payments from France—supplements that he told me he despised as much as if they’d been pulled from his own pockets.

  With goals for France so contrary to Danby’s own, why, then, was I now sitting beside his desk? Because I knew what the others did not: that very much against his personal will, Danby had been obliged by Charles to conduct the most secret negotiations to continue relations with France, and retain the French subsidies with them. And, of course, it was my task (as assigned by both Charles and by de Ruvigny and Louis) to offer the necessary encouragement to see that he did.

  La, I did enjoy the privileges of my power!

  “I would not worry over any alliance with the Duke of York,” I continued. “While brave and bluff to a fault, he is not the best-liked gentleman in the kingdom.”

  Danby’s nod was more of a bow, likely more concession to my rank than to my wisdom; like most other men, he found it difficult to heed advice from a woman. “I have heard that they will introduce a motion to Parliament for my impeachment, Your Grace.”

  I raised a single brow with surprise. “Pray, on what possible grounds?”

  He sighed. “I do not know. But if they are determined to be rid of me, they will find reason.”

  “Don’t worry overmuch, my lord.” I rose, tucking the patent into my muff. “His Majesty is loyal to those who are loyal to him. They wish to be rid of me as well, yet still I remain.”

  He bowed me toward the door, his dressing gown flapping around his spindly legs like a lady’s petticoats.

  “Forgive me for speaking plainly, Your Grace,” he said sourly, “but I should venture your place with the king is a good deal more secure than mine could ever be.”

  I smiled, and answered nothing. In all games of chance, the most useful cards are the ones that are kept unknown.

  Soon after, in the summer of 1675, a bill calling for Danby’s impeachment was in fact introduced in Parliament, on preposterous charges worth nothing. With little support, the bill withered and died, as was right, yet still the members continued to buzz and sting at one another like angry wasps, and not even Charles’s appearance one night was able to calm them in their differences. When the bickering became too great by the beginning of autumn, Charles simply prorogued the session yet again, and left it that way, uncalled and unwanted and far away from London.

  It all made perfect sense to him, and to me, though not at all to the angry nameless scribes who haunted the coffeehouses. The most popular ballad of the season, called “The Royal-Buss; or, The Prorogation,” might have lacked Lord Rochester’s artfulness, but none of his venom.

  Then Portsm—th, the incestuous Punk,

  Made our most gracious Sov’reign drunk.

  And drunk she made him give that Buss

  That all the Kingdoms bound to curse,

  And so red-hot with Wine and Whore,

  He kick’t the Commons out the door.

  I ignored it, as I did all the others. And as soon as the Court returned from its now-annual summer at Windsor, the meetings to negotiate another secret treaty between France and England began in earnest in the most private of my rooms. Just as Madame had done before me, I made everything as easy for the gentlemen as I could.

  For my efforts, Louis sent me a letter of thanks written in his own hand. With it came the gift of a pair of earrings set with diamonds and rubies from the best goldsmith in Paris. Their value, over £18,000, made them the most sizable single gift sent by France to England that year. I was enchanted; Louis anticipated my tastes in jewels so well.

  As 1675 came to its end, I believed myself truly not only recovered, but returned. Abbé Prignani’s long-ago fortune for me had in fact come true. I was prized by two kings, a duchess in my own right, and mother to a duke. I was in fact in such a proud fettle that I dared to jest to Charles (and only Charles) that I was like a phoenix born again, though rising ready not from ashes, but from a tub of mercury vapors. He laughed, as I knew he would, and it seemed I’d finally put my doubts behind me.

  Until, that is, the arrival of Hortense de Mancini.

  Dutifully I stood in the gallery of St. James’s Palace, with the thirteen-year-old Lady Mary on one side of me and Charles and his brother James, the Duke of York, on the other. The day was gray, with flurries of snow drifting into the courtyard, and biting with the deep-winter cold of January. His Grace’s young and very pregnant wife, Mary Beatrice, had invited me to remain with her in their quarters beside the fire, but I’d judged it better to come out with the others.

  I’d good reason, too. The duchesse de Mancini, Her Grace’s cousin and the Yorks’ current guest at St. James’s, was presenting a demonstration of her dueling skills. The duchesse’s opponent—or rather, her partner, for this duel was only pretend—was her African manservant, Mustapha. Mustapha looked painfully cold, his golden hoops quivering beneath the woolen scarf he’d wrapped beneath his bright yellow turban.

  But I guessed the duchesse herself was never cold. She was older than I, taller than I, and far less pretty than I, with a full mouth and many teeth, flashing dark eyes, and masses of black hair that she made no effort to control, letting them flow as wild as Medusa’s locks. She bore a strong resemblance to the ancient ladies shown on antique coins, with a strong nose and stronger brow.

  But I wasn’t sure what she resembled that day in the courtyard. Dressed in gentlemen’s clothes, even to boots and breeches, she shamelessly moved like a gentleman, her gestures bold as she tested her sword, laughing and swearing in a mixture of French, Italian, and English. As uninformed of dueling as I was, I quickly saw that her efforts were not near so expert as she’d boasted, but hacking slashes that only such a raging virago would claim.r />
  Yet as I stood there in my long blue cloak and my usual pearls, my hands tucked inside my oversized sable muff, my feet near frozen in yellow satin slippers with the high red heels that marked my nobility—dressed like that, I felt like a tiny doll, precious and exquisite but carved of wood. The feeling only doubled when I saw the looks of undisguised admiration on the faces of Charles and James, and grew again when she came striding toward me, offering me the hilt of her sword.

  “Here you are, Louise,” she said, for she’d already presumed familiarity based on our French duchies. “Have a try against me, or Mustapha, if you’d prefer.”

  Horrified by such a suggestion, I looked to Mustapha, who bowed and beckoned me to join him.

  “Thank you, madame, no,” I said politely, my hands clasped tight with dismay within my muff. “Dueling is not to my taste.”

  Beside me I heard Charles turn his smothered laugh into a cough. I thought several unkind things about him.

  “Then what is to your taste, Louise?” Hortense demanded. She loomed over me, steam rising from her doublet after her exertions. The “Roman Eagle,” that was what her admirers called her, and I could well understand it. “How do you amuse yourself ? Do you hunt? Hawk? Swim in the river?”

  “I game, madame. I play loo,” I said, the only thing that came to my mind, and of course she seized upon it.

  “Very well, then, Louise,” she said, clapping me on the back as she passed me by. “I’ll play you at loo, and I’ll teach you every cheat known on the Continent, so you’ll win every night. York, I’ve a thirst that will only be tamed by more of that excellent canary from dinner.”

  Then striding off she went, down the gallery with James and Mustapha trotting happily after her. At least Charles didn’t, remaining with the Lady Mary and me, though I didn’t dare meet his gaze from fear of what I’d say.

  “She’s a bold jade,” declared Lady Mary soundly, and I could have kissed her.

  But Charles—Charles thought differently. “She’s no jade,” he said as he stared after her brazen departing figure. “She’s magnificent.”

  And I knew my time of peace was done.

  Over the next weeks, I learned as much as I could of the duchesse de Mazarin, striving to better fight this new rival. I learned that her husband was mad, enough excuse to take lovers wherever she pleased. I learned that in fact she had once nearly been betrothed to Charles when he’d been a prince without a kingdom in exile. And I learned soon, sadly, that those early flames of desire between Charles and the duchesse might burn still between them.

  By the end of January, I was certain he was visiting the duchesse’s bed, for he was visiting mine far less. Now she was the one always at Charles’s side, daring him to join her in every wild escapade with a ferocious energy that drew Charles constantly to her.

  How could I compete with a creature like this? She wasn’t like my other rivals; she wasn’t like any other lady. The more I tried to display the qualities that had once beguiled Charles—my grace, my soft voice, my voluptuously feminine body, my fashionable dress—the more stiff and formal I became in comparison. The splendid welcoming haven I’d always offered to Charles had become boring and dull, and was of little interest to him now. I, who had always chosen to ignore my rivals, now in turn was the one ignored. It was not a pleasing place to be.

  I’d a brief respite in February, when the new treaty was finally completed and I’d again become indispensable to Charles. Signed in my rooms, this treaty was even more secret than the one signed long ago at Dover. Charles was delighted. It was not just the money (he’d receive £100,000 in exchange for his cooperation regarding the Dutch) or renewing Louis’s favor; I do believe he enjoyed acting on his own for the good of his country, without having to justify every step to a critical Parliament.

  “You please me better than all my ministers combined, Fubs,” Charles had said as we’d dined together in my bedchamber after the signing. “No one suits me better than you. How could I swim in these rough waters without you to keep me afloat?”

  Yet the next morning he was back with Hortense.

  Speculation grew that she’d soon replace me as the favorite mistress. Some claimed she already had. In the summer, when Charles offered her lodgings in the palace, in the old rooms once held by Lady Cleveland, the tongues wagged even faster.

  One evening Mrs. Gwyn trailed through the Court clad in deepest black mourning. When asked who she grieved for, she wept and wailed in mockery of me, and when pressed further, her answer made me wish to cry in earnest.

  “Who do I mourn?” she replied. “Why, I’m showing my respect t’ the duchess o’ Portsmouth herself, who is newly dead to the king and the Court.”

  Through de Ruvigny, Louis expressed his deep concern. He’d invested much trust and money in me. Didn’t I realize that the Dutch would feel their position strengthened if they believed my influence over Charles was fading? Why didn’t I fight harder?

  Yet how could I fight when there was no true battle? In his ever-charming way, Charles had never attempted to sever our ties, nor could I claim the indignation of a jealous wife. Mistresses exist to offer comfort, not strife, and besides, screaming rages and hurled porcelain had never been my manner. All I could do was continue as I had. I was beautiful, gracious, and obliging, smiling blithely before the Court while I wept alone in my bed. And each night before I slept, I’d added a new prayer: that for the sake of her soul, Hortense would be shown the depth of her sinful neglect of her marriage, and return dutifully to her husband in Rome as soon as she possibly could.

  The rest of the world continued as well. Louis pursued his relentless war with the Dutch, finally realizing a series of great victories that had proved devastating to the United Provinces. Feelings against the French ran so strong now that I never dared go about London on my own, from fear that my coach would be attacked.

  I heard Mrs. Gwyn herself tell (and tell, and tell, and tell) how she’d been stopped by such a mob who’d mistaken her carriage for mine. Angrily they’d held her horses and cursed her as a foul French slut. But being no better than the lowest-bred mongrel herself, she knew exactly how to address such a crowd. She leaned from the carriage’s window as if she were back upon her stage, tossed her mop of ginger curls, and called out in her dreadful screeching voice.

  “Pray, good people, be civil,” she’d cried, her hands held high for peace. “As you can see, I am the Protestant whore!”

  For that, they’d cheered her, and hurried her on her way with a brace of roaring apprentices as escort. It made for an amusing tale for her, I suppose; I found it only chilling, knowing I’d never have escaped so lightly.

  Thus matters went through the summer of 1677, when my prayers were answered, though not perhaps in a way that was best for Hortense’s eternal soul. His Royal Highness the Prince of Monaco appeared in London in June. He was handsome and dashing and young, and his seduction of the duchesse took less time than it takes me now to write it. Perhaps Charles would have indulged Hortense and looked aside if she’d been discreet, but that was not her nature. She conducted her intrigue with the prince exactly as she’d dueled: boldly and badly. Disgusted and unwilling to play the fool, Charles curtly withdrew his support. Hortense shrugged with unconcern, and swiftly decamped after the prince. As easily as that, Charles was once again mine.

  “I’m glad that you’re here, sir,” I said softly, soon after as we lay together in my bed like the finest of old times. “I’ve missed you.”

  “I’ve missed you, too, Fubs,” he said with a contented sigh, settling his arms more comfortably around my waist. “For a great many reasons, but most of all, I think, I missed the peace you bring me.”

  “Indeed, sir,” I said, glad the dark hid my smile. “I should imagine you did.”

  “What was that, Louise?” he asked, teasing. “Did I hear a hint of a reproach?”

  “It was an observation, sir, not a reproach,” I said firmly. “If you wish to be flayed for your sin
s, then I can recommend my confessor.”

  He laughed. “Likely I deserve that,” he said. “I behaved like an ass over that woman.”

  “No, sir,” I said, laughing with him. “You behaved like a man.”

  “Well, then, a foolish excuse for a man.” He pulled me up to kiss me, a splendid sort of apology. “But I’ve a great question to put to you, Louise, one of monumental importance. I’m considering shaving away my mustache.”

  “You are!” I exclaimed, astonished.

  “I am,” he said, lightly stroking his fingers over his upper lip as he considered the mustache’s fate. “Do you think I should?”

  “Why do you wish to do so, sir?” I asked, curious. “Is it because Louis wears one as well?”

  “Not exactly,” he said. “I rather thought I might look younger without it.”

  “Oh, sir,” I said, oddly touched. “Have your barber shave away the mustache if that pleases you, but you needn’t do so to look younger. No one would judge you to be old, sir. You’re in your prime.”

  “I’m forty-seven, Fubs,” he said mournfully. “That is old by anyone’s book.”

  “Not mine, sir,” I said. “You’ll always be young to me.”

  “My own dear life,” he said softly. “Then pray oblige me, and prove it.”

  As cynical as I might have become by the necessities of my life, I still cherished a romantic notion or two. One of them was that a marriage was doubly blessed when the persons to be wed were in love.

  Sadly, in November 1677, I was witness to a grievous example to the contrary, the wedding of the Lady Mary to William of Orange. While this match had much to recommend it from an English point of view—the eldest Protestant princess wed to a Protestant prince, and nary a French Catholic about it—Louis did not wish it, for obvious reasons, and I was likewise against it, but for sentimental ones. I watched the willowy, beautiful girl sob through the ceremony, her heart broken at the sight of her dispassionate, ugly groom, and I wept in sympathy with her. Worse still was how William carried her back to Holland immediately afterward, like more plunder of his unending wars.