The French Mistress

by Susan Holloway Scott

  I took his hand and drew off his glove, meaning to kiss his hand by way of demonstrating both my love and my tender fealty. But instead I gasped, and understood at once why he’d taken to wearing gloves even when he’d addressed Parliament: he’d bitten his nails to the quick, the ends raw and painful to see.

  “I haven’t done it since I was a boy,” he said, shamefully closing his fingers into his palm to hide them. “Don’t tell anyone, mind?”

  “Never, sir,” I said, kissing him. “Never.”

  In the end, it wasn’t Shaftesbury who brought down Danby, but Lady Cleveland. If what happened next had been part of one of Mrs. Gwyn’s merry plays, I would have laughed as heartily as anyone, for surely the events were sufficiently foolish for that. But because they ruined the public careers of two different gentlemen, it was hard to see the humor.

  With a stunning lack of common sense, Ralph Montagu, the English ambassador to the Court of France (and my onetime savior when I’d been abandoned by Buckingham), had dared to seduce Lady Cleveland’s wedded daughter, Anne, Countess of Sussex. Granted, the girl was not known for her virtue any more than her mother had been, but Lady Cleveland was furious, and only partly because she, too, had traipsed through Montagu’s bed. She demanded that Charles act, and with a father’s indignation, he did, removing Montagu from his post.

  But Montagu placed the blame for his disgrace squarely, if wrongly, on Danby’s narrow shoulders, and resolved to see him removed for office just as he had been. Montagu produced letters written by Danby to Louis, and read them aloud in the House of Commons. No matter that the letters had been written at Charles’s request, or that Montagu neglected to inform the House of this little fact. At once Danby was impeached, on charges that ranged from him being a Papist sympathizer and friends with Louis, to having been party to the same nonexistent plot to murder the king.

  To stop the trial, Charles did the one thing in his power: he finally dissolved Parliament at the very end of 1678, calling for the first new election in eighteen years. It was a desperate move, intended not just to save Danby’s reputation and possibly his life, but also to prevent the inevitable revelations about Charles’s true relations with Louis that could, given Shaftesbury’s intensity, bring down the very crown from Charles’s head.

  Disgruntled, Montagu turned his attention to defaming me to anyone who would listen. He claimed knowledge of my life at the French Court, including debaucheries I’d never experienced and lovers I’d never had. Irritating, yes, but as nothing compared to everything else.

  Because by that time the new session of Parliament was seated in March 1679, with a new set of members in the House of Commons who were even more hostile toward Charles and his French sympathies, and also more firmly in Shaftesbury’s grasp. It was abundantly clear to us all that Shaftesbury and this party of his had set their sights on far larger game than me, or the pitiful group of Catholic servants they’d persecuted until now. Even Danby was swiftly dispensed: soon after meeting, the Commons had him arrested and sent to the Tower, while Charles was reluctantly compelled to accept his resignation.

  No, Shaftesbury’s desire now was lofty indeed: he wanted Charles to remove his Catholic brother, the Duke of York, from the succession, and instead name as his heir his illegitimate Protestant son, the Duke of Monmouth.

  As soon as this became known, Charles sent his brother off on a prolonged stay in the Netherlands, ostensibly to visit his daughter Mary. Monmouth was also sent far from harm’s way, into Scotland. Clearly Charles had no intention of giving in and was preparing for a hard battle with this Parliament, the most difficult of his long reign.

  Yet as I listened to the rising voices of dissent in London, all I could wonder was if, at last, Charles had joined in a fight he could not win.

  When Parliament opened in March 1679, Charles addressed them, and told them in no uncertain terms that he would not change the descent of the Crown through the rightful line.

  Soon after, Shaftesbury’s whispering liars grew even bolder. Because of them, the first rumors began circulating that I’d bewitched the king into declaring our son heir to the Crown, with the preposterous goal of eventually handing all of England over to Louis and the French.

  In April, the Exclusion Bill—that is, a bill demanding that the Catholic Duke of York be excluded from the succession by reason of his faith—was introduced into the House of Commons, and carried on its first reading.

  Also in April, Titus Oates soundly declared that Jesuits had caused both the deaths of James I and Charles I, and that the Duke of York had himself set the Great Fire of 1666. He was widely believed.

  I continued to hear Mass each day in the queen’s chapel, and wondered how something that brought me such comfort could bring only murderous discord to Anglicans.

  In May, the Exclusion Bill received its second reading, and was carried by an even greater majority. Only one more reading was necessary before the bill was passed to the House of Lords. But before this could happen, Charles prorogued the session.

  In June, six more Jesuits were charged with plotting to assassinate the king, and executed without trials. And in Westminster, Shaftesbury and several other lords and members of the House appeared before the Court of King’s Bench to proclaim the dangers of Popery to England. He asked for the Duke of York’s indictment, and then demanded that I be denounced as a “public scandal” and charged accordingly.

  But there was more. A printed pamphlet was mysteriously distributed in the House, with none claiming its authorship, but everyone reading it, and embracing it entirely. The Articles of High Treason, & Other High Crimes & Misdemeanors Against the duchess of Portsmouth listed twenty-two separate charges against me, from seeking to foment rebellion, to promoting Popery, to lying with the king “having had foul and contagious distempers, to the manifest danger and hazard of the king’s person” (a most cruel allusion to the pox he had given to me), and finally, that I had tried to poison him. To my horror, the House seemed to accept this vile document as truth, and at once members began to demand my trial for treason, murder, and any number of other charges, while the kindest ones suggested I merely be banished back to France.

  Terrified, I ran to Charles as soon as I heard.

  “What will they do to me, sir?” I asked, sobbing. My English had improved over time, but I was frightened near to death of defending myself under oath before a tribunal of too-clever Englishmen bent on my destruction. “They will sentence me to the Tower, sir, and carry me away from you forever. They will sentence me to death!”

  “There now, Fubs, they’ll do no such thing,” he said, taking me into his arms. “It will never come to that. I won’t allow it.”

  Once released, my tears spilled over without stop. He held me closely against his chest, his hand cradling my head as if I were a child, and whispered nonsense to me until I stopped trembling. With him to protect me, I felt safe. But for how long? I wondered. How long?

  Two weeks afterward, in early July, against the advice of his ministers, he dissolved Parliament. The outcry among the members was immediate and angry. Charles replied mildly that he was weary, and wished to fish in peace, and took the Court to Windsor. Perhaps he’d sensed something the rest of us had missed, a change in the air that, finally, might let common sense prevail, for later that month came word from London that the queen’s physician, Dr. Wakefield, had been acquitted of all the charges against him. But while Charles found joy in this news, more trouble came from an entirely different source.

  On a day in late August, he played a vigorous game of tennis in the hot sun, and then went down to the river’s edge to cool himself, lolling and laughing with his gentlemen as was his habit. That evening, he was struck with a violent ague, trembling and shaking as a high fever seized him. At once he was bled, to no avail, and as he passed in and out of consciousness and delirium, his doctors began to despair of his recovery. At once the question of the succession seemed horribly relevant, and the ministers and other great m
en who crowded his bedchamber decided at last to summon the Duke of York from Brussels.

  All I cared for was not the king, but for my Charles. Though I begged and pleaded to be admitted to his side, I was kept from his chamber, and left to weep with fearful anxiety in the hall as I waited for news. Yet as ill as he was, it was Charles himself who prescribed his own cure, a newly discovered remedy that he’d heard of from one of his scientific gentlemen. Called Jesuit’s bark, his physicians resisted its use, for how could anything named for the Jesuits be of use to an Anglican king? Charles insisted, and despite its name, the remedy brought about an immediate improvement in his condition and saved him from certain death. Finally, with the danger passed, I was permitted into his room and left alone with him in tearful reunion.

  “There now, Fubs, save your tears for when I truly die,” he said with what I considered inordinate jollity, considering how dire his condition had been only days before. His face looked thinner and he still was pale beneath the gray stubble of his unshaven beard, but otherwise he seemed no worse for his ordeal as he sat up in his bed to greet me. “It was the Jesuit’s bark that saved me, and don’t think for a moment that I missed the sweet irony of that.”

  He laughed, and tried to kiss me, but I pushed him aside.

  “Hush, sir. Don’t,” I scolded. “You should be thanking God for your delivery rather than making jests about the Jesuit fathers.”

  “I’m not jesting, sweet,” he protested. “I’m perfectly serious. I owe my life to the Jesuits, and that’s enough to make any man pause and think.”

  I frowned. “Of what, sir?”

  His face grew serious. “What if God meant that as a sign for me, Fubs?” he said, lowering his voice to a confidential level meant only for my ears. “What if having the work of those holy gentlemen save my body was intended to point my soul in a similar direction?”

  My eyes widened, for I’d never heard him speak so openly of conversion.

  “Oh, sir,” I whispered, “you know it was always Madame’s dearest wish that you return to the True Church.”

  “I know it was,” he said, his expression so thoughtful I could not mistake his meaning. “But not now. Not yet. Not if I wish to keep peace in my country, in any event.”

  “No, sir,” I said softly, in perfect agreement. I knew his wishes; I’d not forget them. “No.”

  “Don’t look so solemn,” he said softly, and reached out to lay his hand over mine. “No matter what foolishness Monmouth attempts, I will stop him, like a good father should. No matter what Shaftesbury and the others try, I will prevail, and do what is right for England, not for them. That is how it’s always been, and how it always will be. And most of all for you, dear Fubs, remember that I always protect those I love. Always.”

  Chapter Twenty-four

  WHITEHALL PALACE, LONDON

  February 1685

  It was a night as any other at Whitehall: how strange it seems now to say that, and yet at once how sadly true.

  After a supper with the queen, Charles had come to my rooms, as was usual for him. I greeted him warmly, bidding him sit on the settee beside me, before the fire. I’d been his mistress for thirteen years, a prodigious time for any lady in my position, because I’d long ago learned what pleased him best. I brought him the wine he liked in the evenings, and poured it for him myself, the way I always did. I’d arranged for a young French boy to sing love songs to us, his golden curls and dulcet voice giving him the air of an angel, and sweetly melancholy, too. There were perhaps twenty others there in my rooms that night, playing for high stakes at basset, with a mound of gold pieces piled in the middle. This, I suppose, might have been the single mark of sinful behavior on that night, being a Sunday; but then those who played had likely sinned in so many other, more grievous ways during their lives, that no one gave it much thought.

  The two greatest sinners were not far from Charles and me: Lady Cleveland and Lady Mazarin, each back from their wanderings and by fate come as guests to my rooms that night. Lady Cleveland had turned blowsy, her once-remarkable beauty long gone and her figure so large now that she fair overflowed her armchair, but she still possessed a bawdy charm that made Charles laugh. Lady Mazarin was more somber, her once-brazen cheer swallowed up by too much drink and sorrowful reflection, but Charles welcomed her presence, too. While both of these ladies had been my rivals in past years, I could now afford to be generous to them. The king’s heart was mine, as mine was his, and no one who saw us together would ever doubt it.

  When at last he decided to retire, I walked with him from my rooms to his, his gentlemen keeping a discreet distance. We paused at his doorway, as we’d done so many times before, and I slipped my arms around his waist to bid him good night.

  “My dear life,” he said. “My only Fubs, what would I be without you, eh?”

  He kissed me, and I kissed him, and afterward I held him close, my cheek pressed against the wool of his coat so I could hear the steady beat of his heart. I do not know why I lingered like that, or why, when at last I separated from him, I reached up to lay my hand against his cheek.

  “Good night, dear sir,” I said, my eyes filling with tears. “Rest well, my love.”

  “Why tears for a good night?” he asked, teasing me gently. “I vow you’ve shed enough tears over me to water any forest.”

  I shook my head. “Oh, sir, you know how I am,” I said, wiping my eyes. “I cannot help myself, and never have.”

  “I wouldn’t wish you otherwise, Louise.” He kissed me again, on my forehead. Then he opened the door to his chamber and a scurry of welcoming dogs, and I returned to my rooms and my other guests.

  And that was all.

  It was the thumping on my door that roused me, the frantic gentleman’s voice that could only mean ill tidings. By the time Bette brought him to my bedchamber, I was already nearly dressed.

  “The king is taken gravely ill,” the man said, his face ghostly by the light of the candlestick. “You must come at once.”

  Without waiting for him to guide me, I ran ahead to Charles’s bedchamber, knowing the way perfectly well. Already a ring of gentlemen and physicians was gathered around him, and already I could tell the worst. The king lay still, far too still for him, his face pale and sweating and his gaze fixed on the canopy overhead.

  At once I crouched beside his bed, and was rewarded with a flicker of recognition. Then I was hurried aside by the doctors, intent on doing what doctors do.

  Over the next days and nights, I saw the king be given a score of different medicines and treatments, some that seemed so painful that I could not believe he could withstand them. Fourteen doctors tended him, yet not one had any real notion of what to do. The king’s head was shaved, and he was bled repeatedly, once even from his jugular vein as a final measure of desperation.

  Nothing helped. Though there were times when he’d rally enough to give us hope, I knew in my heart he was leaving us. Desperate to remain in his dear company as long as I could, I performed every service a wife could, chafing his hands and offering whispers of comfort, and though I wept freely, no one now would fault me for it. The queen was so distraught that when she would appear, she needed to be carried from the room, to be bled herself to ease her hysteria. Most touching of all was my old rival Mrs. Gwyn: for from being ever a commoner, she was forbidden to enter the deathbed chamber, and kept by guards outside the king’s room. Instead she was left to crouch in the hall, sobbing at the same door that would never open for her.

  As a duchess, I stayed with the king, believing it my rightful place, until at last his royal family was assembled and brought to say farewell. I stepped back, and through my tears watched as he gave a final blessing to our son, Richmond, now a sturdy young gentleman of twelve years, his last and dearest son. Richmond bent to kiss his father’s cheek, and then turned toward me, his handsome face contorted with suffering. With his tears streaming, he bowed to me with a courtliness that painfully reminded me of his father, offered me
his arm, and led me from the room. Young as he was, he understood why it was his duty to do so, and I did as well. No matter how I grieved for Charles, he remained the king, and I did not belong amidst the final royal farewells.

  Yet throughout I noticed Charles had steadfastly refused to be given his last rites as an Anglican, claiming that it was too soon or that he was not ready. I remembered back to another such terrible scene, the death of his sister, Henriette, my dear Madame, and I recalled the comfort she’d found in the final ceremonies of the Catholic Church. Could it be that at last Charles wished it, too? I remembered what he’d told me at Windsor, when he’d been so ill with the fever, and how he’d believed that God had been directing him toward the True Church by saving him through Jesuit’s bark. Now that the end was undeniably near, could he truly have decided to preserve his soul in the rightful way?

  I crept back to his chamber, determined to do this final duty. Only the Duke of York remained by his brother’s side, and I beckoned for him to join me out of Charles’s hearing.

  “Lady Portsmouth,” he said through his own tears when he saw me. “You’ve returned.”

  “Please, Your Grace, I must beg your indulgence,” I said. “It is my belief that His Majesty wishes to die in our faith. I beseech you, if you can, ask him. Ask him now!”

  He looked at me sharply. “You are sure of this?”

  I nodded, and he returned to his brother’s bedside, speaking to him in an earnest whisper I could not hear. It pained me that I could not ask so tender a question of Charles myself, but I knew the awful significance of it, and I knew, too, that as a Frenchwoman, my motives would be questioned. For Charles’s sake, it was his brother and heir who must ask, and when I heard Charles’s voice, stronger than it had been in days, make the final reply—“With all my heart”—I knew I’d followed both my duty and my love.