Whitehall--Season One Volume One

by Liz Duffy Adams

  It would do, he thought. She would do.

  Episode 5: The Rules of the Game

  by Liz Duffy Adams and Delia Sherman

  September 1662

  Thwack—sssss—CRACK! The ball shot through the iron hoop and rebounded off the pole. “Oh, well played, Your Majesty!” Catherine clapped her hands.

  Charles turned and saluted her with his mallet. His page trotted up with the small hardwood ball; Charles took it, dropped it, and swung his mallet in an exuberant circle to send the ball hurtling back down the white crushed cockleshell pitch toward the other end, where a matching hoop hung far off the ground. All the gentlemen ran after it, coattails and long hair flying behind them.

  Feliciana, Catherine’s spaniel, leaped from her lap and flung herself into the pack of Charles’s dogs, who ran yipping happily down the spectator’s side of the waist-high fence in parallel to the men. Gregory the fox gamboled with them, twice their size but just as unrestrained in his joy. Remembering the uproar occasioned by Rochester’s monkey at the ball, Catherine thought it a good thing that the young earl had banished the animal to his country estate. It was a funny creature—how she and Charles had laughed over it later! But it distressed the dogs.

  The gentlemen in the distance tangled in a scrum, then broke apart and ran again. Wearing their usual velvets and silks in brilliant jewel tones, fluttering all over with ribbons, they looked, Catherine thought, like a flock of brightly colored birds.

  She clasped her hands under her chin and smiled happily. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Lady Buckingham and Lady Suffolk exchange a smile, fleeting and all but secret. Catherine instantly schooled her face into a more demure and dignified neutrality.

  But was she not allowed to display her pleasure, her innocent and honest joy in her husband’s prowess? She was still learning what seemed a Byzantine tangle of unspoken rules in this new world. Perhaps it was for her as queen to set the rules, but how could she, when she was still uncertain of the ground? And she knew—oh, how keenly she was aware—that she was in no position to set any fashions, for who would follow her? While the king showed her respect and came to her bed most every night, all imagined that she had his ear, and so all took care to be polite. That, still, was as far as it went.

  But today she was happy, and would trust that all would be well. The afternoon sun shone on the golden leaves of St. James’s Park. It was still warm enough to sit picnicking with the lightest of wraps, in little upholstered chairs carried outside for the purpose. A soft breeze brought the heavenly fall scent of the last fading flowers, decaying leaves, and woodsmoke, amid the mingled perfumes of the court ladies about her.

  She reached out and squeezed the Duchess of York’s hand as she sat beside her. She said in Spanish, “Sister, your husband plays well.”

  Anne looked after James as he took his shot—and sent the ball whistling into the trees beyond the hoop. She laughed and said, “I hope he fires his cannon with more accuracy, else we’ll be in danger of falling to the Dutch next war.”

  A troop of small boys went running after the errant ball, whooping and jostling to be the one to carry it back. The leafy park all around the pall-mall grounds was thronged with spectators—workers, merchants, gentlefolk, and apprentices—anyone who had a mind to watch the court at its play. Anne noticed Catherine’s glance and said, “Is it still strange to you? I know it is quite different at the court of Lisbon.”

  “Oh, yes. I never once saw my father or mother among ordinary people. It is so much more formal there.”

  “It was so here too, before. But I must say, I think it better now; the people love Charles for his easiness with them. And what a bore to be always on one’s perfect dignity, don’t you think?”

  “Perhaps? In any case, I don’t suppose I could. I keep slipping up as it is, like a fool.”

  Anne shook her head in mock sorrow. “And now I have a bitter choice: to contradict my sister and my queen, or agree with one who mocks her, even though it be herself.”

  Catherine smiled. “Very well, but is it mockery if it is true?”

  There was a rustling at Catherine’s elbow, and she turned her head to see her newest attendant, Lady Eleanor Plumstead. Beside her stood a servant with a large tray, and on it an array of gleaming silver cups.

  Lady Eleanor offered, “Would it please Your Majesty to drink a mulberry syllabub?”

  Catherine accepted a cup and sipped. Cool, thick, and creamy, both sweet and tart. Carefully practicing her English, she said, “Much good, I thank you. But I do not know this . . . mul-bur-ee?”

  “It is a fruit, madam, a large berry. There is a whole garden of them here in the park.”

  Lady Eleanor was newly arrived from Bedfordshire, where, it seemed, her family’s estate was much reduced. There were many such stories, Catherine had come to understand, since the Civil War. So perhaps it was not surprising that the lady seemed a grave young woman. She had a habit of looking down when Catherine spoke to her, not insolently, nor shyly, but with a careful reserve.

  And she was thin to the point of looking not quite well. Catherine wondered if it would give offense if she were to express concern. Perhaps she should wait a bit, until the lady seemed more at ease with her. For now, at least, she could surely urge her to take a syllabub herself, for she alone among the ladies had waved the tray away.

  Catherine was composing the English for this in her head when she was distracted by another resounding crack of wooden mallet and ball, followed by a shout of masculine voices. Apparently—for she had not bothered to absorb the rules of the game, beyond the obvious point of getting the ball through the hoops—Charles had now won the match. His brother was clapping him amiably on the shoulder and the other gentlemen were bowing and laughing, and good-naturedly jeering each other on their bad plays. They all came strolling up in the sunshine, thirstily downing tankards of small beer handed to them by pages.

  Charles had loosened his neckcloth; there was a sheen of sweat on his throat as he swallowed, a sun-warmed ruddiness to his skin. Catherine thought, Look away, Catarina, do you want them all to see how you feel? If she had learned nothing else at court, she knew it was considered the height of absurdity to be in love with your own husband. But she found it curiously hard to tear her gaze away. He lowered his tankard and met her eyes, and she blushed.

  Rising, she came down to the edge of the pitch to meet him, followed by Anne and the other ladies. “I take it you won, sir,” she said in Spanish, “and so I congratulate you.”

  “I thank you, sweetheart, but let me hear you say so in English. Do you remember that phrase I taught you? Very suitable at this moment.”

  Catherine concentrated, and brought out, “Con . . . confess and be hanged!”

  To her astonishment, this caused a sensation: the men laughing, the ladies gasping and then attempting and many failing to repress laughter. Charles positively howled and James nearly wept, leaning one arm on Charles’s shoulder so as not to collapse with laughter.

  “What? What did I say? You told me it meant—oh, you devil!” But even Catherine had to laugh; it was too infectious. Charles caught his breath and took her hand across the fence, bowing and kissing it. “My dear, forgive me—I could not resist!”

  James wiped his eyes, saying, “Good of you to take it well, sister; Lord, what a joke!”

  Anne pretended to frown at her husband. “And did you know of it, rogue?”

  He pretended to be put out. “And so if I did, vixen?” Putting one hand on a post, he leapt lightly over the fence, where he put his arm round his wife’s waist and kissed her. Catherine felt a slight coolness around them, ladies and courtiers stiffly averting their eyes, as though this was felt to be going rather too far in public.

  Another fine point of etiquette. And a reminder that she could not take Anne as her absolute guide, for the Duchess of York, too, was a species of outsider. No one ever forgot she had been born before her father Clarendon had attained his title, nor that James
had only married her because he’d gotten her with child and Charles had insisted. Still, was it not a happy thing that they loved each other? After all, it might very easily have been otherwise.

  Anne leaned away from James and said, “Come sir, will you put on your hat? A chill taken after sweating is the most dangerous.” She beckoned to a page holding James’s hat.

  James said carelessly, “Well, I will indulge you, madam,” and put it on.

  Charles had reassumed his own hat, though none of the other gentlemen had, and was just turning back to Catherine, when a movement farther down the pitch seemed to catch his eye. Everyone turned to look. A wide gate had been opened, and several gentlemen were approaching. At the fore was a striking young man, slim and well made, with dark brown hair flying back over his shoulders. He was beautifully dressed in rust-colored velvet slashed through to show the pewter-satin lining. As soon as he came within speaking distance of the king, he swept off his plumed hat and bowed gracefully and low, saying, “Your Majesty, may I present myself your most obedient servant?”

  Charles looked at him very keenly, Catherine thought. He beckoned him to rise and then, to her surprise, opened his arms and enveloped him in an embrace. The youth came up only to his shoulder, though he was by no means short of stature. Her husband kissed him on both cheeks and stepped back, looking warmly at him.

  “You are welcome, most welcome indeed. How does my beloved mother the Queen?”

  “She is very well, sir, and sends her loving regards. And a letter, I have it about me . . .”

  “Later will do for that. Well, my lad. I am sorry it has been so long. Two years, is it possible? You’ve shot up marvelously, nearly as tall as James.”

  The young man bowed to the Duke of York and said, “Your Grace, I rejoice to see you well.”

  James grinned at him. “Welcome to England, and not before time.”

  Charles now turned toward Catherine. A formality entered into his tone as he said to her, “Your Majesty. Pray allow me to present to you our most dear friend and newest courtier, of late in attendance at the Queen Mother’s court in France. James Crofts.”

  Young Mister Crofts turned to her and made a very proper bow, though he looked pale. She saw that he was nearly crushing his hat in his hands. Naturally, she thought, he was shy at being presented to the queen. Still, there was something here she did not understand. Why would Charles present a young man of no rank or title to her so formally? Why did Charles and James seem to regard him so affectionately and informally, almost as though he were . . . and as the word “family” rang in her head, she saw the resemblance, and she understood.

  In an instant, an entire sequence of thoughts flashed through her mind: Who was his mother, how am I to feel, but after all it was long ago—there is no time to think it through—all are looking, everyone knows, this is Charles’s acknowledged son, it’s clear as day—put the poor boy at his ease, that is all that matters now.

  She gave him a kind smile, and offered him her hand. “Welcome, Mister Crofts. Soon I hope to know you, and love you also.”

  He hesitated; for such a clearly well-trained young man, his awkwardness with her was touching. He took her hand very lightly, his lips hovering over it so she barely felt their warmth before he dropped her hand and stepped back, avoiding her eyes.

  Charles said, “Here, that’s well met. You’ll be good friends, I know it. Jamie, we’ve rooms for you at Whitehall, and we’ll find you occupation enough.” And turning back to his brother—“A hunt tomorrow, eh, James?”

  James. Of course. Named for his uncle and great-grandfather. Young James Crofts was still more pretty than handsome, at that age where the glow of youth is as lovely in a boy as in a girl. But he stood martially straight, and it was easy enough to see the Stuart look about him, a firmness to his chin, and resolution in his large dark eyes.

  Though at the moment he still seemed ill at ease; he shifted from foot to foot and visibly shivered. The air was cooling rapidly as the sun slanted low through the trees. Charles said in a kindly tone, “Come, dear boy, cover your head. You’re not yet used to our changeable English climate.”

  Catherine saw the young James look up at Charles as though startled. A slight flush came into his cheeks; he put his hat on slowly and stood even straighter than before. No one reacted visibly, but there was a stillness, an electricity in the air. She felt her sister-in-law grow rigid beside her, and exchange a glance with the duke, for no more than an instant, before they both looked perfectly bland. All this because the king had told a boy to put his hat on?

  Before she could think further on it, she noticed a line of sedan chairs being carried up for the return to the palace. Charles came through the gate and led her to her chair, saw her seated, and closed the door. She reached both hands out the window and he took them in his, leaning down to speak privately. “Thank you, sweet Cat, for greeting him so kindly. We shall talk more of it when I come to you tonight.” He squeezed her hands, and gave her that tender look that always undid her. “Of that, and other things.”

  “I await it with pleasure, my lord.” She blushed again, hoping she didn’t sound too eager. He kissed her hand, then turned away.

  “Come on, let us walk,” he said to the gentlemen. He began to stride off, but not before she overheard his brother say, in the tone of one who has said it before, “I tell you, Charles, you hazard yourself needlessly. Must you go right among the common folk, as though you were anyone but yourself?”

  “If I kept myself from them, I would be someone other than myself. Anyway, my dear James,” Charles smiled and patted his shoulder, “nobody would kill me to put you on the throne.”

  James laughed, giving up the argument. Catherine’s chair lurched as the men stood with it, and the procession of ladies began winding its way back through the park, as behind them pages collected the balls and mallets and maids packed up the picnic, drinking the leftover syllabubs and beer.

  • • •

  Lady Eleanor leaned out of the window of her sedan chair as it swayed out of St. James’s Park and approached the immense Holbein Gate on Whitehall Road that led into the palace.

  “Take me to Westminster,” she commanded the man carrying the front poles.

  He turned off into Parliament Street, his thick neck, broad back, and straining shoulders communicating nothing but the effort it took to carry half the weight of the heavy chair and her.

  She leaned back against the leather seat. She’d have much preferred to walk, but ladies did not walk in London. The streets were incompletely paved—here paving stones harking back to the Romans, there raw dirt where grass sprouted up in less trodden-upon corners, and everywhere mud and the contents of a hundred chamber pots befouling every lane. London was still at its heart a medieval city, a warren of close-built half-timber houses blocking out the sun, and overcrowded with city folk, bustling and rough-tongued. She gazed out at it and thought of the country lanes of Bedfordshire, wrens twittering in the hedgerows, the clean smell of burning leaves in the good crisp air, the autumn sun burnishing the stubbled fields, country people walking in their neat kerchiefs, with their ancient respect for her family. Her family. Her thin fingers twisted in her lap and her breath caught short.

  The men carrying her chair lurched to a stop and lowered it to the ground. She tightened her lips and her resolve, and stepped into Westminster Palace, the seat of the English Parliament.

  Inside, a young man waited to guide her through an endless maze of halls and stairs. After a time, he knocked on one of the myriad doors, opened it, and said, “Lady Eleanor Plumstead, my lord.”

  The man sitting at a large, paper-littered table on the far side of the room looked up. “Very good. Remain outside and see we are not disturbed.”

  The door closed behind her, and they were alone. He did not rise. Nor did he offer her a chair, or any refreshment. His tone when he spoke was, to her ears, decidedly insolent. “You’ve taken your time about it.”

  She ste
pped farther into the room and sat in a chair along the wall, where she carefully arranged her skirts as she looked about the room. It faced the river; water reflections shimmered on the ceiling. The window was open an inch or two, letting in the stink of the river and the indistinct shouts of boatmen. The walls were hung with portraits and tapestry, the mute boastings of a noble family. Not more ancient than hers, though her ancestral walls were bare now, the adornments sold off one after another.

  Feeling she’d delayed for as long she could, she turned her gaze on Lord Russell.

  He was looking irritated. A young lord, three years younger than she at just twenty-three, though he’d been a Member of Parliament for Bedfordshire these two years already. He was clean-shaven, lean-jawed, inclined to a choleric ruddiness, with narrow eyes of a disconcerting pale blue. She knew him of old. A second son, but the first was some species of idiot, so he’d all the duties of a first son with none of the rewards. It had made him keen. He was ever a weapon looking for a fight.

  Now he snapped at her. “Well? What have you to tell me?”

  She took a steadying breath, and spoke quietly. “You are abrupt, my lord.”

  “What’s that?” As she’d intended, in choosing to sit so far from him and speaking so low, he was prompted to get up and come around the desk, so he could hear. He had not risen in courtesy, but he had risen.

  It was a small enough victory, and brief. He seized a chair and brought it close to her, so close that when he sat their knees nearly touched. She stiffened. He leaned in, and cocked an ear in an exaggerated fashion. “Well?”

  “Well, my lord. If you insist on foregoing all ceremony in favor of business—”

  “What should there be but business between us? Unless you care to offer me pleasure on the side? I should be glad to entertain such an offer, though you never were so inclined in the past.”