“I spoke to her.”
“I—I had heard.” From Barbara, but it did not seem politic to say so, nor to report how the lady had crowed. “Thank you.”
“I did not do it for you.” The sheets rustled as Catherine rolled onto her back.
He waited. He had hoped the two women would find a way to get along. There was little chance of that now. Likely he should not have forced the issue by making Barbara a Lady of the Bedchamber, but what was done was done.
Catherine sighed again, more heavily this time. “She is a sower of discord.”
“No. No, love, she is truly not.”
“Not for you. But she has little fondness for me. I was hoping that if I acknowledged her we could put our animosity behind us. All it has done . . . All that has happened is that she is even more convinced of her superiority.”
Charles laughed loudly enough that Rogue started awake. The dog huffed a low bark of protest and turned in a circle before settling down again. “There. See? Even Rogue knows that is not true. You are the Queen of England. No woman is your superior.”
“Many women are, and on the most important point. I am not yet with child.”
“That will come.”
“It has not yet. The assumption is that I am not yet with child because I am either barren or you are choosing to spend your time elsewhere.”
Charles sighed, aware that he echoed her own aggrieved noise from before. “I have told you that I am ‘spending time’ with no one but you.”
“It is not as if I can say that. People judge your favor based on the evidence that they can see.” Catherine sat up, and her pale skin was an echo of moonlight in the darkness. “You are king, yes, but I have to move in women’s circles, and there Barbara rules.”
A chill from more than the night air wrapped around him. “What—” No. He did not need to make her tell him that. He was well enough aware of the evidence that seemed to place Barbara first. Short of removing Barbara from her post, which he would not do, there was little that he could do to make it clear how high Catherine stood in his esteem. Sitting beside her, Charles wrapped his arms around her cool flesh and pulled her into his embrace. “Dearest. I promise. I will think of something to make everyone regard you with the same affection that I do.”
• • •
Standing outside the Theatre Royal, Jenny had no difficulty at all in spotting Mister Hammett amongst the crowd. Though he was not the only foreigner, the scattered few others were mostly Africans. A group of Chinamen passed her in sumptuous silks that would have made half the court faint with envy. What made Mister Hammett stand out was his height and his carriage.
At court, he kept his head bowed in the deference befitting an apprentice tailor, and wore his hair tucked under a tailor’s cap. Here, he carried himself with confidence, his hair flowing over his shoulders in a glory of black silk waves. He moved through the crowd as if none of the rest of the people existed. When he saw her, his face lit, and that charming dimple reappeared by his smile.
“Mistress Martin.” He sketched a very pretty leg, as if she were a lady.
“Don’t make fun of me.” She brushed at her dress, wishing she’d been able to bring herself to wear the silk gown the queen had given her. But of course, he’d have made his own clothes and was not allowed to be shabby, being a tailor’s apprentice.
He straightened, frowning. “I am not.”
“Oh. Well, I’m not used to having anyone bow to me.”
“I hope you do not mind that you might have to become accustomed to it.”
She was a wretched bore, getting upset that he bowed to her. Jenny wet her lips. “Thank you. And I’m sorry, Mister Hammett.”
“Not at all.” He brushed his hair back from his face. “May I ask for a small amendment? It is an easy mistake to make, so I hope you will forgive me . . . Properly, it should be Hamed, not Hammett. Actually, that is also not entirely true. Hamed was my father’s given name, but when he came to live here they thought it was Hammett, and that, of course, must be a surname—and so here we are.”
“Look at that. We have more in common than I thought.” She smiled at him. “My baptismal name is Genoveva, though everyone presumes it is Jane.”
“Genoveva is a lovely name, but I will not presume to use it . . . not yet.” He glanced at the theater, which sat well back from Drury Lane. “Mistress Martin, shall we go in?”
“Thank you, yes, Mister Hamed.” Laying her hand on his arm, she followed him down the narrow passage between buildings to the door.
The interior of the theater was an enormous vaulted hall, with no ceiling save a glazed dome, to let in the light. It was surrounded on three sides by ranks of boxes with gilt balustrades. Mister Hamed led her to one of the benches arranged in semi-circular ranks facing the stage. They were cunningly arranged so that each row was higher than the one in front. She settled onto the green baize bench and tucked her skirts in so she did not infringe upon her neighbor.
The people attending were as spectacular as the hall itself. Jenny had become used to fine clothes, living in Whitehall, so the proliferation of silk and embroidery seemed more common than the plain woolen coat of the merchant on her right. A woman two rows in front of them had so many black plaster stars and moons stuck to her face that she must have been hiding horrible pox. A group of young noblemen had brought an amusement of their own, and shared a young woman between them—she went from lap to lap, giggling and flashing her bosom. Walking between the rows, a young girl carried a tray of oranges.
“Oranges!” Her mother’s uncle used to send a crate of oranges from Spain for the holidays.
“Should you like one?” Mister Hamed raised his hand. “Here, girl!”
“Oh, no—”
But before she could stop him, the girl had run up the aisle and curtsied to Mister Hamed. “Sixpence, sir.”
“Two, please.” He handed the girl the coins and took two of the golden orbs in exchange. He held one out to Jenny. “Here you are.”
“You oughtn’t have.”
“But I can’t enjoy one myself, if you don’t have one as well. That would be rude.”
He had a winning smile. Jenny took the orange, her finger just brushing his. “Thank you.”
Her cheeks were too warm, and she bent her head to busy herself with peeling the orange. As she dug her thumbnail into the soft, leathery rind, a mist of scent sprayed upward, carrying a sweet citrus tang. The last time she had eaten an orange, she had been sitting in front of the fireplace with her sisters. Her mother had been in the window doing some lacework and Papa had been playing a little tune on his viol. She missed them so very much.
The juice of the segment lit the inside of Jenny’s mouth like a sunbeam after rain. She closed her eyes for a moment to savor the beads of flesh bursting between her teeth. It was warm, sweet, and the juice trickled down her throat. When she opened her eyes, Mister Hamed was smiling at her with his head tilted a little to one side.
Jenny swallowed and cleared her throat. “It’s been a long time since I had an orange.”
A commotion behind them stirred the crowd. Jenny glanced back and everyone was looking up. Above them, the king had entered the center box seat, surrounded by courtiers and ladies.
Biting her lip, Jenny faced the front again and crossed her arms.
Mister Hamed leaned down and murmured, “Not fond of the king?”
“Oh, no, that’s not it. That is . . .” Jenny screwed up her nose and sighed. If what she’d overheard on the stairs was carried to the wrong ears, she could be summarily dismissed. Telling the queen might lead to some appreciation in a more tangible form but . . . She bent her head and picked a scrap of orange peel off her skirt. “You seem like the sort of person who knows what o’clock it is.”
His long, expressive fingers twitched as if he were going to reach for her, and then he rested them on his breeches. “What happened?”
“Who said anything did?”
“Well, give
n the way you are shredding the orange peel, let us say that your fingers expressed some . . . concern.”
She snorted. “Do you know who Mister Crofts is?”
“You have the better of me.”
“He’s the king’s son.” She dropped the orange peel and brushed her fingers down her skirt. “I overheard him and Lord Rochester saying that he was in truth legitimate and that Lady Castlemaine would help him prove it.”
“You—you haven’t told anyone that, have you?”
Jenny shook her head. “I thought to tell the queen.”
“Don’t.”
“But she ought to know, oughtn’t she? What if he divorces her?”
“It is no concern of ours.” Mister Hamed shifted on his seat and leaned closer. “This is a matter for the nobles, and you should not get mixed up in it.”
“I thought that maybe . . . if I told her, she might appreciate the service.”
“Likely she already knows and . . . people like us, the ones on the outskirts of society, have to be better, and cleaner, and quieter than anyone else. The queen does not want to hear about trouble in her own home from one of us.”
“People like us?” Jenny raised her head to glare at him. She was nothing like him. “What do you mean by that?”
He cocked his head with a wry smile and ran the tip of his finger down his long curved nose. “People who no one can believe are English.”
“My father is English!” She fell silent at his raised eyebrow. The grief she received in the kitchens was because she looked foreign, no matter that she was born in England. “No . . . you’re right. Mum is Spanish and that . . . you’re right.”
“My father is not English. My mother is, but . . . were it not for the current fascination with Turkish fashion, I would be relegated to the docks or sailing, at best.”
While they were talking, the candles had been lowered over the stage, and now the play began. A young man in a barman’s apron entered, cleaning a mug with a rag, and two more actors, dressed in the rough linen and wools of knaves, entered after him, laughing.
The largest of the men pounded his stomach and clapped his companion on the back, making him tumble forward. “I have made an escape as hard as one of Jupiter’s to see thee, Rasy,” he declaimed. “The heat of our morning business is over and now my stomach’s more raw and cold than the weather. Therefore prithee one half pint of the best, if thou lovest me.”
Rasy replied, “I know thy meaning; thou shalt have it.” He gestured to the youth. “Lad, a pint pot!” He watched the young man in the apron bow and run off stage. “An honest rogue, I warrant him.”
“Here can I drink at any time a pint of sack would make a cat speak Greek or Hebrew for a groat.”
Jenny laughed along with the rest of the audience and thought no more of intrigue or the palace.
• • •
For the queen’s concert, Charles had given orders to convert one of the ballrooms of Whitehall into a theater. On either side of the hall, raised platforms provided seating for the crowd that had assembled.
Catherine and Charles were seated at the front and center of the audience. She had brought all of her Ladies of the Bedchamber, and Samuel as well. The young boy sat at her feet on a cushion, his eyes nearly as wide in astonishment as hers. She fidgeted in her chair, trying not to look around every time someone said “Her Majesty.” Why had she thought this was a good idea? The curse of having learned English was that she could understand the murmurs.
Leaning over from his chair, Charles rested a hand on hers. “Nervous, my dear wife?”
“Everyone is expecting scandal.”
He chuckled. “No. They are hoping for a scandal. It is all they have to discuss.”
She turned her hand so that she could clasp his and gave thanks to God that she had instructed her musicians to plan a secular opera. What she would not have given to have Feliciana here as a distraction, but she had barked too much in the rehearsals to be trusted. Even Charles had left his spaniels with their attendant. Catherine glanced to her left, where her Ladies of the Bedchamber were seated in a position of honor. It galled her to have Lady Castlemaine present, but there was nothing for it. She had taken the precaution of placing Dona Maria and Lady Eleanor between her and Lady Castlemaine as a barrier.
She glanced at Lady Eleanor and smiled. Her color was up and she looked around the room with more animation than was her usual wont. She had been so keen for the musicians to perform for everyone, and Catherine hoped that she would be delightfully surprised by the selection.
She and Charles had decided upon the most English of themes. Onstage, the machinery of the theater came to life and great shutters unfolded to depict an English countryside. One of her female singers walked onto the stage, dressed as a peasant boy, and began an aria about the joys of England. As she sang, another singer entered, older and dressed in a long blue robe scattered with stars.
In the course of the following duet, it became clear that the soprano represented the renowned King Arthur in his obscure youth. The music continued straight through, interrupted only by the occasional recitative, taking the young Arthur and Merlin through a series of adventures ending in a great tournament. The climax was the moment when Arthur drew the mystical sword from the stone, revealing himself as the rightful King of England. The scenery changed around them, spectacular and ingenious, but the real focus of the event was on the queen’s Italian musicians. They sat proudly at the front of the stage, not to the side or hidden behind a curtain, dressed in blues and greens like springtime brought to life.
When Arthur pulled the sword from the stone and sang the last ringing note of the first act, Catherine gripped the arms of her chair, waiting for the audience’s reaction.
The applause came with swift enthusiasm. Her chest unclenching a little, Catherine clapped with everyone else and resolved to reward the musicians. Rings, she thought, and a heavy gold chain for the concertmaster. She had more jewels than coin nowadays.
A motion to her left drew her gaze. Lady Eleanor had stood, hand to her chest as if she were having difficulty breathing. All the color had drained from her face. Stumbling from her chair, she made her way out of the room.
Catherine leaned forward to Samuel. “Follow her, my dear, and make certain she is well.”
He nodded and sprang to his feet.
As the applause died away, Charles held out his hand to hers with a wink. “Shall we dazzle them?”
She had almost managed to make herself forget about this aspect of the evening. All her fear came back with full force, and she locked her gaze on her husband’s to keep from fainting. Catherine rose from her chair. Behind her—but she would not look—fabric rustled as the assembled audience began to rise with their king.
From the stage, one of the performers spoke with the clear ringing voice of a trained singer. “Their Majesties invite you to remain seated.”
She swallowed and proceeded to the stage with Charles. This was no different from their dance at the ball. Though she had been trained to be quiet and invisible, she had danced then and not perished.
They took center stage. Charles bowed to her, holding her in his gaze. The corners of his eyes crinkled with the hint of a smile that seemed meant only for her. Catherine curtsied.
The steps were no more complicated than the first dance they had done together. A simple chassé started it off, and then she turned in circles as the mirror of her husband. Their dancing master had conceived the performance as being a bridge between the glories of England’s past and present. For Catherine, the language of the dance was as foreign as English, but the physicality of it was freeing. To be able to move and stretch her legs and leap, with her skirts flaring about her, was pure heaven. All the while, Charles turned and bowed and had eyes only for her. It was exhilarating.
The final forms led her to face out toward the audience with him. She had almost forgotten they were there. As the music came to an end, she found herself curtsying. She had
done it.
The audience leapt to their feet, applauding with great gusto. The glittering ladies and gentlemen of the English court shouted their acclaim. She squeezed Charles’s hand, silently thanking him for lending her prestige as a shelter from the scrutiny of the court.
Unbidden, her gaze sought Lady Castlemaine. Her complexion had gone decidedly green.
Charles waved to the audience and then released her hand, stepping back with a gesture toward her.
And then someone, she could not see who the blessed soul was, shouted, “Long live the queen!” Lady Castlemaine’s mouth had twisted into a sour line. Catherine met her gaze and smiled as she curtsied again for the audience.
The opera was not yet over, but she had already triumphed.
Episode 7: Imperfect Enjoyment
by Barbara Samuel
January 1663
Jenny hurried up the back stairs as quickly as she could. Around her, the very walls of the palace seemed to pulse with the excitement of the diplomatic party arriving from Muscovy. Jenny herself had caught the mood, and knew her cheeks were flushed as she bumped the door open with her bottom. She bore a tray for Mavis, who’d been abed these many days with a fever.
“I’ve brought you broth direct from Cook,” Jenny said.
Even with a red nose and rattling cough, her dark hair disheveled under her cap, Mavis retained her beauty. “Have you seen them yet?” she asked, her voice raw. She sat up, pulling her shawl around her shoulders.
“Not yet, but every lip carries a tale of them. Peter in the garden spied them riding into the city and he said the train of men and horses was near a mile long!” She folded a quilt into a tidy rectangle, which she laid over Mavis’s lap, then set the tray atop it. “Go easy, now, sweet, but do see if you can down a bit more.”
“A mile!” Mavis echoed, and coughed suddenly, reaching out a hand rough with chilblains to steady the tray as her body shook. But it only lasted a moment. “And me weak as a kitten!”
“The Lord Steward will be dragging you to service again before you know it, so better to rest these days he gave.” Servants had died of the malaise the past weeks, starting with old Mrs. Needham in the laundry. Fully half the servants coughed and sniffled through their days. When a young maid and a stalwart stablehand were both carried off to their graves, the Lord Steward ordered the sickest to bed, Mavis among them. Jenny knocked wood—she had not felt ill at all.
Whitehall--Season One Volume One Page 23