It was not unalloyed joy, of course, for it could not be quite as it had been on that first occasion. Although I cannot make any great excuses for myself and have to admit that I was secretly delighted to have been abducted, seduced, raped or whatever name I could put to it when I was trying to make a case for myself, I can honestly say that I felt a deep remorse for what I had done to Benjie and I was glad that I had left my cloak in the shrubbery, which would indicate that I had been taken by force. At least he would not believe that I had gone willingly; and although his grief would not be assuaged, at least he would not think that I had betrayed him.
Poor Benjie, he had lost both me and Clarissa, and I could not be happy because I must think of him.
The crossing was smooth and in a short time we had reached the coast of France.
Clarissa was excited by everything that was happening and, childlike, accepted this extraordinary adventure as a matter of course. She did ask once when her father and grandfather were coming with Harriet. I said evasively that we should have to wait and see.
“I want to show them my new father,” she said, and the pride in her voice both thrilled and pained me.
We had journeyed across France staying at various inns and it surprised me how well known Hessenfield was. The best rooms were always at his service and now he was travelling, as he said, enfamille he was especially determined on comfort.
The man who had rowed us to the boat travelled with us. He was Sir Henry Campion, a firm and trusted friend, Hessenfield told me. “A loyal Jacobite as you must be now, my darling, since you have joined us.”
I was silent. I wished that I could forget Benjie and the unhappiness I knew he must be feeling. I thought if it was not for Benjie I would be wildly excited now. I wished that I had not married Benjie. If I had been bold and given birth to my child and waited …
But that was absurd, of course. I had had to act as I did. I think even Hessenfield realised that.
Once he said: “I should never have let you stay. I should have taken you to France with me from the first.”
But Hessenfield was not one to look back. He had a joyous way of living each day as it came along. I doubt he ever felt remorse. There was an enchanting gaiety about him, a devil-may-care attitude. He would be laughing when he died, I was sure.
He was completely captivated by Clarissa. I was surprised that he should care so deeply for a child. But I suppose it was because she was his; she was so charming and she was beautiful. There was a love of adventure in her already, an immense curiosity in everything around her. I could see why any ordinary father should have been proud of her but that Hessenfield should have spared the time from all his activities to talk to her gave me infinite pleasure.
We went first to Paris. He had prepared me for what I should find and how we should live. “The Court is at St. Germain-en-Laye. The King inhabits the castle there; and it is conducted just as it would be in England. I am there a good deal but I have a house—called an hôtel—in Paris, for much of my work is done there. That is where you and the child will live, but of course as my wife you will be presented to the King and we will go to Court often.”
“As your wife!” I said.
“You are my wife, dear Carlotta. Oh, I know you were unfortunately married to someone else … but that was in England. We are in France at this time. And you are my lady now. You will have to grow accustomed to being called Lady Hessenfield.”
He took my face in his hands and kissed me.
“I love you, Carlotta. There is that in you which matches something in me. I feel closer to you than I ever have to anyone else. We have our adorable daughter. Thank God, I have you with me.”
I looked into his face. He was serious, not joking now. He really meant what he said and it made me happy. If I could have forgotten Benjie I think I could have been perfectly so.
On another occasion he said: “You are an exile now. You are one of us. Although you have come to us not exactly through your own convictions, you and I belong and my cause must be yours. Our motive is to get back to England. Who wants to be an exile forever? Whenever I go home I have to do so in secret … skulking into my own country like a thief. There is a price on my head. I who have estates in the north of England, where my family have lived like kings. Yes, we are going back one day but not until we have reinstated the rightful King. I would not return to live under the present reign.”
“Indeed,” I reminded him, “you could not. You are branded now as a traitor to the Queen. You would not be allowed to remain.”
“You are right,” he said. “Every time I go … as you see, it is as a conspirator who becomes a fugitive.”
“It is a pity,” I said. “Why must you be involved in such matters? Life is good under Anne.”
“Feminine logic,” he mocked. “Never mind the righteous cause if we’re comfortable. No. That won’t do for me, Carlotta. And don’t forget you are one of us.”
“Only because you have forced me to it.”
“Spoken like a good Jacobite,” he mocked. But I could see clearly that he was right. Whether I liked it or not I should be considered one of them.
I told him I did not care a pennyworth of candy for his Jacobite cause.
“No, but you care for me,” he said. “And I shall have to trust you with many a secret which I shall do without fear because I know that your love for me is as strong as any belief in a cause. We belong together, Carlotta. And so shall it be until death divides us.”
In those rare moments when he was serious—and he was then—he could move me deeply. I loved him. Yes, I did. His daring, his strength, his essential male qualities struck a chord within me. He was a leader; I could see now that in comparison Beau would have failed to hold me. I had been dazzled by Beau; but I was caught and held firmly by Hessenfield.
If only we had met differently … if only I could have gone to him as his wife in very truth … if only I could wipe out the past … not Beau, that did not matter. It was Benjie who haunted me and threw the shadow of deep remorse over my happiness, and it was only in rare moments that I could forget him.
Paris excited me. As soon as we arrived in that fascinating city we went at once to the hôtel in the quarter of the Marais which I learned later was one of the most fashionable areas of the city. The King of France had been hospitable to the English nobility who were the enemies of England’s reigning sovereign; and with good reason, for he was at this time at war with that country.
At Eversleigh we had always been brought up to regard loyalty to the crown as one of our chief duties but I reminded myself that my grandfather Carleton had been involved in the Monmouth Rebellion. James would have called him disloyal just as Anne would Hessenfield. It was not as much a matter of lack of loyalty as it was adherence to a principle. I was becoming more and more of a Jacobite every day.
It was a fine house and there were several servants. Hessenfield introduced me formally as Lady Hessenfield and I held a wide-eyed Clarissa by the hand and he added: “This is our daughter.”
There was no question from anyone in France. Hessenfield had returned to England on a Jacobite mission and had brought his wife and child back with him. It was reasonable enough. I slipped easily into the new role. So did Clarissa.
I felt like a young bride in those early days. Hessenfield delighted in showing us a little of Paris. And how excited we were—Clarissa and I—to walk through those streets with him beside us. For, he said, that was the best way to see it.
We strolled through the discreet streets of the Marais—that part of the city which had once been the home of the Valois kings. Hessenfield explained to Clarissa that the rue Beautreillis was where the vineyards once were, the rue de la Cerisaie where the orchards were and the rue des Lions was the site of the royal menagerie.
We were excited by the quaint houses which overhung the river; the water lapped at their walls, and Clarissa wanted to know whether it ever came in through the windows. She kept shrieking with e
xcitement and sometimes was so overawed that she forgot to ask why.
Hessenfield was anxious to show us the centre of the city. We crossed the Pont Marie and reached the He de la Cité, where we looked up at the great towers of Notre Dame and he bought magnificent blooms for us on the Quai des Fleurs. Clarissa wanted to go down among the little streets near the cloisters of Notre Dame but Hessenfield would not allow us more than a peep. These were the homes of the poor and the streets were narrow lanes with houses built close together and almost meeting over the narrow streets so that they completely shut out the sunlight. I saw a gutter running down the middle of the street. It was full of slimy rubbish.
“Come away,” said Hessenfield. “You must never venture down streets like that. They abound in Paris and you can come across them quite suddenly. You must never wander out alone.”
I said: “It is the same in any big city. There are always slums.”
“What are slums?” asked Clarissa.
“These are,” said Hessenfield.
She was overcome with curiosity and tried to wriggle free but I held her hand firmly and Hessenfield picked her up and said: “You are tired, little one. Shall I be your carriage for a while?”
I was moved to see the way she smiled and put her arms about his neck. She had not forgotten Benjie and Gregory but she did mention them less than she had at first.
Not far from the hôtel in the rue Saint Antoine we passed an apothecary’s shop. Sweet scents emerged from it and I was reminded briefly of Beau, who had dabbled in the making of perfumes and was himself always redolent of that strange musklike scent. It was what had attracted me to Matt. He had used a similar scent.
Hessenfield saw my glance and said: “Ah, there are not so many apothecaries in Paris as there once were. Years ago they abounded and there were quacks selling medicines and elixirs, potions and draughts in every carrefour in the city. Then it changed. That must have been some forty years ago but they still talk of it. There was a notorious poisoner called La Voison and another, Madame de Brinvilliers. They suffered hideous deaths but their names will never be forgotten and all apothecaries have had to tread very warily ever since. They are still suspect.”
“You mean people buy poisons from the apothecaries?”
“They did. It is more difficult now, but I reckon it is done for a price. They were mostly Italians. The Italians have the reputation for being adept at poisoning. They can produce poisons which are tasteless, colourless, and without smell, and even work through the clothing—they can kill gradually or instantly. This Brinvilliers woman wanted to poison her husband and used to try out her poisons on people in hospitals, where she became known as a very pious lady who cared deeply about the sick.”
“She sounds like a fiend.”
“She was. Imagine her taking some delicacy impregnated with a new experiment and going along to visit the victim later to see how it had worked.”
“I am glad Clarissa is asleep. We should be plagued by whys, whens and hows if she were not. What an exciting city this is! I never saw so much mud nor heard so much noise.”
“Be careful not to get splashed. It’s pernicious mud and would burn a hole in your clothes if it touches them. The Romans called it La Lutetia when they came here, which means the City of Mud. It’s improved since then of course, but still take care. As for the noise—this is a vociferous nation. We are quiet in comparison.”
How I enjoyed those days—discovering Paris, discovering Hessenfield and loving both of them more each day.
Before I had been a week in Paris, Hessenfield said that I must go to the Court of King James to be presented.
St. Germain-en-Laye was some thirteen miles from Paris, and we rode there in a carriage for I must be suitably dressed for the presentation. Hessenfield had sent for one of the Paris dressmakers the day after we arrived, for I was without any garments other than those I had been wearing when I had been, as I put it, “snatched from the shrubbery,” but as Hessenfield said, “So willingly left England to follow my own true love.”
A simple gown was quickly made for me and then there was concentration on my Court dress. It was most elegant yet at the same time discreet. It was in a shade of blue that was almost lavender.
“Milord has said it must be the exact colour of milady’s eyes,” said the couturiere, who puffed and sighed over the garment as though it was to be compared with the finest work of art.
It was an exquisite colour and such as I had never seen before. The Parisian dyers were masters of the art and the colours they produced delighted me again and again. I was put in a canvas petticoat with whalebone hoops. The panniers of blue silk were ruched and gathered and the tight-fitted bodice was made of the same lavender blue silk. Beneath it was an underskirt of green so delicate in color that one was not absolutely sure it was green.
I had never seen such a dress.
“Of course you haven’t,” said Hessenfield, surveying me. “When it comes to fashion we’re years behind the French.”
My hair was dressed by a hairdresser selected by Hessenfield. She cooed over it as she combed and back combed it until it stood out round my head in a frizz; then she started to set it and I had to admit that when she was finished I was amazed by the effect. It was piled high on my head and brought up into a coil about which she placed a diamond circlet like a coronet.
When Hessenfield saw me he was overcome with delight.
“No one ever did justice to you before, my love,” he said.
He took me into see Clarissa, who stared at me in amazement.
“Is it really you?” she asked.
I knelt down and kissed her.
Hessenfield cried out in dismay. “You’ll wreck your skirts.”
I laughed at him and he laughed with me.
“Are you proud of her, Clarissa?” he asked.
Clarissa nodded. “But I like the other way too.”
“You like me however I am, don’t you, Clarissa?”
She nodded.
“And do I come into this magic circle?” asked Hessenfield.
“What’s circle?”
“Later we’ll talk,” said Hessenfield. “Come on, my dear, the carriage awaits us.”
So I went to St. Germain-en-Laye and to the chateau there.
I was presented to the man they called James the Third as Lady Hessenfield. James was younger than I. I think he must have been about seventeen at this time. He greeted me warmly. Although he had a regal manner, he seemed to wish to show his gratitude to those exiles who had gathered round him and particularly those who, like Hessenfield, had sacrificed a good deal to serve him.
“You have a beautiful lady, Hessenfield,” he said.
“With that I am completely in agreement, Sire.”
“She must come often to our court. We need all the grace and beauty we can get during this period of waiting.”
I said how glad I was to be here and he replied that he would have said he hoped I would stay a long time, but none of us wished to stay as the guests of the King of France a moment longer than we need.
“Let us say, Lady Hessenfield, that you and I will be good friends in Westminster and Windsor.”
I said: “I trust it may be soon, Sire.”
I was presented to his mother—poor sad Mary Beatrice of Modena. I was drawn to her more than to her son. She was by no means young and must have been about thirty when James was born. And she had suffered a great deal when as a very young girl she had come to England most reluctantly to marry James—the Duke of York—already a widower with an established mistress. I was sorry for her. She had been a beauty once but now she was so thin as though worn out with the sorrows of life. Her complexion was pale but with those fine dark eyes she must have been very beautiful in her youth.
She was as welcoming as her son and told me how glad she was to see me and I should be welcome at court whenever I wished to come. She had heard I had brought my daughter with me and she talked of children for a while.
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“Lord Hessenfield gave such support to my husband and now gives it to my son,” she said. “I am happy for him to have his beautiful wife with him, and having seen you, my dear Lady Hessenfield, I understand his pride in you. You are a very beautiful woman and a joy to our court.”
Hessenfield was delighted that I had been such a success.
“I knew you would,” he said. “Beauty like yours is a rare gift, sweet wife. It is for me alone but I am glad to let others have a glimpse of it—a glimpse, nothing more.”
“I am not your wife, you know,” I said. “But everyone here seems to think I am.”
“You are … you are mine. We are bound together for ever … I have told you only death shall part us. I swear it, Carlotta. I love you. You must love me too. We have our child. I would marry you tomorrow if it were possible. But here we are married. Everyone believes it to be so … and after all, what people believe to be is true for them. So let the strength of their belief be ours. My love … I am happier than I have ever been in my life … You and the child … I ask for nothing more.”
I realised that this was a strange speech for a man like Hessenfield to utter. There had been little sentimentality in his life until now. I could see that what was there had been born out of the strength of his feeling for me.
I was tremendously happy riding back in the carriage to our hôtel in Paris.
Yes, Hessenfield had changed. He had become the family man. He was still the passionate and demanding lover by night, and I was amused that during the day he became absorbed by arranging his household.
The dressmaker who served the French court was often at our house. I was to be the centre of her attention. I recognized her skill and I had always been proud of my good looks so it pleased me, therefore, to discover that there were so many ways of enhancing them.
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