And in early April, Charles himself arrived unannounced at Breda, spattered with the mud of the road, having ridden all night from Brussels. Jane had begun to think that she would never see him again, and to have him solidly and vibrantly present was overwhelming. Her disappointment and heartbreak of the past years melted away as he greeted her with a grin and swept her into his arms.
“My Jane, my saviour! Your sacrifice was not in vain, you see.”
Jane looked up into his eyes and for the first time in years felt that here was her Charles, the man she had known and fallen in love with on the road from Bentley to Abbots Leigh. She reached up to stroke his cheek, but stopped herself, conscious of the curious gazes of Mary’s court. Charles was suddenly the most famous man in Europe, and his every move and word were noted and commented on.
The dukes of York and Gloucester arrived, and Jane smiled at the joy in Charles’s face as he sat down to supper with his brothers and sister Mary.
“How long has it been since we’ve all been together?” he asked, looking to Mary.
“Eighteen years. When Mother took me to go to my husband.”
A shadow of sadness came over Mary’s face, and Charles took her hand.
“What grief that our sister Elizabeth did not live to join us here.” He looked at his brothers. “But soon we will all meet in England. Minette, too. And then we need never be parted again.”
ONE MORNING IN MID-APRIL, JANE ENTERED HER ROOM TO FIND NAN Hyde vomiting violently into a chamber pot, her face flushed and damp with sweat.
“Shall I ask for a doctor to be sent for?” she asked, hastening to Nan’s side.
“No,” Nan gasped. “I’m quite well.”
“You’re not,” Jane said. “Do you have a fever?”
She put her hand to Nan’s forehead, remembering with dread those first few hours when Kate Killigrew had been taken ill at Spa.
Don’t let it be the plague, she prayed.
Nan’s skin was cool to the touch; at least she didn’t have a fever.
“I’m not ill,” Nan said, thrusting the chamber pot under the bed and wiping her face with a cloth. “I’m with child.”
She jutted her little chin defiantly at Jane, as if expecting Jane to argue or criticise her.
So now it had come, Jane thought. The secret marriage would not be secret for much longer.
“Does the duke know?” she asked.
“Not yet. I didn’t want to tell him until I was sure.”
ON THE FOURTEENTH OF MAY, JANE AND THE REST OF MARY’S HOUSEHOLD accompanied Charles from Breda to The Hague, where he would receive a delegation from Parliament. They travelled by boat, arriving at dawn, and by the rosy morning light Jane saw that the shore was thronged with thousands of people. Cannons boomed in celebration of Charles’s arrival, and their way to the palace was lined with cheering crowds.
JANE WAITED ANXIOUSLY WITH MARY AND HER SON WILLIAM, THE dukes of York and Gloucester, and their aunt Queen Elizabeth for Charles to return from his meeting with the Parliamentary commissioners. Everyone seemed too anxious for conversation. The Duke of York paced, Queen Elizabeth absentmindedly stroked the little monkey that chattered on her hap, and Mary kept standing and then sitting down again. Jane had a piece of needlework in her lap, but found herself too nervous to sew without pricking herself, so she simply sat. She suddenly had a vivid recollection of sitting just so in the kitchen at Bentley years ago, waiting for John to return with news of the king’s whereabouts.
Jane’s heart jumped at the sound of Charles’s voice. He strode in, face alight, closely followed by Colonel O’Neill, struggling with the weight of a large portmanteau.
Queen Elizabeth stood and took a faltering step towards Charles, and when she spoke, her voice was strained with hope. “Good news?”
“The best news!” Charles crowed, going to her and kissing her. “Miraculous news! Parliament has invited me to return.”
There was a moment of silence, as if the royal family was too stunned to react.
“And look at this!” Charles cried, pulling the portmanteau from O’Neill’s hands. “Come and look!”
He dropped the bag onto the floor before him, and it landed with a heavy thud and the clink of metal within. He opened the clasp and Jane saw with astonishment that the portmanteau was full of gold coins.
“How much is there?” she breathed.
“Four thousand pounds,” Charles said. “A payment in earnest on a grant of fifty thousand pounds that Parliament has voted to me. They told me that when they left London, bells and bonfires and the report of artillery had already begun to proclaim me king and publish the joy of the nation.”
He looked around at them, his eyes brimming with tears, and when he spoke again his voice was hoarse.
“It is truly beyond belief. After all these years, to have it happen of such a sudden and without bloodshed.”
“God be praised,” Jane said.
And suddenly she knew she was going to faint, and reached for Charles as she fell. He caught her in his arms and lowered her to the floor, supporting her on his lap.
“Jane, my dear, are you ill?”
“No,” she murmured, looking up at him. “I am well. It’s only that I just realised—I can go home now.”
THE ROYAL FAMILY, THE ENGLISH EXILES, ALL OF THE HAGUE, ALL OF Europe, it seemed, were seized with a wild joy. The years of despair and poverty seemed forgotten in the face of the fact that in a matter of days Charles would be on his way to England, to the throne and crown that had eluded him for so long.
Jane felt as if she had woken from a nightmare. Only now, when her sentence was near its end, did she let herself feel how much she had hated the Low Countries and life at Mary’s court with its petty rivalries and disputes. Her heart had been in England all along, and soon she would be there again—and with a king on the throne that she had helped to put there!
Charles’s mother, Queen Mary; his sister Minette; and his cousin Princess Louise arrived from France. Prince Rupert, Elizabeth the Princess Palatine, and Queen Elizabeth’s son Edward flocked to The Hague and were packed into the palace to join in the celebrations. Of the siblings only Sophie was absent, as she had returned to Osnabrück in March and would shortly be brought to bed of her first child.
Jane and Mary’s other ladies were in a flurry of preparing for the many balls and feasts that would pack the coming days. For now that Charles was truly king again, everyone wanted to shower him with honour and congratulations, even those who had failed to come to his aid when he was in most dire need of it.
To Jane’s dismay, Charles was now always at the centre of a crowd. She had barely seen him, had not even had an opportunity to speak privately with him since they had returned to The Hague, and now he was surrounded by all these people. Who were they? They had come from everywhere, out of nowhere, and all at once. The English who had grimly endured the past ten years or more, living from hand to mouth in Holland and France and elsewhere now came scurrying to jostle for the king’s attention, fighting for a moment in his reflected glory. And what galled her almost more than anything was that they treated her as if she was one of them rather than an intimate of the king’s.
Never mind, she told herself. Tomorrow night at the ball he will dance with me and talk with me. All eyes will be on us, and then they’ll know that I hold a special place in his heart.
JANE STUDIED HER REFLECTION IN THE MIRROR AS THE DRESSMAKER pinned up the hem of the new gown she would wear at the ball the next evening. It was a spectacular creation, gold satin, glowing with a sheen like honey in the sun, the skirt falling in rich folds, the sleeves and overskirt trimmed with bows in shimmering deep brown. The deep neckline, cut so low and close to her shoulders that she could scarce raise her arms, thrust her bosom into prominence.
“You will be the most beautiful lady there, mademoiselle,” the dressmaker enthused, adjusting a bow and stepping back to look at her work.
Jane smiled with satisfaction. She w
ould dress her hair in ringlets, and wear the great tear-shaped pearl earrings that Mary had given her. Yes, she would turn heads in her new gown, and when Charles was at her side, she would feel like a queen. And in the days to come, there would be plenty of time to spend together, making up for the lost years.
THE GREAT HALL WHERE THE BALL WAS TO BE HELD WAS ALREADY packed when Jane entered behind Mary. It had been a brilliant and sunny day, and the rays of sunlight, lingering into the spring evening, competed with the hundreds of candles in their wall brackets. The room buzzed with chatter and laughter. The bright rustling silks of the ladies’ dresses caught the flickering candlelight. The air was scented heavily with perfume and with the apple blossoms that weighed down the branches of the trees outside the tall open windows. The excitement and anticipation seemed tangible. Jane, Nan, Lady Stanhope, and Mary’s other ladies followed Mary to where Queen Mary sat with Queen Elizabeth of Bohemia and the Princesses Elizabeth and Louise.
“Where’s this king son of yours, then?” Queen Elizabeth asked in an undertone that carried easily around the room. “Wants to make an entrance, I expect.”
The musicians at the other end of the chamber had been playing, their music underlying the hum of conversation, but now, as if on cue, they stopped. The room went silent. A horn blazed out a fanfare, and Charles entered.
He was resplendent in a suit of black velvet trimmed with bows and knots of red ribbons, matching the heels of his black shoes, his gloves, and the fluttering ostrich plumes in the crown of his hat. The lace-edged sleeves of his shirt and his lace collar were snowy white. He had shaved clean except for a small moustache, and his dark curls tumbled over his shoulders.
Jane caught her breath at the sight of him. She had always thought him handsome, even in the humble guise of Will Jackson, but tonight he shone like a star, the embodiment of grace and power and beauty.
Every inch a king. Jane chuckled to herself as she recalled Charles quoting the line from King Lear to her on one of the nights they had shared at Abbots Leigh. And he was now, every inch of his six feet two inches, dazzlingly royal.
The crowd applauded and cheered, and Charles gave a regal nod in reply before breaking into a grin. The formal moment past, there was a stir as if everyone at once would make their way towards the king. But he turned away, his attention caught by something to his side, and the crowd stopped where it stood. Jane craned to see. What had arrested the king’s attention was a girl. A stunningly beautiful girl. The most beautiful woman Jane had ever seen, she thought. The stranger was dressed in a blue so pale as to be almost white, but with enough colour that it reflected and intensified the violet of her eyes. Her hair, a deep auburn that shone in the candlelight, hung in ringlets around her face and cascaded over the creamy white of her bare shoulders and the surge of her full breasts.
A murmur went through the room. And then Charles reached out a hand and the girl went to him. He took her hand and looked down at her, and Jane’s soul turned to ice.
“Who is that?” Dorothy whispered behind her.
“Barbara Palmer.” It was Boswell’s voice. “The king’s mistress. She arrived with her husband in February. They say she was in the king’s bed within a fortnight and has scarcely left it since, except when he was at Breda.”
Jane’s heart froze. February? She had been at Breda then. So for the last three months, while her heart had soared at the thought of seeing Charles again, he had been at The Hague, and bedding this girl.
She rushed from the room, fighting to hold back her tears. The musicians struck up a dance tune, and applause broke out. The king taking the floor, no doubt, with Barbara Palmer. She stumbled into her room, slamming the door behind her, and sank onto the floor, shaking with grief and rage.
This was the day she had longed for, prayed for, for which she had given up her life as it had been and spent the long years away from home. And now she was forgotten, lost in the crowds of fawning subjects and favour seekers. And Charles as she had known him, the memory that had sustained her through the long winter of their separation—the lazy grin, the eyes shining just for her, his voice joining hers in song—was gone, and in his place was a gilded stranger. They had been as intimate as two people could be, and now a vast gulf yawned between the king and his subject.
And with the unearthly picture of Barbara Palmer lingering mockingly in her mind, for the first time Jane felt old. On their journey, when Charles was twenty-one and she twenty-five, the difference in their ages had seemed insignificant. But now, when he was not yet thirty, with legions of beautiful young girls crowded around him, with their smooth and perfect skin, their lush bosoms, their unlined faces and clear eyes, and all of them willing to give themselves to him utterly, she suddenly saw herself as she feared others must see her—ageing, sad, pathetic. No dish to tempt a young king who might have any woman in Europe.
On a table in her room stood a miniature that Princess Louise had painted of her soon after her arrival at Mary’s court. She took it up and stared at it. She had not truly looked at it in—how long? Years? She had glanced at it with unseeing eyes, taking for granted that it represented her as she was.
Now she picked up a hand mirror and held it up, comparing her reflection to the portrait, and what she saw made her weep the more. The firm and determined chin of the Jane of then was now softened by a roll of flesh. The eyes that had stared so bright and clear were now red with tears, the lids swollen and puffy. Fine lines cobwebbed from the corners of her eyes, bracketed her mouth, cut channels in her forehead. Her décolletage was no longer the silken damask it had been, but roughened and mottled.
Jane threw the mirror onto the floor and watched it explode in a shower of silvered shards. She flung herself onto the bed and sobbed, great wrenching animal cries tearing her throat. She wanted to stop feeling, to end her existence. To hurt and kill. Charles. Mary. John. Lord Wilmot, in his grave. Barbara Palmer. All the pretty young creatures who sighed after the king and caught his eye. And most of all she just wanted to feel no more.
She gave herself up to the ocean of grief and rage, losing herself in it. The tears and the racking sobs lasted a long time, but finally she had cried all that she could cry and had no emotions left to vent.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
ON THE MORNING OF THE TWENTY-THIRD OF MAY, JANE JOINED Charles; his mother, Queen Mary; his aunt Queen Elizabeth; his sisters, Mary and Minette; and his brothers, the Dukes of York and Gloucester, aboard the Naseby, touring the ship that would take Charles back to England. The royal family dined in state, and afterward, Charles rechristened the ship the Royal Charles and gave other ships in the fleet names more appropriate to a royal flotilla than those they had borne under Cromwell.
There were plans afoot for a reunion of the family at Christmas, but Charles’s brothers were the only members of the royal family who would sail with him now. Nan Hyde had left Mary’s service and was travelling to England, ostensibly because her father was accompanying the king, but Jane wondered, with a glance at Nan’s belly, how much longer the secret marriage could be kept a secret.
Jane could scarcely believe that she would not be present when Charles set foot on English soil after all she had done to ensure that he might do so. But she knew that Barbara Palmer was with him, and she would have been hard-pressed not to feel miserable and bitterly resentful had she been in their company.
A FEW DAYS AFTER THE KING’S DEPARTURE, JANE’S MOOD WAS LIFTED by the news that on the twenty-eighth of May, Sophie had been safely delivered of a healthy baby boy named Georg Ludwig.
“‘We call him Görgen,’ Sophie writes,” Mary sniffed. “Not a very English name.”
“Well, after all,” Queen Elizabeth said, beaming with joy at having a new grandchild, “the wee mite will not only be heir to his father, the Duke of Brunswick-Lüneberg, but his three uncles have no children either! He’ll be a little German ruler. Who knows, perhaps one day he’ll even be the Holy Roman Emperor!”
NOW THAT MESSENGER
S COULD TRAVEL FREELY TO AND FROM ENGLAND, news of Charles’s homecoming reached Mary’s court rapidly. Jane listened as Queen Elizabeth read a letter from Charles’s friend John Evelyn.
“‘May the twenty-ninth. This day came in His Majesty Charles the Second to London after a sad and long exile. This was also his birthday …’”
Yes, Jane thought. Charles had turned thirty on the day that he had ridden into London to claim his throne. He had been but twenty-one when she rode with him, combining both the hope and impetuousness of youth with the toughness and melancholy born of the shocks and hardships he had already suffered.
“‘He rode with a triumph of above twenty thousand horse and foot,’” Queen Elizabeth read, “‘brandishing their swords and shouting with inexpressible joy. The ways strewed with flowers, the bells ringing, the streets hung with tapestry, fountains running with wine, the windows and balconies all set with ladies, trumpets, music, and myriads of people flocking the streets, so as they were seven hours in passing the City, even from two in the afternoon till nine at night. I stood in the Strand and beheld it and blessed God. And all this without one drop of blood, and by that very army which rebelled against him. But it was the Lord’s doing, et mirabile in oculis nostris, for such a Restoration was never seen, nor so joyful a day and so bright ever seen in this nation.’”
Jane’s eyes were full of tears as she listened. It was astonishing that everything had turned out better than anyone would have thought possible only a few months before. But she had made that glorious day possible, and she should have been at Charles’s side, not stuck across the cold North Sea and far from home.
She would accompany Mary to England soon, but Mary would not stir from The Hague until she had used her brother’s newfound power to force the Electors to confirm her ten-year-old son, William, in his position as Elector-General and to arrange for his schooling.
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