Girl on the Golden Coin: A Novel of Frances Stuart

by Jefferson, Marci

  “I—I would have spoken to him in England last winter.”

  “He died without your pardon. I once saw Charles walk away as you ranted at him about policy. You exasperate your children.” He shook his head. “No. You may seek refuge in France, but you’ll take no part in my relationship with Charles. Your interference only wreaks disaster.”

  Numbness settled over me as I watched her bow, back away from him, then fumble into a chair. All my life, the Queen Mother had been the intimidator. King Louis, the monarch who now held me at his mercy, had humbled a queen in front of her own daughter. Was this the same man who’d offered me his heart hours before?

  Mother leaned heavily against Madame’s bed, ashen. She said nothing. But what could she possibly say to counter a king’s command?

  “Madame,” he called as he walked to the door, “write to your brother and tell him you are sending Frances to serve his new queen. See that she is well treated in your court, well supplied, and well prepared. I want her delivered to his household just as she is. Perfect.”

  My poor friend covered her face with her hands.

  He looked back. “And Madame.”

  Her fingers parted slightly.

  “Tell Louise de La Vallière I will call on her soon.”

  She managed a false smile before turning into her pillow. She had lost him. I wondered if I’d ever known him at all.

  * * *

  That night I lay on a straw pallet and let Mother have my bed. “This is the worst that could have happened, yet I have no power to refuse it,” she said, eyes wide with disbelief.

  “An English girl could never get an official appointment at the French court, and I cannot expect Madame to support me forever. You would have to take me to England once the Queen Mother sets out anyway. I may as well seek a position in the English court to keep me occupied.” I spoke with more confidence than I felt.

  “At the English court the Villiers family safeguard themselves to the peril of others.”

  I thought of how complicated things might become if she discovered my promise to Buckingham. “Have you ever been to England? Have we any … family connection there?”

  “Of course I’ve been to England. And you know better than to question me about family.”

  “One of my Stuart cousins just inherited the dukedoms of Richmond and Lennox. And there’s Father’s nephew, Lord Blantyre, surely they would be willing—”

  “Lord Blantyre never comes down from Scotland, and the Duke of Richmond is an insatiable drinker. I will help you as best I can myself.”

  She hadn’t refuted my relation to the Stuarts. “Mother, I truly am my father’s daughter, aren’t I?”

  She lowered her gaze. “How did you learn this?”

  “I must hear you say it, please.”

  She hesitated. “Yes, you are Walter Stuart’s daughter.”

  “Why did you lie to me? Was your father a Villiers?”

  She was silent.

  “Don’t try to protect me from things I need to know.”

  “Stop asking questions. The answers will get us into more trouble than you’re already in.” She turned to the wall and would speak to me no more.

  * * *

  After our mothers departed, I knew our days at Fontainebleau were limited. Madame and I would be back in Paris with the change of season, and I would be packed off to England in the new year. If I wanted to regain my cousin’s favor, I had little time.

  CHAPTER 9

  Château de Vaux-le-Vicomte

  Fête of the Superintendent of Finances, Nicolas Fouquet

  Mid-August

  “This must be the finest palace in France,” I said to Louise de La Vallière. As we strolled along the canal, a huge boat, shaped like a whale, drifted past. Over twenty violinists edged the stage where we had just watched Molière’s new comedy, Les Fâcheux. Vast displays of fireworks periodically lit hundreds of courtiers who were on a nighttime promenade through the gardens.

  “And the grandest fête,” she replied. “And Nicolas Fouquet created it with livres stolen from the king.”

  “Did you ask me to walk with you so you could share state secrets?” I asked, surprised.

  “I know how angry it makes King Louis. He is what I want to talk about.”

  “He tells you such things?” In the weeks since I’d refused him, he’d spent an increasing amount of time with La Vallière.

  “And more. Oh, Frances, I love him so.”

  “Yes. I know. You’ve said this before.”

  “But now that he loves me back, I think I could die a happy woman.”

  I stopped in the center of the gravel path. “Did you say the king loves you?”

  She pulled me along. “I was beginning to think he flirted with me to distract from his affair with Madame. But then Superintendent Fouquet attempted to bribe me for the king’s favor, and he is positively outraged.”

  “The King of France?”

  “Yes, silly. He says he loves me and wants to make me his mistress.”

  Had he truly loved me if he’s changed so soon? “Does Madame know?”

  “She saw us together and was very piqued. Louis won’t let her dismiss me. What can she do to me but not speak?” She pointed across a parterre, where Madame stood close to the Comte de Guiche. “No need to worry about offending her when she is lashing out at the king by taking a new lover.”

  As we watched, Guiche whispered in Madame’s ear. She giggled, and they both glanced around before ducking through shrubbery and slipping down the path to a hidden grotto. She had been taking opium for a recent illness. She looked even thinner to me.

  La Vallière went on. “What should I do about King Louis? I love him, but an affair would be a carnal sin.”

  I watched the Chevalier de Gramont, that gossiping troublemaker, peek toward the grotto, then make his way across the avenue to the Chevalier de Lorraine. “That is a matter between you and God,” I said distractedly. Gramont muttered to Lorraine, who trotted across the lawn so awkwardly on high heels that his tall periwig tottered with every step. He was heading straight to Monsieur, who sat on a bench surrounded by fops and gallants. I have to warn Madame.

  I left La Vallière, walking quickly around the parterre, dashed through the shrubs and ran down the path. I found them pressed against each other, leaning against the rocky wall among the little candles in the man-made cave. Praise heavens they were still dressed. Mostly. “Madame.”

  They cursed and scrambled to rearrange themselves. Madame shot me a glare that looked like one of her mother’s. Guiche grinned at me. “You wish to join us?”

  “Monsieur is approaching.”

  Madame paled, then smoothed her hair. Guiche fumbled with the ribbon ties of his pantaloons. I grabbed his arm and pulled him toward the path.

  We were almost there when Monsieur appeared. He took one look at me holding Guiche as he yanked at his pantaloons and said, “I’m shocked, Frances. The Comte de Guiche is a notorious seducer.” He glared at Guiche. “Of men and women.” Then he turned to Madame. “I’m beginning to suspect he’s seduced my wife.”

  She crossed her arms. “You’re more ashamed that your lover cheated on you. Get out.”

  “So he can take you again, right here on the ground? He is leaving, not I.” He lunged at Guiche and pushed him against the wall.

  “You don’t own me, Philippe!” Guiche shoved him. “You can’t make me love you.”

  “How could you?” Monsieur fell on his knees before Guiche and wept. “With her? She is a faithless whore.”

  I grabbed Madame’s arm and pulled her away, but she hissed over her shoulder, “You’re not half the man your brother is.” I pulled her down the path until she yanked her arm free. “You think to gain forgiveness by interfering?” she said to me.

  “Ma cousine, I—”

  “Stay away, traitor.” And she flew back toward the palace.

  CHAPTER 10

  November

  “I do not want to
have a child! I want to die!” Queen Marie-Thérèse screamed, writhing and sweating. Her state bedchamber was crammed with courtiers. To support the royal claim that the child produced was really born of the queen’s body and to ensure no one surreptitiously traded a worthless female infant for a male heir, everyone craned their necks for a glimpse of the queen’s most private parts. The maids fussed to keep her modesty concealed with a sheet, but the men kept a wary eye. Courtiers chatted while she struggled, discussing her odds of survival and how much King Louis might reward her if she lived.

  King Louis stood by the bed, unable to offer his wife solace. Madame lay propped on a litter, coughing incessantly and droopy with opium. She’d recently announced she was pregnant, and I would certainly never ask which royal brother was the father. I imagined her anxious over the queen’s pain, but I stood by La Vallière’s side, waiting for the queen to either die or bring forth life. Madame would only wave me off if I tried to offer reassurances.

  The chamber door I shared with my cousin was now wide as an ocean distancing separate lands. I never told her I had refused King Louis’ offer; it would only have deepened her wound to learn he wanted to make me his maîtresse-en-titre. I had started to change my thoughts about England. I’d progressed from “when will they make me go” to “when may I finally just go?” Far away from France, from King Louis, from Madame’s disdain, from the oppression of my mother’s fear.

  La Vallière tugged my arm, and together we slipped outside for some air. The browning lawn crunched beneath our shoes. Bare rose stems swayed in the breeze, thorns piercing the chill. The dark fur tippet tied at my neck wasn’t warm enough, and I wrapped my arms around myself as we walked.

  La Vallière’s rosary dangled from her hand as her fingers moved from bead to bead, presumably reciting prayers in her mind. “For all that I know it is wrong, I cannot help myself,” she said. “I love the king. And being loved by him is … irresistible.”

  I did not respond. La Vallière now suffered Madame’s silence as much as I.

  The upper windows of the West Wing burst open. King Louis himself leaned out and shouted, “The queen has given birth to a dauphin!” We applauded for the newborn prince with the others in the garden as the king ducked back inside without further mention of his queen.

  “I must confess,” La Vallière said, sighing, “I dreaded this event. Now both households must move to Palais Royal to spend winter in Paris. We will have to be more discreet to hide our affair.”

  “Won’t you seek a marriage to excuse a pregnancy, secure your future?”

  “Ah, but marriage would make my sin a mortal one.” She sighed again. “The king tells me you are going to the English court. I shall miss you.”

  “Tell me,” I said casually, for if anyone would know, it was she. “Does he know when the English marriage will take place?”

  “Catherine of Bragança was the candidate King Louis promoted so England wouldn’t form a marriage alliance with Spain. He believes King Charles will appoint the members of her household soon, for his bride will set sail come spring.”

  CHAPTER 11

  Palais Royal, Paris

  January 1662

  By Advent I was aching to leave for England. When the Ballet-Royal arrived to give a private performance in Madame’s chambers, King Louis ordered my attendance. I dutifully reported to her bedside, hoping this would be the send-off I longed for.

  Red velvet drapery fell in lush folds around Madame as she reclined. Her belly was slightly rounded, a contrast with her sunken cheeks and hollow eyes. Her hair and face were set and painted but couldn’t hide her poor health. She ignored me, and greeted the gathering courtiers with false smiles. A herald called from the door, “The king! The king!”

  Six young pages, liveried in red velvet, rushed into the room and stood in opposing rows, making an aisle. Everyone bowed or curtsied. King Louis walked through them straight to me. He presented his hand. As my lips grazed his ring, he squeezed my fingers softly. It surprised me, and I hoped my face didn’t reflect this as I stood.

  He whispered, “Remember, Charles must know I seek his friendship. Gain his trust and his ear. I will send ambassadors to you with further instructions when the time comes.”

  “Yes, Your Majesty. I will not forget.” Nor could I forget the promise I’d made to Buckingham when I’d assumed it would never need to be fulfilled.

  “You must gain a position of influence over him, so that when I want him to do a political thing … you can make him do it.”

  “He would follow my suggestions regarding political things?”

  “Charles is easily influenced,” he said. “Especially by the women who share his bed.” He turned his face toward the chamber.

  He pitched his voice for all to hear. “How I will hate to lose Frances Stuart to the English court. No offer of a dowry or a marriage arrangement will convince her mother to keep her here.” He eyed me. “For I love her more than a man loves even a mistress.” A frenzy of whispers and fluttering fans washed across the chamber. “Indeed, she is so rare I would marry her myself if I could.”

  Does he mean it? My throat constricted. Even as he hurls me to another man’s bed?

  The king found a flustered-looking La Vallière and settled down in front of the makeshift stage. She had heard him. Everyone had. They were all staring. I spotted the Queen Mother, studying me from the corner. What malice did she brew behind those eyes?

  Madame hissed at me. “Get out of my sight.”

  Thus, instead of making my way to an open chair, I returned to my family and what little time I had left with them.

  * * *

  “I have made many plans for you,” the Queen Mother said the next morning, sweeping my figure with her eyes. I had been summoned to Madame’s bedchamber, though she would not look at me from her lavish bed. “You are my daughter’s dearest friend. I have a gift for you.”

  I hovered between fear and doubt.

  “Mary,” she called.

  The door to Madame’s closet opened, and one of the Queen Mother’s longtime maids emerged. This woman, with gray hair swept under a mobcap, had always looked the same. The creased skin around her eyes and her perpetually pursed lips never seemed to change, making her age a wrinkled secret. Though she had always stared down her long nose at Madame and me as children, she never spoke, and I had no idea of her character.

  “You know Mary,” the Queen Mother said. “She is industrious, good at setting hair. A strong, trustworthy Englishwoman and a true Catholic. I have paid her a year’s wages. She will accompany and serve you in England where you will keep her and continue to pay her yourself.” She looked at me expectantly.

  I knew that look.

  Friendship with the princess had lent opportunities, and after every tutor’s lesson, every supper, every outing in her carriage, the Queen Mother had looked at me this way. She expected gratitude, obedience, and good behavior. This time she’d appraised me with a woman’s eye. Simple gratitude would not be enough. “How can I ever repay you?” I asked.

  Her face registered pleased surprise. She turned to Mary. “Go now. Prepare her things.”

  As Mary marched dutifully away, the Queen Mother took my arm and pulled me down into a double chair beside her. “Since you are so willing, child, there is something you can do for me.”

  She produced her little black prayer book, settled herself, and held it up. “Cardinal Richelieu gave me this upon my marriage. When they sent me to wayward England, he made me promise to do everything I could to turn them back to the true faith.”

  I nodded. The Catholic Church had never had a more determined advocate.

  “Henry the Eighth of England severed from Rome to take up with that heretic, Anne Boleyn, and Protestants have wrongfully triumphed ever since.” She looked past me, remembering. “Pope Urban hailed me as savior to oppressed British Catholics. I did everything I could to turn England back. Some”—and here I could see she meant to say King Louis—“may sa
y my efforts caused the civil wars that ended in my husband’s beheading.” She eyed me. “The English think they have the right to choose how to worship God! They denied the absolute right of kings, their mistakes brought bloodshed.” She clenched the book with white knuckles. “What do you remember of my son King Charles?”

  My mind tripped over the events she had failed to mention: her banishment, Cromwell’s victory, our exile. What did I know of Charles II? There was only one memory. A mistaken identity when I was still a child. He thought for a moment I was his sister. I glanced at Madame, who still would not catch my eye. “Little, I’m afraid.”

  “He is an easy man. Merry. Malleable.” She studied me. “Prone to attach himself to any sort of woman, even the self-seeking sort. He is so forgiving, you see, he hardly notices a woman’s flaws.”

  The hair at the nape of my neck rose.

  “When Madame and I visited him in England last winter, we met one such woman. Barbara Palmer.” A pink tint crept up the Queen Mother’s neck. “She is the worst sort of creature: steering his decisions, scheming, vain, greedy.”

  The description reminded me, perversely, of the Queen Mother herself. Again I looked to Madame. She stared through me as if I were invisible.

  “She passed her first child off as the king’s bastard and humiliated her husband. Charles granted them a peerage. They are the Earl and Countess of Castlemaine, but only children of Barbara’s body shall inherit the title. Which is as good as an announcement to the world that she is his official mistress.” The pink spread to her face, and she struggled to maintain composure. “The worst of it is, Barbara Palmer is … a Protestant.” Her hands trembled around the prayer book. “Under her influence, Charles will never return to the Church of Rome. I did my best to persuade my sons to be Catholic, but their father … He made them promise to remain Protestant.”

  “What has this to do with me?”

  “Child,” she said as she held out her little black prayer book. “Make Charles love you … and get rid of that whore.”