“Very well.” A petted sister! Surely a wiser course than becoming his mistress!
“I have something else. Actually, a favor to ask.” He turned his face toward the closet. “Prudence,” he called. A waif of a girl, dressed in wool, stepped out. She curtsied.
“This is Prudence Pope,” said King Charles. “When I lost the battle at Worcester, I evaded Cromwell’s army disguised as a servant escorting a woman to Abbots Leigh. Prudence’s father was the head butler there, and he recognized me. Without his aid I never would have escaped England alive. He passed away before my restoration, leaving his daughter. She’s been alone in the world, raised by—friends. If I provide funds for her, would you keep her as a handmaiden? Until she decides whether she wants to marry.”
She was younger than I, wide-eyed and trembling. I crossed to the girl and took her hands. “Of course.”
Prudence’s huge brown eyes filled. “Milady, thank ye. Thank ye.” She curtsied to the king and flew through the passage to my old chest and began unpacking.
“You should know one thing about Prudence.” King Charles spoke in a hushed voice. “The friends that helped her after her father’s death, I believe they are Quakers.”
I frowned, not knowing what he meant.
“A new Protestant sect who believe all people are spiritual equals. Some are radicals bent on challenging authority in government.”
“She’s a Dissenter?”
His eyebrows flew up, surprised at my choice of words. “Yes. There is no need to fear her, of course. But if she herself is a Quaker, she might need your protection. Encourage her to practice her religion privately.”
“You would house a Nonconformist?”
He glanced at her where she knelt, sorting my clothing. “Does she look dangerous to you? My subjects ought to worship according to their own tender conscience, as long as they remain peaceful.”
I studied his expression, both gentle and strong, and saw he meant it. Never before had I heard a man, much less a king, show such acceptance of another person’s beliefs. It exalted my estimation of him, and I decided I agreed with him.
“I promised toleration when I was restored.”
Toleration. This word was not the choice of a man who intended to return his people to the Catholic Church against their will. No matter what his mother might wish. “You may rely on it. I shall advise her where I can, even protect her if needed.”
“You are kindness itself,” King Charles said softly. “I am so pleased you are here.”
* * *
A few days after my move to Whitehall, Mary had appeared, insisting she wait on me. “My queen commanded it and I’ll not be leaving,” she’d said. Mary’s real purpose had become clear: to gain information about my progress in bedding King Charles and report back to the Queen Mother.
“Milady,” she called to me from the doorway.
“What is it?” I sat at my new toilette table and blotted Spanish paper onto my lips. The red effect was too garish, so I wiped it off with a bit of cloth.
“Prudence, milady. She’s left your linen over in the laundry to dry when I told her she should stay with it lest it be stolen.”
“Do you think you can cook, mend, dress me and my hair, and tend our fires all by yourself while Prudence is gone watching laundry dry?”
The wrinkles above her upper lip deepened.
“The court laundry maids can be trusted not to steal my stockings. You must find a way to get along with Prudence.”
Her eyes bulged. “But she’s a—Protestant. She never goes to mass. You cannot trust her. She shouldn’t be here.” She huffed and stomped away. She would tell the Queen Mother everything.
Buckingham’s voice rang from the door. “You should leave it on. The Spanish red.”
I glanced at his reflection in my looking glass. It was from Venice, his own gift, and very expensive. “If you call on me this often, your wife will get cross.” He’d come every day since my arrival, bearing gifts to embellish my chambers and to accompany me to a few court suppers. Today he would escort me to the St. Valentine’s Day Ball.
“My wife doesn’t get cross when I visit my mistress. She certainly doesn’t care that I visit you.” He pulled out his clay pipe and box of tobacco. “Put it on.” He gestured to the Spanish paper. “You need all the help you can get to supplant Lady Castlemaine.”
“Why do you wish to undermine your own cousin?” I longed to ask what he knew of my mother’s parentage, but didn’t dare. “I thought the Villiers family protected one another.” I watched his response.
“We do.” He sucked a flame into his pipe until he was breathing smoke. From the feather in his cavalier hat to the polished red heels of his shoes, his ensemble was perfect. Outside, four footmen and two guards waited to accompany him anywhere. He was admitted everywhere without question; his high rank and position on the Privy Council were envied by all. Yet, for all his wealth, he held no high government office. I knew what Madame’s conclusion would be: he was buying me to gain more trust from the king. I stuffed the Spanish paper into its paper fold and tossed it into my jewel casket.
He took a long draw on his pipe and blew a series of smoke rings at me. “As you just pointed out, I’m a Villiers. Not one to be challenged.”
“Well, I’m a Stuart. Not one to be underestimated.”
* * *
The Great Hall was almost half the length of the Banqueting House and more than a century older. The lower portion of the plaster walls was painted in black-and-white checkers, with huge windows above. The central hearth crackled and glowed, and the smoke wafted to a great louver in the center of the hammer-beam ceiling. This part of winter was carnival season. The table was draped with lace and ribbon and boasted a huge urn from which valentines would be drawn.
Buckingham paraded me before King Charles, but as Castlemaine was fondling his lace bib, he barely glanced at me. She never looked at me, either. At length Buckingham retreated, leaving me to fend for myself. A familiar voice captured my ear. “She resents your beauty. Do you hate her yet?”
“Thank you, Lord Cornbury. I don’t think so.”
He shrugged. “She’ll get her place in the palace if she has to tear the walls down herself. King Charles empties the privy purse into her very lap. At any rate, I came to tell you your cousin wishes to speak with you.” He pointed toward the door, at a gentleman propped carelessly against the wall.
“Is that … Charles Stuart?” I’d last seen him with his uncle Ludovic, Seigneur d’Aubigny, two years earlier. He was living in Paris then.
Cornbury shook his head. “It is, but he’s the Duke of Richmond and Lennox. Bit of a rake, in and out of favor with the king, but your cousin Charles Stuart is a baron and earl more times than I can count. Don’t short one of the highest-ranking men in England. Go over—he’s waiting.”
“You’ve grown,” he said as I approached. He bowed, kissed my hand. “Last we met you were as scrawny as I was and dressed in the same threadbare clothes that marked us as exiled Royalists.”
I inspected him from collar to silk shoelaces. Now he wore enough finery to rival a prince. A row of rubies buttoned his black satin doublet, quilted in elaborate scroll and sunburst patterns. A red plume topped the cavalier hat he clasped at his side. “Heavens,” I said. “You’re suited to match your new title. Richmond.”
He glanced down, sheepish. “Don’t tease. I’m a duke now. Have to dress my station.”
“You’ve mastered that requirement.”
He nodded toward my necklace. “Did you marry an emperor?”
“A gift from King Louis,” I whispered. “It didn’t have the desired effect.”
“Had I known you were here—” He grasped my hand. “I would have waited.”
I met his gaze. “For what?”
“I got married again.”
I squeezed his hand. “I heard of Elizabeth’s death when I was still in France.” One of the many exiles living between The Hague and Paris, he
had married her in poverty. They’d returned to England at the Restoration, just before he inherited his highest titles from another cousin. “She was the sweetest of women.”
He nodded. “Wouldn’t have remarried so soon if not for my daughter. She deserves a mother. I might have rediscovered you first, had I waited.”
The words rang in my head. Here was my English nobleman. An offer such as this would have prevented every bad thing that had happened. “I would have liked that,” I whispered.
He took a deep, bracing breath. “Here we are, then.” He glanced at the gathering of nobles. “Look there at Sir Henry Bennet.” He tipped his head toward the courtier with the black strip on his nose. “He served the king during exile, mostly as his representative in Madrid. That patch covers a scar he received fighting in the wars. King Charles made him keeper of the privy purse for his loyalty.”
“Why do you point him out?” I had wondered what that patch was for.
“He knows half a dozen languages. He’s savvy. Cunning. He’s the only council member who can influence the king. If you can’t press King Charles for an alliance with France, press ministers who can.”
I gaped at him. “How did you know?”
He glanced at my necklace again. “Met King Louis in Paris. He longs for English connections. Damn shrewd man.”
So was Richmond. A circle of influential alliances would get the king’s attention and rid me of any need for Buckingham. “Can you help me?”
He shook his head. “Going home to Kent before I do something else to irritate King Charles, but I’ll get you started.” Then he called to the courtier with the nose patch. “Bennet, tell me you know my cousin Frances Stuart.”
He bowed to me. “She is better known here as la Belle Stuart.”
“What a pleasure,” I said. “The court says King Charles trusts you above any other.”
“It is an honor to have his favor.”
“Has he mentioned the Raphael?” I asked, inspired. “The one he promised to grant me?”
Bennet glanced at Richmond before turning back to me. “I’m afraid not.”
“You must ask him about it. And accompany him when he brings it. Why, I’ll hold a reception in my apartments!”
The Duke of York, the king’s brother, appeared. “You can’t hoard la Belle Stuart to yourselves any longer, gentlemen. I’ve drawn her name as my valentine.” He presented me with a gift: a great emerald ring. It had to be worth near a thousand pounds. “I rigged the drawing, of course.” He winked. “Had to have an excuse to lavish my cousin, welcome her home from France properly.”
“Oh, it’s lovely.” I slipped it on and admired it. Mother will kill me.
Richmond stepped in. “Off to Cobham Hall. Take care of her, rogues.” He kissed each of my cheeks and left us. Bennet watched me carefully as I turned back to York. I spoke softly so they’d have to lean in to hear me. “Your Grace, I was just telling Sir Bennet about the reception I’m having. Won’t you join us?”
* * *
When the day arrived, I arranged for four palace footmen to carry me in a sedan chair to my mother’s apartments at Somerset House. “Mother, come to my chambers this evening for a reception. You’ll see there’s nothing to worry about.” She agreed to attend, reluctantly, but wouldn’t allow my brother and sister to join her no matter how much I begged. Before we parted, I gave her fifty pounds. It was nearly every bit of my first payment in service as maid of honor.
In preparation for the event, I borrowed silver plates and candlesticks, carpets, and glasses from the Queen Mother’s collection. I sent Mary to the palace pantry for fruits and cheeses and Prudence to the palace cellars for more than my allotment of the best mead and wine. I draped carpets over all my tables, lit candles in every corner, and pasted a star-shaped black patch by my mouth.
Cornbury arrived with Frasier, who brought her friend Helene Warmestry. Then other candidates for the queen’s household, including Winifred Wells and Simona Cary, filtered in, appreciative for any excuse to come to Whitehall Palace, and awed by the presence of the Duke of York. When some of my guests called for gambling, Mother handed out a fresh deck of playing cards, hand-painted in France, and Prudence kept everyone’s glass full.
King Charles arrived to a genuine fête. “What’s this merry bunch? Holding court of your own, la Belle?”
I fashioned my smile to that of an adoring younger sister, and then Bennet presented a large leather volume to me. I let King Charles open it, and my company gasped at the prized drawing within. “As promised,” he quipped. He stayed for over an hour, telling stories and making everyone laugh. As he took his leave, I asked, “And when am I to sit for Samuel Cooper?”
He grinned. “I’ll send word.”
Even Mother looked impressed.
* * *
I began to hold receptions regularly. Mother came from time to time but never brought the children. Everyone seemed anxious to attend, knowing King Charles called on his way to, or home from, Lady Castlemaine’s King Street house. We gambled some, then built card houses when we tired of card games. We borrowed the king’s violinists and danced in my bedchamber. We played blind man’s buff, though Wells most certainly peeked under the blindfold, and Cary got so dizzy when we spun her around that she fell on her backside.
Buckingham appeared frequently, flirting mercilessly with new ladies, including Lady Mary Wood, whom I’d known in France, and Katherine Boynton, a colonel’s daughter. The Irish Earl of Carlingford attended one evening, and he amused us by holding a lit candle in his mouth without burning himself or extinguishing it. But George, of the numerous and influential Hamilton family, outdid him by holding two lit candles in his mouth and walking around the room three times. Old Sir William Killigrew, who aimed to become our new queen’s vice-chamberlain, topped them both when he brought me a kitten, a little ball of gray fluff.
“I know just what we’ll name him,” cried the witty widow Lady Scroope when she’d ceased flirting with Bennet long enough to notice the feline. “Miss Ment!”
Then we set about teaching my parrot how to call the cat.
One by one, my new friends got their appointments as the queen’s dressers, maids of honor, and maids of the privy chamber. By the end of March the painter Samuel Cooper was my honored guest. Mother sat near me and Bennet arrived early, offering to hold candles aloft while the artist sketched my portrait.
But when King Charles joined us, he frowned. “No jewels, la Belle? That won’t do.” And he presented me with a short strand of fat white pearls. It was fit for a royal and worth thousands of pounds. He tied the ribbon ends behind my neck right there in front of everyone.
I embraced him and whispered, “Now I know you won’t forget me when you go to fetch your bride.”
He chucked my chin. “Of course I won’t. My ministers tell me Madame delivered an infant girl. Both are alive and well. They claim she was so disappointed it wasn’t a male, she said to throw it in the Seine.”
“She would never say that!”
“I agree. Nor would she have an affair with King Louis as was rumored.” He watched my reaction carefully.
“Of course not.” And I knew, merry though he was, I’d have to be careful with this king.
When my mother went home that night, I said, “See, not a trace of scandal. Won’t you allow my sister to join us?”
“Perhaps this autumn. When you return from Hampton Court with the new queen.”
CHAPTER 15
Hampton Court Palace
The queen is brought a few days since to Hampton Court; and all people say of her to be a very fine and handsome lady, and very discreet; and that the king is pleased enough with her which, I fear, will put Madam Castlemaine’s nose out of joynt.
—SAMUEL PEPYS’S DIARY
May 1662
Catherine of Bragança landed in Portsmouth at the close of May. King Charles took her appointed dressers and the new clothes he’d bought her, and he set out to wed her and bring
her to Hampton Court for the summer. The other ladies and I traveled by barge to wait for their arrival. Wells tripped up the waterside stairs when we disembarked, and we followed her through the privy gate. “The gardens are huge!”
Though pretty with an avenue of lime trees, parterres, and a long canal, I thought they were small for such a large palace. Inside, Lady Sanderson led us through three great courtyards, then showed us the queen’s rooms, draped with red velvet and silver embroidery, and explained our duty to stand for the queen’s morning toilette, her daily mass, each of her meals, and her bedtime routine.
“That’s standing all day,” cried Cary.
Wells elbowed her ribs. “We’re ladies-in-waiting. What did you think we’d be doing?”
We settled into our assigned apartments, while coaches arrived bearing England’s most noble families. They filled every court and corner of the palace, unpacking and preparing to pay homage to the new queen. We were giddy with excitement when we finally spotted two rows of pikemen leading a long stream of coaches on the road. Six horses with two postilions drove the royal carriage while men-at-arms, runners, and footmen ran alongside. The royal standards bobbed over the winding train of accompanying peers. The pikemen formed an avenue over the moat, and the carriage drove through the Great Gate into the first court. The king alighted with his new queen, walking her through Horse Guards lining the way to the great hall stairs beyond the clock tower. The lord chancellor and councillors of state kissed her hand and led her through the great watching chamber. Here we curtsied and paid homage to our new mistress.
Tiny, with a dark complexion, she greeted us cordially. She was dressed in a blue French gown King Charles had given her, and we quickly fell into step behind her Portuguese attendants. The dressers joined us and we made a train to the presence chamber to meet the foreign ambassadors. Nobility and gentry were grouped according to rank in one tapestried chamber after the other, and each one kissed Queen Catherine’s hand. My cousin the Duke of Richmond was in the first, highest-ranking chamber. One of the lords from Parliament had recently informed me his young daughter had been interred at the Richmond vault in Westminster Abbey, and I’d sent a box of oranges to his home in Kent as condolence on behalf of my family. He seemed forlorn but winked at me as I passed. When finally we reached the queen’s bedchamber, her Portuguese attendants ushered her in. “Sai daqui!” one said to us, and with that she slammed the door.
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