CHAPTER XVIII
BUT CATHERINE’S acceptance of the second-best in marriage was to be sorely tried, and her patience with her husband’s shortcomings was to be called upon to withstand yet another blow. For during that summer Louise de Keroualle returned to England. Ostensibly, she came to tell Charles all the more intimate details of his sister’s last hours, but in reality, Catherine suspected, to take her place politically; for she came with Louis’s blessing, and at his expense — and since she was a young unmarried woman it was taken for granted by both kings that she should be received into the Queen of England’s household.
Charles himself brought her to Catherine and very charmingly committed Louis’s protégé to his wife’s care “as a welcome souvenir of our beloved Minette.” And undoubtedly during the first few weeks when he and the pretty Breton were to be seen so often walking and riding together they were talking about Madame, and because Louise was essentially tactful, each little detail and each scrap of Minette’s conversation she was able to recall was of real solace to him, for which Catherine could be vicariously glad. But behind the girl’s guileless baby face moved an astute mind — a mind sharpened by contact with Minette’s, no doubt, although unsweetened by her selflessness. Else why should Louis have chosen her to look after his interests? To be the feminine counterpart of Colbert de Croissey, his ambassador? And as such, under the guise of a tender liaison with the lost loved one, to keep France ever in the forefront of his cousin’s mind. To be there at his Court, day and night — a pretty persuasive reminder.
And gradually it was borne in upon Catherine that that was exactly what Louis did want. That, understanding his cousin’s tastes only too well, he hoped the jewel Charles had once begged from his sister would be with him, quite literally, by day and by night.
Having the girl in her household, she had ample opportunity to observe the handsome jewels with which the French king had loaded her, and to know that, like many girls brought to Court from comparative poverty, she was as acquisitive as a jackdaw about sparkling things. And as time went on Catherine seemed to recognize some still handsomer pieces which her own husband must have contributed to the collection.
Sore at heart, Catherine watched and waited. For a long time the French girl was clever enough to resist Charles’s advances. She played him like a fish. “She is one of those people he was talking about who see things with their minds and not with their hearts,” concluded Catherine bitterly. For certainly she herself, if so besieged, could not have kept her chastity so long. Her emotions, proof against all other men, would have betrayed her. Always she had been trapped by her desperate love for him.
And inevitably the day came when Louise de Keroualle succeeded Barbara Castlemaine.
Charles had taken her to Newmarket, where he had always said there was no place for women. But both of them had been the guests of Lord Arlington in his huge mansion at Euston; and back along the country roads to Whitehall sped fantastic accounts of the brilliance and gaiety of that house-party and of the game of charades which had ended, one hilarious night, in a mock bedding of Madame Carwell, as the English called her, and the enamoured King. And few, knowing Charles, were such fools as to believe that there had been much mockery about it!
Catherine hid her grief as best she could. “Even the brief fires that consume a man in later life do not matter so much,” her mother had said, that far-off day in Lisbon; and certainly Maria’s conjugal love had survived unfaithlessness. Withdrawn and hurt, she tried to wait with dignity for the day when Louise would return to France. But Louise did not return. And by the time winter came and there were perpetual rough seas in the Channel, Catherine had to face the fact that here was another woman who was no brief fire, but a habit, in her husband’s life. Another Castlemaine.
Catherine never hated Louise as she had hated Barbara. Mainly because she herself had matured. But also because Louise’s manners were at all times respectful, and in spite of her extravagance she never plagued Charles with tears or tantrums or took vulgar delight in humiliating his wife. Neither did she allow the least liberty to other men. Indeed, one of the things which Catherine found most hard to bear was the virtuous mien with which the Frenchwoman performed what no doubt she considered to be the patriotic duty for which she had been sent. But the pensioned Lady Castlemaine and all her brood — whether by the King or not — had been given titles; and when Louise became pregnant she naturally expected, following the French fashion, to receive one too.
On the day when Charles created her Duchess of Portsmouth, Catherine quietly removed herself and her people to the late Queen Mother’s dower house. There would be no scenes, no recriminations, this time; but as far as possible she would avoid being humiliated by those long, neglected evenings spent in the new favourite’s presence or becoming involved in any occasions for rivalry which propinquity might cause.
It was the people who hated Louise so savagely for her Catholicism, her French influence and her fine, superior ways. And in leaving her the field Catherine, without intent, had left all reprisals in far more capable hands than her own. Where she-would probably have bungled veiled, sarcastic shafts, the Gwynn woman’s aim was primitive and sure. Witty and good-humoured, with her adoring public behind her, she never lost an opportunity to score off her contemptuous rival. Although Catherine would infinitely hive preferred less publicity for her husband’s sake, she forgave the actress much in return for the stories of her spirited warfare. If the new Duchess of Portsmouth tried to lead London fashions with the largest plumed hat from Paris, buxom Nellie was sure to appear in one even larger borrowed from the comedy wardrobe at the playhouse. When the Duchess, over-stressing her high lineage, went into mourning for some important personage in France, Nell drove weeping disconsolately through the streets of London in even deeper weeds — for the Cham of Tartary, or some such person, she said. It was all manna for the editors of the news sheets, and free entertainment for the ’prentices. And when a mob of exasperated citizens pelted what they supposed to be the Frenchwoman’s fine carriage with stones and yells of “Pope’s daughter!” and invective borrowed from the more outspoken prophets, it was Nell’s irrepressible red head that was poked fearlessly through the window. “I pray you, save your breath, my good friends. ’Tis only the Protestant whore!” she cried, above their sudden delighted laughter.
And what afforded Catherine the most satisfaction was that Louise, less clever than usual, made the fatal mistake of appealing to the King himself about the insult to her faith. For Charles, who could probably have shaken shameless Nellie for drawing attention to his morals, had only laughed like the rest, and calmly told the lady that it was not women’s souls he was interested in. Lady Suffolk, who had been in the room, had heard him say it. And after that Catherine had not minded nearly so much about his casual faithlessness because she knew that for her soul he did care.
She tried to hold her peace and to occupy herself with quiet, uncontroversial things. And happily she found plenty to do just then with James’s family; trying to console the two unwilling, fifteen-year-old brides — Mary, his eldest daughter, and Mary from Modena, his new wife.
Realising the increasing animosity against a Catholic heir, Charles was marrying Anne Hyde’s elder daughter to her Dutch cousin, William of Orange, who was so tenaciously defending his gallant little country from the French that even the Revolutionaries had invited him back to power as Stadtholder. Without much enthusiasm Charles invited the taciturn young man on a betrothal visit, and while he endured the boredom of trying to entertain so seriously minded a guest, it behoved Catherine to try to comfort William’s weeping bride.
“I felt as you do, child, when I had to leave home,” she reminded her.
“But then you were coming to England, Madame!” protested the girl between unconsolable sniffs — whereat Catherine had to laugh. “It did not make it any easier, since it was Lisbon I loved,” she pointed out patiently. “But perhaps you, too, will come to love your husband
.”
“I may,” admitted Mary, giving her a long, quizzing look and seeming to doubt, with-all the censoriousness and incomplete knowledge of youth, how any wife could possibly forgive — much less love — immoral Uncle Charles.
“Oh well, Mary, in your case — since your husband is a relative — it is quite probable that you may come back again and visit us,” sighed Catherine, thinking of her own country and of dear, faithful Maria who was dying without ever seeing it again. And her well meant though rather halfhearted ministrations must-have had some effect for, although Mary Stuart was at present the only legitimate hope of a strong Protestant cause, it was her Portuguese step-aunt whom she clung to at the last minute of embarking for Holland.
With dainty, sloe-eyed little Mary of Modena Catherine found more in common. Both were convent bred and made in more emotional, Southern mould. But unfortunately when the young Italian princess arrived she hated James at sight. “The King — he is distinguished and dark — like the gentlemen at home,” she confided ingenuously. “But your Duke ... He does not pay the compliment — he has a wig the colour of corn and long fair hair on his arms — ugh! You do not like him, no?”
“But I do,” Catherine assured her. “And so will you, little goose, when you cease casting languishing glances at my husband, who is old enough to be your father.”
“Ah, how I envy you!” cried Mary ecstatically.
“You have good reason,” said Catherine quietly. “But they make ballads about me and call me the barren queen. You would not like that.”
“No. I should like a little son,” admitted Mary more docilely.
“He may be fair-haired too!” teased Catherine.
“But he will be James the Third of England,” said the new Duchess of York, who evidently understood very clearly what she had come for.
Catherine saw little of the King these days and was sure that her new sister-in-law would hear soon enough all the stories of his amours and his neglect. So few people had the faintest idea of the bonds of common interest which made Charles and her pleasantly contented with each other upon the family or formal occasions when they did meet. Why, even now London was buzzing with the scandal about his clandestine visit to his cousin Frances. She had suffered from a pox and everybody thought it calamitous that her famous beauty should be marred — that this horrible thing should have happened to her, la belle Stuart, the familiar Britannia on the coins in their purses. But Charles, in a rush of compassion, had tried to see her; and when her irate husband had made all manner of excuses, sooner than begin issuing royal commands about it, he had gone quietly down to the waterstairs as dusk was falling and rowed himself up river to the Richmonds’ house. And, of course, some delighted busybody must needs see him mooring his skiff and climbing over the garden wall. But Catherine heard the tale with serenity. For whether he succeeded in seeing the lady or not — and being Charles he almost certainly had — she knew Frances’s exemplary motherhood and her husband's clannish affection too well to believe that anything but past tenderness and family affection had prompted him.
Indeed, he seemed to have little mind for philandering at present. Without fully understanding, Catherine knew that he was extremely anxious — that there was a new tension between him and Parliament which made him walk very warily. Fight for toleration as he would, they had forced through a Test Act which would create an impossible situation with regard to his brother’s succession. Under this law no Catholic might hold public office and poor James was obliged to give up all connection with the Navy. Once again, although it was against his nature to urge any man in spiritual matters, Charles besought him to make outward profession of the Anglican faith. But beyond going for a short time as Governor to Scotland, where he was anything but a success, James was immovable.
And the main source of trouble, it seemed to Catherine, was that hatchet-faced man, Titus Oates, whom she had seen about the palace and whom Charles had called lightly a “plausible scoundrel.”
For once, it seemed, his unconcern had been at fault. He had not taken into sufficient account the almost crazy credulity of the Londoners where anything Popish was concerned. True, the Anabaptist rising which James had been sent to quell had amounted to little a year or two ago, and Catherine had even wondered if Charles had invented the errand for his brother’s future protection — so that no one could ever say he had had anything to do with that mysterious paper Charles had signed at Dover. But now Oates had a fervent following, and, goaded by an extravagant French mistress in their midst, the country was ripe for suspicions sown by fanatical preachers. A series of unprecedented misfortunes had driven the people from their normal cheerful sanity to a kind of mass hysteria, in which they lost all sense of proportion — and with it, as Charles lamented, their saving grace of humour. After the horror of the plague pits, the razing of their city by fire and the sight of their finest ships being filched by the Dutch, the wildest rumours were not too much for them to swallow.
And that megalomaniac Oates, for his own advancement, arose like a prophet of old and accused the Papists. Cunningly taking advantage of a swing-back to Puritanism, he played off Rome against the Monarchy, inventing plots and pinning on to loyal and inoffensive Catholics plans to kill the King. Encouraged by the credulity of his dupes, he became more circumstantial and began to prophesy the actual time and place.
Catherine first heard about a specific attempt from pretty Dorothy Howard, the Lady-of-the-Bedchamber who had taken Frances Stuart’s place. “Three hired assassins hiding behind the bushes in St. James’s Park — with pistols — when the King takes his walk,” she babbled, running into the Queen’s room.
“Three Catholic assassins, of course!” jeered her mistress, without raising her head from her book.
“Why, yes, Madame, of course,” agreed the girl guilelessly. “About two of the clock this afternoon, that good-looking assistant in the King’s laboratory was telling me. No doubt they will set a double guard.”
Suddenly Catherine’s scanty attention was fully caught. A man who worked in the King’s laboratory could not be stupid. Suppose it were really true this time, and not part of all this wearisome, insulting fantasy? She threw down her book and seized the girl by both arms.
“This afternoon, did you say?” she demanded.
“Drusilla and Master Kirby both swear to it,” spluttered poor Dorothy Howard, goggle-eyed.
“Then come with me this instant.”
Catherine released her only to seize a wrap. Her eyes went to the clock. Ten minutes to two. It was farther to the park from the dower house but if she hurried she might just meet the King on the path to the lake where he sauntered most sunny afternoons. Breathlessly she set forth, without any dear idea of what she was going to do. She could see them coming now — a smaller string of courtiers than usual led by two tall figures whom she recognized as the Stuarts, and followed by a much smaller one who must be one of the pages bearing the usual platter of scraps for the waterfowl. “I shall come upon them suddenly at the end of the old tiltyard wan,” she calculated. But Louise, Duchess of Portsmouth, was wont to employ the same tactics, she had heard; and frequently, of late, had shared the King’s postprandial stroll as she herself had been wont to do. The absurdity of it stayed Catherine’s hurrying footsteps. Were they to arrive at the same moment it would make a rich jest for Buckingham’s biting tongue and create the sort of situation which Andrew Marvell could write so scathingly about. It was not easy, being Charles the Second’s wife! But even ridicule was as nothing compared with the possibility of danger to him. She could perhaps warn him or — at the worst — throw herself in front of him if anyone really did fire. She had much in common with Toby Rustat, she supposed, remembering with an affectionate smile how, for all his unobtrusiveness, he had ceased to mind his own business when it had been a matter of going with his master to the Great Fire.
But this particular afternoon milady of Portsmouth had not ventured forth. “So much for her affection!” thoug
ht Catherine, in a dither of fear herself.
With an ill-feigned start of surprise she fell in with the King’s party and he broke -off courteously in the middle of some technical discussion to greet her; and when she asked if she and her lady might go along to see his new pintail ducks he replied in his usual pleasant way, “With all my heart!” But there had been just that momentary hesitation — that quick alert look round — which had betrayed to her that there was no need to warn him. That he, too, had heard the latest rumour but had chosen to disregard it — until there was some question of her coming too. And even, then, since he let her come,. she supposed he could not have taken it seriously.
“I thought you did not care for waterfowl?” she said to James, for the sake of making conversation.
“I am but returning home this way,” he answered with a brevity which made her suspect him of accompanying his brother for much the same reason as herself.
Across the park rose the squat, Tudor bulk of the older palace of St. James, pleasant and familiar. But between it and Whitehall lay the long, narrow sheet of water, the winding paths, the elm trees and those innumerable clumps of bushes of which only John Evelyn knew the names. Far more bushes than she had remembered. Bushes big enough to afford excellent cover for traitors with primed pistols. She viewed them covertly and her legs trembled beneath her as she tried to talk intelligently about what James called “Charles’s wretched birds”.
“See the little grey fellow with the scarlet tuft?” their owner was saying, with calm enjoyment. “Throw him a tit-bit, Dorothy, and see how amusingly he catches it. Here, boy, pass the platter to her Majesty.”
The trouble is, Catherine thought, one cannot tell from which direction the villains are likely to fire. Would one know first by the sharp explosion? Did a bullet travel faster than sound? She longed to ask James, who had once explained it to her. But she had no head for such things. She was not of the stuff of which heroines are made. All she could do was to keep close to Charles — just in case ...
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