Mistress of Fortune

by Holly West

  To be certain, Sir Edmund had created a troublesome situation for himself, but I was not yet convinced that either he or the king were in any serious danger. “Quiet now,” I said. “We’re not yet finished.” I motioned for his hand again and I returned to my reading, tracing a third crease on his palm. “This is your lifeline.”

  “What does it tell you?” he said anxiously, readjusting his hat with his free hand.

  The truth was I didn’t know. But I’d been trained in soothsaying at the hands of one of London’s most notorious fortunetellers. She taught me that my customers didn’t pay me to deliver bad or ambiguous news. They expected definitive answers and reassurance that life would unfold as they desired. I told Sir Edmund what I knew he wanted to hear.

  “You shall live a long and fruitful life,” I said.

  As it happened, I could not have been more wrong.

  Chapter Two

  “My fears are unnecessary then?” Sir Edmund asked. He seemed almost disappointed to learn he was in no apparent danger. “What about Coleman’s arrest?”

  “Do you know the reason for it?”

  “Not with certainty, no.”

  “Then make no assumptions,” I said. In truth, Coleman’s meddling frequently annoyed the king and I was not entirely surprised to learn he’d been arrested.

  “And the deposition?”

  “The document bears your signature, does it not?”

  He nodded.

  “I suggest you find some means to procure it from Oates.”

  His expression hardened. “Are you suggesting I resort to theft, Mistress Ruby?”

  “A desperate man must sometimes take measures he would not otherwise consider.”

  “I’m no thief.”

  “If you can’t tell the king about the plot and you object to stealing the deposition from Oates, your only other option is to keep quiet and hope your involvement never comes to light.”

  While Sir Edmund considered my words I went to the black lacquer cabinet beside my desk. I opened it to reveal a series of small drawers. Here I kept herbs, spices, and other supplies I used in my work. I pulled out a pouch of milk vetch leaves and returned to my chair.

  “Boil these in a fine white wine and take a cup each night before you sleep,” I said, handing him the bag.

  “What will it do?”

  “You’ve experienced a lack of energy of late, have you not?” I required no magic to ascertain this, for Sir Edmund’s haggard appearance told me all I needed to know. “This will aid your sleeping and help to bring back your vitality.”

  He held the bag in his open palm and stared at it a moment before placing it in his pocket. I could not tell whether he was satisfied with my assessment, but at least he appeared less agitated now than when he’d first arrived. With our business concluded, he thanked me for my counsel, took up his cane and departed.

  Alone now, I dug into my pocket and retrieved my ring, my most valued possession. It had been a gift from my older brother, Adam, given many years ago as a good luck token. He died of the plague in 1665 and I still missed him terribly. I raised it to my lips, kissed it lightly and slipped it onto my finger. I went to my desk.

  I had long been in the habit of keeping a diary. It was a rare thing for a female, especially a commoner such as myself, to be literate. But my late father, Bartholomew Barber, was by trade a blacksmith who’d taken it upon himself to teach each of his three children to read and write because his own father had taught him. Adam preferred to work with his hands and had become a goldsmith, but our younger brother, Lucian, had used his talent with words to gain a degree of notoriety as a playwright with the Duke of York’s Company at the Dorset Garden Theatre.

  My own path had been more circuitous, driven more by need than by destiny. I’d served in Amsterdam as a spy for the crown and incurred a large debt that Parliament subsequently refused to pay. I sold off everything dear to me except the ring Adam had given me but it wasn’t enough—I was arrested and remained in Marshalsea Prison for almost a year.

  Eventually, I married Sir Ian Wilde, who bestowed upon me a title but little else. He turned out to be a malicious man with a weakness for gambling, and upon his death in 1672, I found myself back in arrears and facing prison. After Amsterdam I knew I couldn’t rely on the king for my livelihood, and my marriage had been so miserable I’d resort to outright prostitution before I’d marry a second time.

  There were, of course, few profitable occupations available to an unmarried woman. By temperament I was ill-suited to be any sort of servant, and besides that, I was inexperienced in most matters pertaining to the keeping of a household. I simply couldn’t resign myself to a lifetime of emptying chamber pots, though I would have done it if it meant keeping myself out of prison. Thankfully, it proved unnecessary—a fortuitous visit to a soothsayer named Mary Bixby persuaded me that her profession might be to my liking. I took to it quickly and it wasn’t long before I was in business.

  By recording every person who visited me, I ensured some degree of security against those who might, in the future, find fault with my business or myself. My customers were largely of the nobility: rich Londoners with secrets to keep and enemies to defeat, who sought my assistance to gain profit or to ensure their latest scheme triumphed. They paid well and I’d managed over the years to gain a great deal of business through discreet word of mouth, but most would not want it known they’d availed themselves of my services. I kept their names as a means of bargaining in case I should ever find myself in trouble.

  I took up my quill and began writing: 9 October 1678—Met with Sir Edmund Godfrey. Paid 10 pounds for palm reading and medicinal herbs.

  I stopped. I usually recorded the reason for these visits but in this case, I hesitated. Was the king truly in danger or was Sir Edmund’s story simply the ramblings of a delusional old man? I still didn’t know, and frankly, I didn’t want to reveal on paper that I’d ever had knowledge of a conspiracy to kill the king, if indeed one existed.

  Footsteps on the stairs outside interrupted me and Sam Turner, my bodyguard and trusted friend, entered the room. Tonight he wore his usual disguise; dirt and soot darkened his face, cotton padding altered the shape of his mouth, and a tangled black wig topped with a dilapidated hat hid his own hair. In truth he was a fine-looking man of twenty-eight, with clear blue eyes and straight white teeth. He kept his wavy brown hair cut short to accommodate the wigs he often wore. His only real flaw was a crooked nose, the result of an ill-fated tavern scuffle.

  I relied upon Sam to scrutinize my patrons in advance to avoid trouble. He was a small man, wiry and compact, but his appearance was deceptive. If necessary, he could easily best a man twice his size. We’d met in Marshalsea Prison some ten years ago, where I’d been imprisoned for debt and he for theft. One night he witnessed a burly prisoner accost me and he beat the brute bloody. We became friends after that, and when an anonymous benefactor paid my debt and secured my release, I used my influence at court to have Sam released as well—the biggest favor I’d ever asked of the king. Sam had been my protector ever since.

  He spit the cotton roll into his hand so that he could speak normally. “I doubt we’ll have more visitors tonight, Isabel. The streets have gone quiet.”

  “It’s just as well,” I said. “I extracted ten pounds from our guest.”

  He smiled. “Is the old goat suffering from the clap and wants to know upon which whore he can lay the blame?”

  I was unsure of how much to divulge, even to Sam. He was an accomplished thief, having honed his skills from childhood, but he’d been captured one unlucky night and consequently burned on the thumb, a mark that meant he would visit the hangman on Tyburn Hill if he should be convicted of another crime. He was now a reformed man, even if it was fear of the noose rather than a true desire for redemption that prompted his change of heart. If indeed there was a plot against the king, the less Sam knew about it, the safer he’d be.

  I feigned annoyance. “I’m surprised y
ou didn’t recognize him. Our visitor was Sir Edmund Godfrey, justice of the peace of Westminster. How’s it possible that in all your years of criminal exploits, you never came face-to-face with the most famous magistrate in London?”

  Sam shrugged. “Hard to remember all of them.”

  “You must take more care in the future. I was convinced he intended to arrest me.” I closed the diary. “I’m almost finished here. Hire a hackney and I’ll meet you on Bow Street.”

  I returned the diary to my top desk drawer and snuffed out the candle and fire. After making certain the door lock was secure, I made my way down the stairs in darkness, bracing myself against the cold. For the purpose of my work, I rented a small room on the third floor of a building located in a passageway off Coal Yard Alley, a squalid closed-end street near the northern edge of Drury Lane. Its narrow opening was so cramped that coaches couldn’t enter, forcing my visitors to leave the comfort of their carriages and tramp through the mud and muck on foot. The upper stories of the buildings on each side of the street jutted progressively forward, nearly touching at the top. This afforded the stinking place little in the way of sunlight, but it was no matter to me. I conducted my business at night when it was easier to avoid detection.

  Though it was relatively quiet, London was rarely silent and a night watchman called in the distance, “Past one o’ the clock and a brisk rainy morning!” The wind blew my hood back and I tugged it tight around my face to block the rain as I pushed forward, head down. I made no attempt to save my skirt from the mud; instead I took tiny, careful steps so that I wouldn’t fall. On cold nights like this I wished Sam could pick me up nearer to my room, but meeting in various locations helped to preserve our secret. Tonight I hoped he would consider the weather and meet me along the way, but no. When I finally saw his lantern near Bow Street, I hurried to the waiting hackney.

  As we headed toward home, I began to doubt my decision not to tell Sam everything. His job was to protect me, but he couldn’t do that if I kept secrets from him. I’d known him for nearly a decade and there was no one I trusted more.

  “There’s something I didn’t divulge about Sir Edmund’s visit,” I said. “He told me he’d been informed of a conspiracy to kill the king and doesn’t know what to do about it. I’m not certain his story is true, but if it is, Charles could be in danger.”

  Sam appeared unfazed. “If you’re worried, I could do some discreet checking—”

  “No! It’s too risky. I don’t want you involved. As of now, the matter with Sir Edmund is resolved, at least as far as his visit to Mistress Ruby is concerned. Perhaps I should leave it at that.”

  “A wise choice. There’s no sense getting involved in matters that don’t concern you, especially one as serious as this.”

  It wasn’t what Sam meant, but if the king was in danger it did concern me. It concerned me very much.

  The hackney stopped in the alley behind my lodgings in the fashionable part of Covent Garden. Mine was a rather modest house, constructed of timber with four rooms on each floor and three stories high. The king had given it to me when I married, but after Sir Ian died I’d always intended to leave it when I could afford better accommodations. However, it still suited my needs well enough and I hadn’t yet looked for another house.

  I climbed the back stairs leading to my bedroom on the second floor. Tired and splattered with mud, I wanted only to fall into bed and forget all that had occurred that evening. As usual, my maidservant, Alice, had left a bowl of water and a linen towel so that I could wash off the heavy paint I wore to disguise my face. A bath could wait until tomorrow.

  I sat down and removed my wig, revealing the skullcap that held my auburn curls at bay. I pulled it off and my hair tumbled down around my shoulders. With a shake of my head to loosen them, I became Lady Wilde once more.

  Chapter Three

  Thursday, 10 October 1678

  The rain continued into the night, hurling its drops against the windowpanes like tiny pebbles. Fatigue had set in but my mind raced, making sleep impossible. I asked Alice to prepare a pot of the same mixture I’d prescribed for Sir Edmund and sat in front of the fire in my nightdress, sipping the drink and thinking about all that had happened.

  Fear for the king’s life dominated my thoughts. I’d managed to convince Sir Edmund that he and His Majesty were safe, but what evidence did I really have that Titus Oates’s story was not true? Were Charles and his ministers aware of the possible threat? Despite the trouble between us, if there was any chance at all that Charles was in peril, I had to warn him. But how to do it without revealing that I had knowledge of the potential plot and how I came to have it?

  The solution came to me in the wee hours of the morning. I would report the matter to Lord Danby, whom I’d known since my earliest days at court. He’d risen to the position of Lord High Treasurer and, as such, acted as one of Charles’s closest advisors. If anyone had knowledge of a brewing plot, he would. Besides that, he was one of the few people at Whitehall in whom I had any remaining trust.

  The next morning, I sent Sam to Danby’s office to request a meeting. He soon returned to tell me that the Lord Treasurer had business with the king at the palace that afternoon and he’d see me there. This gave me some pause, for I’d hoped to avoid seeing Charles. During our last meeting, we’d exchanged harsh words about his continued affair with the Duchess of Portsmouth, a woman so tiresome I couldn’t bear to be in the same room with her. It wasn’t our first such argument, for Charles’s proclivity toward women was well-known to all, but I’d stormed out of the palace in a rage, swearing I’d never set foot in his rooms again.

  It was an empty threat, even at the time. I still loved him, you see, and I suspected that I always would. Though I’d managed to stay away from him for the previous six months, this matter was too important to delay. If I should happen to spy Charles at the palace during my meeting with Danby, so be it.

  I carefully painted my face and added a few small black silk patches shaped like moons and stars at the corners of my eyes and mouth. I donned a cornflower-blue silk gown I knew flattered my figure. Having recently dismissed my waiting woman for pilfering a pair of my gloves, I enlisted Alice’s help in dressing my hair. When she finished, I examined myself in the mirror, pleased with the results. I still looked fine enough, even for a woman approaching her thirty-second year.

  “What d’ye think, Alice?” I asked.

  “Aye, ma’am, there’s not a handsomer lady in all of London.” Alice herself was a plain-looking but merry young woman who’d been in my employ for almost as long as I’d done business as Mistress Ruby. Though she didn’t know the true nature of my work, she never questioned my late-night excursions and fulfilled her duties with unfailing good cheer.

  The rain had ceased, but the ensuing mud made our journey to Whitehall slow. Traffic jammed the streets and Sam, acting now as my footman, trotted ahead of my carriage to clear our way. Even so, it took the better part of an hour to reach our destination.

  The palace extended for almost half a mile beside the northern bank of the Thames, covering most of the ground between Charing Cross and Westminster Hall. Its collection of galleries, apartments, and gardens housed the king, his advisors, servants, courtiers, chaplains, and the rest of the gilded flock that made up the royal household. In the early years of our affair I’d resided at Whitehall myself, living in apartments connected to the king’s private chambers by way of a secret passage. My life there had been unhappy and my stay had been brief.

  The king was in the habit of walking through St. James’s Park each day, conducting the affairs of state and hearing requests from his subjects. Sam directed my carriage driver, Elijah, past the main palace gates and we turned off Charing Cross Road onto a smaller lane leading into the park. I surveyed the grassy fields that lay to each side. Within a few moments I saw the king and his followers in the distance. Sam slowed and told Elijah to stop.

  I watched from the carriage while Sam went to fetc
h Lord Danby. From this vantage point, I observed Charles striding through the park, his ministers scrambling alongside him, stumbling over the numerous spaniels that accompanied the king and struggling to keep up with his long-legged pace. He was as handsome as ever and my heart gave an involuntary leap at the sight of him. Danby lagged some distance behind Charles, and Sam approached him without the king’s notice. Sam said something, gesturing toward my carriage, and Danby looked over. He spoke briefly to the man walking next to him, and then he and Sam headed in my direction.

  I poked my head out the window. “Elijah, drive out to meet them.”

  He commanded the horses forward and after we’d traveled a short distance, he eased the carriage to a stop. I raised my hand to adjust a loose hairpin and smoothed my bodice just before Sam opened the door and Danby peered in.

  “Lady Wilde! What a pleasant surprise!”

  “Hello, Lord Danby,” I said. “May I have a word with you inside my carriage? It’ll only take a moment.”

  “Of course, my dear.” He stepped up into the carriage and sat down beside me, taking my hands in his. I offered my cheeks and he kissed them.

  “You’re looking well, Isabel,” he said. “Tell me, why’ve I not seen you of late?”

  “I’ve been in Kent visiting relatives,” I lied. “But indeed, it’s been too long since I’ve seen you.”

  Danby wore a black coat, and the frills of his white linen shirt billowed out from the cuffs, draping over my hands as he held them. As a younger man he had not been handsome, but age, and perhaps power, had helped to define his face, giving him an attractive demeanor. “Life in the country suits you well, for you’ve never looked prettier.”

  “You’re kind to say it, my lord. But I’m afraid I’ve not come on a social call. There’s a troubling rumor aloft and I wish to inform you of it.”

  Danby affected concern. “What is this fearsome rumor?” he said, speaking as though I were an old maiden aunt.