Minette

by Melanie Clegg

  ‘I never forgot you, Harry,’ I whisper to myself, my words drowned out by Mam’s desperate sobs. ‘I never will.’

  ‘I never made my peace with him,’ Mam says miserably and I can tell from her voice that she is in a state of mounting hysteria. ‘He knew that I loved him, didn’t he?’ she implores me. ‘Tell me that he didn’t die thinking that I hated him.’

  I take a deep breath, preparing myself to lie. ‘Of course not, Mam,’ I say, trying not to think of Harry’s face on that terrible day so long ago, his eyes dark with misery, his cheeks stained with mud and tears as Mam turned her back on him forever. ‘He never doubted your love for him.’

  Mam clings to my hands. ‘Do you promise me, Minette?’ she whispers, her voice wracked with terrible pain and longing. ‘Do you promise? Oh, my poor Harry, if only things had turned out differently for us.’ Big fat self pitying tears roll down her cheeks. ‘If only God had granted me the chance to make my peace with him.’

  ‘If only,’ I say, unable to prevent a chill creeping into my voice.

  While our little court seethes with gossip and swaps its new splendour for the sombre black of mourning, my mother takes flight to her bedchamber and remains there for days on end, refusing to see all but a select handful of people and spending long hours lying prostrate on her bed, staring sightlessly up into the dark shadows of the blue velvet canopy. The older ladies in waiting whisper to each other that it was just the same when news arrived of my father’s execution and that only my childish prattle, for I was then just four years old, brought her back into the realm of the living and made her smile again.

  I am older now though and, arguably, less appealing especially as I cannot forget that Mam turned away from Harry when he needed her most and now he is gone forever. The Duchess of Richmond asks me to sing and so obediently I take my seat on a low stool beside Mam’s bed and sing a song that I remember from my childhood. ‘Go and catch a falling star, get with child a mandrake root, tell me where all past years are, or who cleft the devil’s foot,’ I pause for a moment as Mam stirs, turning her head restlessly from side to side on the lace edged pillow. ‘Teach me to hear mermaids singing, or to keep off envy’s stinging, and find what wind serves to advance an honest mind.’ The tears stream down my cheeks as I sing but no one notices.

  Finally, she decides that the Palais Royal is full of too many unhappy memories of Harry and we move quite suddenly early one morning to Colombes, taking little Jemmy with us in the hopes that he can lift Mam’s spirits a little and give her something else to care about. She stays in bed for the first few days but then appears one evening at supper, pale and drawn in her black taffeta gown, with her grizzled hair covered in a fine lace edged black veil and with raw red rings around her dark eyes.

  ‘Are you feeling better now, grandmère?’ Jemmy asks, pausing in the act of feeding some scraps of roasted fowl to Mam’s spaniels who clamour greedily around his chair.

  Mam manages a watery smile and pats the boy’s ruddy cheek. ‘Yes, Jemmy, much better now.’

  Privately she says to me that she wishes Harry had married the Duc de Condé’s niece Charlotte Louise de Longueville, as he was expected to do and had a child of his own that she could cherish in memory of her lost boy. ‘He never got the chance though,’ she whispers. ‘He never got the chance to do anything.’

  Letters arrive from England, telling us about Harry’s last days. How he had been making merry at a Mrs Palmer’s house one evening and then the next morning had felt a terrible headache come upon him, the first sign of the dread disease that wrested him from us. Charles writes too - a brief note full of such desolate misery that my heart breaks anew as I read it. ‘I could not save him,’ he wrote with bitter despair. ‘I loved that boy most dearly and would have willingly given up my own life to save his. You cannot imagine how quiet it is here without him.’

  A few days pass before I finally feel able to sit down and reply to him and even then the words don’t come easily as I try to describe my feelings of profound loss and at the same time comfort him in the depths of his sorrow.

  ‘Since I last wrote to you so cruel a misfortune has occurred that until this hour I could not make up my mind to speak of it to you, not finding fit terms in which to do so. The sorrow which it has caused you is so just that one can but take one’s part in it, and I have the honour to share it equally with you. Besides, I think it best to be silent, which I will be when I have told you that the thing I desire most on earth is to have the happiness of seeing you, which I hope will be soon; and then I shall be able to show you how much I am your very humble servant, which all kinds of people may tell you, but assuredly there are few who are so as truly as I.’

  The candle sputters in its tarnished silver holder as I carefully read my letter through then sand and fold it ready to be delivered. I rest my head on my hand and think of Charles so far away and unhappy in Whitehall. I cannot bear to imagine his sorrow. ‘I am surrounded by people now that I am King but never before have I felt so lonely,’ he wrote to me in his letter, now consigned to the flames in my room at Colombes. Poor Charles.

  Tante Anne comes to visit us at Colombes, accompanied by Philippe and a small group of courtiers, all of whom are dressed in heavy black in deference to our mourning state. She brings with her sweet cakes to tempt our waning appetites, precious lavender and rose oils to help us sleep and a pair of love birds in a gilded cage. All of this is forgotten though as she enters the salon, takes one look at Mam’s pale, ravaged face and runs to take her gently in her arms. ‘Oh my dear, my poor dear,’ she murmurs, cradling my mother against her generous bosom as she sobs. ‘Let me share your pain.’

  Philippe turns to me, his face drained of colour so that the touches of rouge on his cheekbones stand out starkly crimson. ‘Well, this is all very awkward,’ he says and I remember that grief has always made him feel uncomfortable.

  I don’t say anything but turn on my heel and run from the room, pushing open the tall windows that lead out to the gardens as I make my escape and not stopping until I have reached the pond. I hear footsteps running behind me but don’t stop or turn around. ‘Leave me alone,’ I call over my shoulder.

  ‘Never.’ I know that voice and stop dead then take a deep shuddering breath before turning to face Armand de Gramont.

  His face is slightly flushed after the exertion of running after me in his heavy black silk clothes but I note with annoyance that his breathing is barely disordered whereas I am panting furiously and feel as if I should die after such unaccustomed exercise. ‘You look like a lobster,’ he points out helpfully as I glare at him.

  ‘How kind you are,’ I reply, turning away again as he reaches out to take hold of my arm.

  ‘I apologise,’ he says, looking regretful. ‘I wanted to say how sorry I am but instead I have only made you more unhappy.’

  ‘That would be impossible,’ I say bitterly. ‘Have you ever lost a brother?’

  He hesitates then shakes his head. ‘No, I haven’t,’ he says softly, still holding on to my arm. ‘I can’t imagine what it is like.’

  ‘That’s because it is unimaginable,’ I say, angrily brushing away my tears. He has seen me cry before and I vowed then that it would never happen again. ‘Every morning when I wake there is one merciful second when I forget that he is dead and feel myself again before the memory intrudes once more and I am cast down into my grief afresh.’

  His grip on my arm becomes more gentle and he pulls me towards him. ‘I am sorry,’ he murmurs, putting his face close to mine. ‘Truly I am. I knew Harry and sincerely admired his qualities.’ He carefully wipes my tears away with his fingers. ‘I would have been proud to have him as a brother.’

  ‘I was proud of him,’ I whisper. ‘So very proud.’ And with that the tears truly come and I sob helplessly against his chest as he strokes my hair with his hand.

  Mam starts to talk about being too unhappy to return to England before Christmas and says that instead she will wait afte
r I am married next spring. ‘You don’t mind, do you?’ she asks me anxiously. ‘I am sure that Charles would welcome a visit from you and Philippe once everything is settled.’

  I am disappointed but dare not say so. ‘Of course, Mam,’ I say, trying not to look deflated. ‘It’s entirely understandable that you don’t want to return at such a sad time.’ It’s not really though, is it? It seems that while I am desperate to be at the side of my brothers and sister, to comfort them as best I can, our mother has very different ideas.

  Philippe is delighted by her change of heart though. ‘I couldn’t bear the prospect of losing you to England,’ he says. ‘What if you decided not to come back?’ He has been feverish with anxiety ever since Anne-Marie ‘accidentally let slip’ that Charles has recently received proposals for my hand from the King of Portugal and the Holy Roman Emperor, both of whom had been attracted by my unusual credential of being a Catholic princess of England.

  I smile and take his hand. ‘Of course I’d come back,’ I say. ‘Although, of course, I can’t help being tempted by the prospect of becoming Empress,’ I add mischievously.

  Philippe goes pale. ‘Minette, no,’ he gasps, on the brink of tears. ‘You cannot be serious. I saw a portrait of the Emperor when I was in Spain - he’s the most incredibly ugly, squat little thing, even more so than his niece, our fat nosed Queen.’ He looks distraught. ‘You couldn’t possibly prefer such a sadly hideous creature to me.’

  I laugh, delighted but also not a little perturbed by his reaction. ‘Of course not,’ I reassure him. ‘Besides, I’ve heard that he’s not really serious about marrying me and has actually been betrothed to his other niece, Maria Theresa’s half sister, ever since she was a little girl.’ I pull a face. ‘Who’d want to marry into that sort of family?’

  Philippe laughs then. ‘You and I are first cousins,’ he reminds me slyly. ‘My mother has already written off to the Pope to ask for a dispensation for our marriage.’

  I raise an eyebrow as I have seen the ladies at court do. ‘How terribly mortifying,’ I say. ‘Perhaps I should marry the King of Portugal instead - at least he doesn’t seem inclined towards marrying close relatives.’

  Philippe sniggers and kisses me on the lips. ‘He’s also a drooling half wit,’ he points out. ‘Which, now that I think about it, means that he’d probably be a perfect match for you.’ He ducks away, laughing, from my slap.

  My mother’s reluctance to travel to England lasts only until another messenger arrives post haste at Colombes bearing what appears to be a lengthy missive from Charles and a rather shorter one from James. Mam retires to her cabinet to read the letters in private but only a few brief moments pass before her screams of fury bring the Duchess of Richmond, a few other ladies in waiting and me running into the room.

  ‘What is it?’ I ask, nervously eyeing the paper that she holds in her hand. She’s red cheeked and shaking with anger and seeing that no one else dare approach her, I step forward as calmly as I dare and pluck the offending letter from her fingers, hardly able to imagine what could have brought her to such a state of towering rage.

  All is revealed in the first line that my eye falls upon. ‘I hardly dare know how to tell you what came to pass between them but must summon up all my courage to relate that my brother James was joined in matrimony with Mistress Anne Hyde in the first week of September and that she is now great with his child.’

  I can feel the blood draining from my cheeks. ‘Oh.’ I say quietly. ‘Oh, foolish Jamie.’ My mind flutters back to the time Mistress Hyde, the pudding faced daughter of Charles’ closest advisor, Lord Hyde, had accompanied Mary on her visit to Paris. Had she and James shown a particular liking for each other then? Probably not. I remembered them walking together in the grounds of the Palais Royal; James sullen as always with his hands thrust deep into his pockets and Mistress Hyde dancing desperately about him as witticisms spilled from her plump, rouged lips.

  The other ladies are bristling with curiosity and crane their necks to read the fatal letter over my shoulder but, tight lipped, I shake my head firmly then shoo them all, including the Duchess, from the room before closing the door. Only then do I turn back to my mother, who has collapsed into the comfortable red leather chair behind her desk and is resting her face on her hands in a state of the most profound affliction.

  I scan through the rest of Charles’ letter, which makes it clear that he is every bit as dismayed as poor Mam and makes no apology or excuse for James’ actions. ‘Hyde is in as much of a rage as I and protests that he will see the marriage annulled and his daughter cast into the Tower for her impudence. However, I see no just cause for such an act as, albeit hasty, the wedding was performed in proper order and James and Mistress Hyde are indeed married. I fear therefore that we must all make the best of it and have told my brother, who now protests that he was tricked into marrying Mistress Hyde and that as she has been most profligate with the gentlemen of the court then the child she carries cannot possibly be his, that he must ‘drink as he has brewed’ and that’s the end of the matter.’

  ‘That stupid, foolish boy,’ Mam says, lifting her head and fixing me with a baleful stare. ‘He always was the very worst of you all.’

  I don’t think this is very fair but dare not contradict her. ‘What does James say in his letter?’ I say instead, giving her back the one I hold in my hand.

  Mam shrugs, the letter in question lying unopened before her on the desk. ‘What is the use of reading it?’ she asks angrily. ‘I already know what it will say. He will lie and manipulate and cajole to get his own way, just as he has always done.’

  I give a delicate cough. ‘Charles says in his letter that James is claiming to have been tricked into his marriage and that Mistress Hyde’s child is not his,’ I say carefully. ‘If he is willing then there may be some way to dissolve the match between them. Certainly it would be much easier than if he is defiantly determined to hang on to the lady.’

  ‘She is no lady,’ Mam spits furiously. ‘She is the opportunistic, grabbing whore spawn of that bastard Hyde.’ She gets to her feet and begins to pace the small space behind her desk. ‘Oh, I am in no doubt at all about how this came to happen,’ she mutters, wringing her hands as she works herself up into a towering passion. ‘I can imagine just how that sneaking little villain slipped his fat faced daughter into my son’s bed, hoping that it would mean even more riches and honours for him as the father in law of Charles’ own brother. I’ve told Charles time and time again not to trust the Hydes but would he ever listen? No, he would not and now it has come to this - a Hyde bitch wheedling her way into our family and Hyde himself lording it over us all in his triumph.’

  There’s no point reminding her that Charles’ letter says that Hyde himself is not exactly best pleased by the new development and has even called for his own daughter to be cast into the Tower for her sins. No point at all. Mam would only say that he’s lying as usual and using a pretended outrage to cover up his tracks in the whole affair. ‘This has Hyde’s grubby fingers all over it,’ she says, crumpling James’ letter into a ball and hurling it, unread, into the heart of the fire that burns merrily in the grate. I watch it turn to ashes, wishing that I had the courage to dash forward and rescue it but as usual standing limply by and doing nothing. ‘This is Hyde’s doing,’ Mam repeats, turning away from me, ‘and mark my words, he will pay for what he has wrought here.’

  Of course, after this shocking revelation, there can be no question of Mam delaying her journey to England until after my marriage and to my delight she immediately resumes her plan to take me there at the end of the month. ‘If there is a way to end my son’s rash and ill advised marriage then as God is my witness, I will find it,’ she declares to Lord Jermyn as he bows and nods his acquiescence. He was recently made Earl of St Albans by my brother and his already ridiculous air of self consequence has become quite unconscionable ever since. ‘It is intolerable that such a thing should have been allowed to happen, that even Charles ap
pears content to allow our royal line to be so polluted.’

  ‘His Majesty appears to be under the impression that the marriage was performed with all the proper rites and legalities…’ Jermyn cautiously begins but Mam immediately cuts him off.

  ‘There must and will be a way to bring it to an end,’ she insists before turning furiously away and striding from the room.

  Jermyn looks at me sadly and shakes his head. ‘That woman,’ he says almost fondly as her high heeled shoes tap imperiously out of earshot. ‘That woman will be the death of me.’

  The next few weeks pass in a riot of activity as I am hastily measured for dozens of new dresses in the highest Parisian style and in all of the colours of the rainbow, which will be made up for me by dozens of seamstresses all working overnight in their garrets. They are richly rewarded for their pains but I feel sorry for them as they stifle yawns behind their work roughened hands in between pinning up my hems or adjusting the elaborate puffed out lace and pearl trimmed sleeves that are all the rage this year.

  The new gowns, along with several new pairs of shoes; silk stockings; lace edged petticoats and chemises; brightly coloured ribbons; hats and everything else a lady of fashion and rank might need during a sojourn abroad, are all carefully packed away, with lavender and rose scattered in between the folds, in enormous trunks for the journey. Meanwhile still more trunks are filled with gifts of silver and gold plate for the various dignitaries we will encounter and to reward those who have remained loyal to the crown and my family in our years of exile.

  In the midst of all the preparations, Mam stalks the rooms of the Palais Royal in an ever increasing state of apprehension, wringing her hands and asking us constantly if we think that she will be welcomed by the English. ‘They did not think so highly of me when I was their queen,’ she says to me ruefully when I reassure her that they will be glad to see her back again, that her presence at Charles’ side will be further sign that all is as it used to be and that the old wounds have been forgiven.