Minette

by Melanie Clegg

  I put my hand in hers and let my sister lead me away, turning for one last look back over my shoulder before she whisks me away back into the palace.

  There’s another banquet that night, this time attended by the entire court in all their finery. I enter the banqueting hall shyly, this time on Rupert’s firm, strong arm, and look at them all shyly from beneath my eyelashes as they, completely unabashed, stare at me, noting my fashionable Parisian pink silk gown and French style of doing my hair where the ringlets are shorter and curl around my ears rather than hanging down to my shoulders as those of the English ladies do.

  If I had half expected my brother’s court to be a somewhat less splendid affair than that of Louis in Paris I was completely wrong although there’s a more informal, rather careless note here at Whitehall, which I can’t imagine my polished etiquette obsessed French cousins enjoying one little bit, especially Philippe. Which makes me wonder if perhaps I am more English and less French than I had supposed as I feel very at home here.

  I timidly say as much to Rupert and he smiles and pats my hand. ‘That is because you belong here, Henrietta,’ he says in the rough yet gentle way that I know makes the ladies of the court swoon and me too, if I am completely honest with myself. ‘If things had turned out differently then this is where you would have grown up.’

  ‘If things had turned out differently then I might not have been born,’ I remind him with a merry look. ‘I am a child of war, cousin.’

  He shakes his head, looking very serious and not a little reproving. ‘No, Henrietta, never say such a thing,’ he murmurs. ‘War is a terrible ugly thing whereas your birth was a blessing to both your parents.’

  I look around the vast hall which was built by my grandfather King James and is one of the most magnificent interiors in the city. Whereas most of the rest of Whitehall is centuries old and looks it with its twisted chimney pots and mishmash of crammed together red brick buildings, the interior of the banqueting house is as beautiful as its exterior and is a vast, airy columned space with beautiful crystal chandeliers suspended from the gorgeous painted and gilded ceiling.

  It was here that Mam in her younger days used to dance in the court masques that she still remembers so fondly, tricked up in diamonds, feathers and diaphanous silks and gauzes as goddesses, shepherdesses and nymphs. It was here that my father took his last walk to the scaffold that had been erected directly outside. I look up at the painted ceiling, which depicts his father, my grandfather, King James enthroned in glory and surrounded by a swirling crowd of scantily clad deities, and wonder if my father looked up too for one last glimpse before stepping out to his destiny on that chilly January morning.

  ‘Try not to dwell on it,’ Rupert murmurs, clasping his warm hand over mine where it still rests on his black velvet sleeve.

  ‘It broke Mam’s heart,’ I say. ‘It broke us all.’

  My cousin sighs and for a moment he looks young and unimaginably vulnerable as he casts his mind back to those old, forgotten, painful days. ‘I broke too,’ he says and I know that it is true, that he loved my father as if he were his own. I know too that my father betrayed Rupert at the end and cast him away.

  ‘He would have been very proud of you, Minette,’ he says gravely, changing the subject to one that is less difficult for us both, and I realise that it’s the first time he has used my pet name. ‘You have all of your mother’s prettiness and charm and something else besides.’

  ‘And what might that be?’ I say as flirtatiously as I dare, twinkling up at him as I have seen the court ladies do.

  Rupert smiles then and helps me into my chair. ‘Heart,’ he says, ‘and the ability to make everyone you encounter fall madly in love with you.’ He glances across at my mother, his expression wary. ‘That’s not a quality that your mother has ever enjoyed.’ He shrugs.

  I ought to reprimand him but I instead I cast my eyes down at my plate, which is silver and very finely engraved with the royal crest. ‘It is your own mother who is called the Queen of Hearts,’ I murmur, ‘and who bewitches all men with her charm.’

  He takes his seat beside me. ‘I wish that you could meet her,’ he says, waving away a waiting pageboy and pouring my wine himself. ‘I think that you would be very pleased with each other.’

  I smile. ‘So I have often been told.’

  Rupert laughs. ‘By Edward and my sister, Louise no doubt,’ he says. ‘She often speaks of you in her letters. I must thank you for being so kind to her. She was always my favourite sister.’

  ‘I am very fond of Louise,’ I say. ‘How she would have enjoyed this.’ I gesture down the table where my brother’s court are now tucking into the first course of what promises to be an extremely long and elaborate meal. It’s a riot of colour and sound as everyone shouts to be heard over everyone else, the ladies pout and flounce and giggle, the gentlemen flirt and compete and the unfortunate musicians in the gallery above struggle to be heard over the din.

  Rupert grins and takes a sip of his wine. ‘Is she truly happy in her convent? I must confess to being completely astonished when she wrote to tell me what she had done.’ He gives me a sidelong look. ‘I always thought she’d end up running away to become a mercenary or pirate not a nun. It still seems like the most un-Louise like thing to do.’

  I laugh with delight. ‘I thought so too when I met her,’ I say. ‘But I do believe that she is truly happy with her life. I visit her as often as I can and she still paints and writes and busies herself as she always has.’

  He nods. ‘I am glad to hear it. I’d hate to have to fight my way in and rescue her.’

  Who could not enjoy the imagery of my fearsome cousin bursting into his sister’s convent and sending the gentle Sisters into a terrified flap as he advances upon them with his sword unsheathed and held before him and an evil grin on his handsome face? I’m still smiling at the thought when I turn and inadvertently catch the eye of the Duke of Buckingham, who responds to what he clearly presumes is a smile designed just for him with a grin and wink. I feel my cheeks go hot with embarrassment then turn to share an amused look with my sister, who has seen it all.

  ‘I told you,’ she mouths at me over the din at the table.

  The banquet goes on until the early hours and I’m completely exhausted by the time I can leave the banqueting house and make my way with my ladies upstairs to my rooms. Charles is deep in conversation with a gorgeous redhead in a beautiful blue satin gown when I go to him to say goodnight and he rather drunkenly insists upon presenting her to me. ‘Minette, this is Mrs Palmer, a very dear friend of mine.’

  I smile and nod, well aware of just how friendly he and Mrs Palmer are as Mary had already primed me earlier on when we were alone in my room. ‘I am pleased to make your acquaintance,’ I say politely in my very best English.

  Mrs Palmer, who reminds me a little of Athénaïs de Rochechouart with her tumbling auburn ringlets, lush creamy complexion and almost too perfect face, makes a graceful and to all appearances very modest curtsey. Her gaze is bold though as it sweeps over me, although to my relief I detect no unfriendliness in her wide blue eyes, only curiosity and a desire to ingratiate. Having been separated from my brother for so long, I have no wish to share him with a mistress but I see that I need have no fears where Mrs Palmer is concerned. She is silent when she rises, court protocol being that she cannot speak to me unless I address her first. I hesitate for a moment, determined to show my hand, then smile again, showing all of my teeth. ‘Any friend of my brothers is a friend of mine also,’ I say, this time in French and am pleased to see a small frown settle between her eyes as she struggles to make out what I have just said before finally the pieces drop into place and she smiles as well, gracefully inclining her lovely head to make the huge sapphires hanging from her earlobes glitter in the candlelight.

  Oh, I would dearly love to see she and Athénaïs confronting each other, what a majestic spectacle that would be. ‘You are too kind, Your Highness,’ she murmurs in very bad French
, her voice low, husky and well bred. She is another Villiers after all, like the Duchess of Richmond and her brother of Buckingham, a flirtatious, flattering, untrustworthy breed who, like the Rochechouarts and Mancini in France, have their eyes continually fixed on the main chance and will do anything to get it. I know their sort well and also know how to handle them.

  Chapter Twenty

  London, December 1660

  I settle quickly into my new London life, my initial feelings of underwhelmed dismay about the rain, dark buildings and general pall of gloom soon giving way to an honest and whole hearted love of my brother’s capital city and, by extension, the whole country. Perhaps the cheers that greet Mam’s few public appearances, dressed in black as always and coldly unsmiling if not openly hostile, are somewhat muted but I can’t fail to be immensely gratified by the enthusiasm that the people show for me, their prodigal princess returned home once more.

  ‘They would appear to have claimed you for their own,’ Charles says with a proud gleam in his eye as he leads me out for a walk through the park, a few favoured courtiers walking discreetly behind us while the royal guards keep the immense crowds that have gathered at bay. It has become my brother’s custom to take his beloved spaniels out for a walk in public every morning but up to now his habits have not attracted quite so much notice. ‘I think that everyone in London wants to catch a glimpse of you, my love,’ he says with an arch smile as a particularly ardent looking young gentleman with freckles all over his face calls out his love for me in a strong Cockney accent.

  I smile and blow the lad a kiss. ‘I am glad that they love me,’ I say sunnily, bending down to pet one of the spaniels, gently pulling its long silky ears as it gambols prettily about my green velvet skirts. ‘It gives me hope that all the unpleasantness between King and people is firmly in the past where it should be.’

  Charles smiles and pats my hand where it rests on his crimson velvet sleeve. ‘I think they would love you regardless,’ he says fondly. ‘You know that Parliament are planning to send a deputation to see you? I believe it is their way of making amends.’

  I laugh. ‘For forcing me out of the country when I was no more than a baby?’ I ask merrily. ‘I wonder what amends they could possibly make for that?’

  Charles laughs and picks up one of his dogs to give it a kiss on the nose. ‘Something like that,’ he says, putting the spaniel back down again and watching fondly as, barking wildly, it tears off into the crowd. ‘Do your best to charm them for me, Minette? I believe they mean to offer you a fat purse full of gold and frankly my dwindling coffers could use all the help they can get.’

  I grin up at him, having no illusions that much, if any, of the promised gold will end up in my own pockets and not caring one jot that it should be so. ‘Of course, Charles,’ I say before raising on tiptoes to kiss his cheek while the crowd bursts into rapt and adoring applause.

  ‘God save the Princess!’ someone calls and within an instant the shout is repeated and echoed a hundred times over as I curtsey and blow them all kisses.

  ‘You have a hundred thousand admirers here,’ my brother says with a smile. ‘Are you quite sure that you want to return to France?’

  Startled, I look up at him. ‘You know that I must return,’ I say between my smiles and waves. ‘The betrothal papers have all been signed as you well know. I cannot let everyone down just for a whim.’

  Charles chuckles. ‘Besides, judging from the impassioned messages from your fiancé that arrive weekly with my despatches from France, I suspect that we’d find ourselves plunged in a war with France should I even vaguely suggest keeping you here with me.’ He gives me a side long look. ‘I think you are worth that risk though.’

  I smile. ‘Philippe is outrageous,’ I say mutedly, wondering what my brother would make of the letters that arrive almost daily for me from my fiancé. Some are mere notes, clearly dashed off at bedtime to let me know that he is thinking of me and letting me know the latest piece of hot Parisian gossip which I scour breathlessly fearing a mention of Armand, but most are long and ardent enough to make me blush as I read them as he lists in great and sometimes confusing detail all of the things that he plans to do with me in the privacy of our bedchamber once we are married. ‘I had no idea that he was capable of such emotions.’

  ‘I must confess to being somewhat perplexed myself,’ Charles agrees with an expression that I can’t quite decipher. ‘Now Louis on the other hand…’

  I shake my head. ‘Let’s not talk about him,’ I say briskly, surprising both of us and making my brother give me a very sharp look indeed before he shrugs his broad shoulders and turns away to whistle for his dogs, which are now rampaging merrily through the crowd causing the ladies to shriek with mingled delight and panic.

  We dine in public at least once a week and I find it hard to stifle my giggles as I pretend to eat while whole mobs of people file slowly past, staring at me intently as I crumble my bread prettily on my plate and take tiny sips from a crystal goblet of water. My brothers and sister are used to this ordeal though and eat with their usual abandon, shovelling meat pies into their mouths and even sending little gifts of marzipan sweetmeats and the choicest fruits out to the prettiest ladies in the audience.

  Mam is rather more fastidious of course and I watch her with surreptitious admiration as she manages to eat her meal while giving no hint whatsoever that she has even noticed the gawping crowd of spectators who slowly wander past on the other side of the barrier, their eyes greedily gobbling up every detail of our rich clothes and painted faces so they can report back to their families and friends. She was born to this though, I remind myself. Whereas I sometimes feel like I have scrambled to womanhood as best I could, Mam was trained from birth to be a great princess, to be a queen.

  There are balls too, huge glittering affairs held either at our own banqueting house in Whitehall or in the enormous mansions owned by my brother’s most favoured nobles. These great houses have lain empty during the war and dark years that followed but now they are open once again, their treasures recovered from hiding and staff hastily reassembled so that they can entertain and give pleasure once again.

  I always dance first with my brothers and then cousins Edward and Rupert before going on to partner the most eligible gentlemen of the court who have all been handpicked and approved by Mam and Charles to ensure that no one who could possibly cause embarrassment or behave with too much familiarity can get close to me. Of course this means that the Duke of Buckingham isn’t on the approved list of partners but he still does his best to pop up beside me when I am resting between dances and charms, flatters and flirts as much as he can before Mam notices and huffs across to shoo him away.

  ‘Oh dear, he is very keen,’ Mary observes with a smirk after the poor Duke has been particularly obvious with his attentions. ‘Perhaps it’s time his wife took him back to the provinces.’ We’re sitting together on gilt chairs at the head of the room and my sister is lounging with her usual careless disregard for propriety while languorously fanning herself with a diamond and pearl spangled ostrich feather fan. She looks beautiful and incredibly, impossibly glamorous in a gown of shimmering oyster pale satin. I see the gentlemen of the court give her wary looks from beneath their lashes as they make excuses to saunter past and think to myself that she surely isn’t destined to play the part of a merry widow for very much longer.

  ‘Charles has been threatening to have the Duke sent away from court,’ I confide in a whisper. ‘Perhaps I should let him know how atrociously he is behaving? I am after all engaged to someone else.’

  Mary laughs then. ‘Oh my dear,’ she drawls, ‘I really don’t think he cares about that. Do you?’

  ‘I don’t think anyone cares about such things here,’ I say more primly than I had intended and instantly regretting it as Mary gives me a patronising look. ‘Is it true that Mrs Palmer is expecting Charles’ baby?’

  My sister hesitates for a moment then nods. ‘Yes, it’s true,’ she says w
ith a droll look. ‘Mam is in bits of course and has been boring our poor brother to tears with reminders that Our Sainted Father never behaved with such profligacy.’

  ‘She’s very pretty,’ I muse, watching Mrs Palmer as she dances with our brother Charles. Now that the news is out about her pregnancy she’s given up on the loose fitting gowns that I have always seen her wearing before and which I now see were designed to hide her increasing figure. Instead she is wearing a tight dress of deep raspberry pink satin that conceals nothing and in fact flaunts her interesting situation to the whole world. ‘She’s also very pleased with herself.’

  Mary laughs. ‘Who wouldn’t be?’ she says with a shrug. ‘She’s the undisputed queen here until Charles takes a wife of his own rather than helping himself to someone else’s.’

  We both look then to Mr Palmer, handsome in a weak chinned and pop eyed sort of way, who stands on the sidelines of the dancing, conflicting emotions of pride and dismay at war across his face as he watches his wife dance and throw her lovely head back to shriek with laughter at something that Charles has just whispered into her ear. ‘I couldn’t live that way,’ I say quietly. ‘I couldn’t watch someone I love be loved by someone else.’

  My sister smiles and takes my hand in hers. ‘I don’t think that is a situation that you will ever need to worry about,’ she whispers. ‘Who could ever prefer anyone else over you?’

  I smile and shake my head but my gaze instinctively moves to where our cousin Rupert, dressed in black silk as always, stands gravely to attention behind Mam’s chair, his head in its dark curled wig cocked slightly to one side as he listens to what appears to be either one of her interminable reminisces or a catalogue of complaints or perhaps both. As I watch, he gives a sombre nod and then for an instant he looks up and our eyes meet.

  ‘Oh my dear, he would never do for you,’ my sister murmurs at my side, her pretty face concerned.