Mary lingers for five more days, tended by Mam’s own doctor who is considered an expert in the treatment of small pox, and then just as suddenly as it began, it is all over. I stare at Charles’ note, sent from his seat which he never left beside her bed as she breathed her last, and smooth it over with my fingers until no crumples remain. ‘She has gone.’
She has gone. I think of the last time I saw Mary alive, dancing with my Lord of Buckingham at a court ball and winking at me over her bared shoulder as he leaned forward to whisper sweet little nothings into her ear. It hardly seems real or possible that I will never see her again, never hear her laugh or feel the warm clasp of her thin fingers around my own.
It’s Christmas Eve and I go to stand beside my window where I can look across the snow covered park to Whitehall. But for a few flaming torches here and there, all is in darkness and as I stand there I hear the bells of London start ringing to call the faithful to midnight Mass, the first to be celebrated in our country for a long time. I wonder how many of the people hurrying through the streets to church know that the eldest Stuart princess is dead, it’s probably too soon for the news to have filtered down from the palace and they will instead wake to it tomorrow morning.
James comes to see me and we cling together sobbing and unable to believe that Mary has left us. ‘It’s all the fault of that damn fool French doctor Mam sent,’ he mutters as I cling to him for comfort. ‘Mary looked set to recover but then he decided that she required even more bleeding, at which point she collapsed, entirely spent. She was too weak to lose more blood. We could all see it but he insisted that it was the only way to purge the disease from her system.’
I hear my mother weeping in her bedchamber next door and realise that I must go to her. There was five. And now there are only three of us. Even in the moment of our triumph, Death has had his way.
Chapter Twenty One
London, January 1661
We are all there to see Mary laid to rest beside Harry in the Stuart vault that lies beneath our great grandmother’s tomb in Westminster Abbey. Charles and I hold on tightly to Mam’s arms, supporting her as she sags, exhausted and weeping, between us, her pale and ravaged face completely concealed by a heavy black veil.
I look across to my brother and see that his face is set and still, the only sign of his anguish being the soreness of his eyes and the thin line of his mouth as he stares into the dark hole in the pavement that marks the entrance to the crypt.
I can hardly bear to look at Mary’s coffin, which is pitifully small and draped with the royal standard but I force myself to turn my eyes towards it, to take in every detail from the neat rows of nails that line the sides to the lavish bouquet of hothouse white roses on top, paid for by her son, the little Prince of Orange, who reportedly fell ill as soon as he heard of her death and was not sufficiently recovered to make the journey across from the Hague to attend her funeral. He is just ten years old and my heart breaks for him for I know what it is to lose a parent at such a young age.
‘That poor motherless boy,’ Mam murmurs beside me, her mind clearly following the same sad course as my own. ‘What must he be thinking now? Perhaps he should come to us in France?’ She looks to Charles as she says this and he shakes his head.
‘He is better left where he is,’ he says curtly and I know he is thinking of Harry, of how she tried to force him to become Catholic, of how she drove him away. ‘He is well looked after in his own country.’ Mary’s Willem has been sovereign Prince of Orange since the moment of his birth, his father having died just one week before he was born. At the moment he is in the care of guardians but one day he will be Stadtholder as his father was before him and a valuable Protestant ally for my brother. I suspect that the last thing anyone wants is for Mam to get her claws into him when he is at such a vulnerable age.
As soon as Mary is buried, Mam begins making plans for our return to Paris. Philippe’s letters are no longer amorous but instead frantic with worry lest I fall ill too and either die or, worse still in his estimation, lose my looks to smallpox’s terrible scourge. His letters arrive every day, tear stained, incoherent and terrified, begging us to return to France immediately and leave the stink and infection of London behind for good.
‘Philippe is right to be worried,’ she says to me as we watch our maids pack up her things, laying dresses out on the bed and carefully folding them with sprigs of lavender and rosemary between the heavy folds before they are packed away in enormous velvet covered chests ready for the journey back to Paris. ‘I think that we will both surely die if we have to remain here in England for much longer.’
I am too exhausted by my grief to smile and tell her how foolish she is being and so instead I just silently put my hand on her black taffeta sleeve. She puts her hand over mine and gives a sigh. ‘Our family has never enjoyed much luck in this country.’
‘We won’t be here for much longer,’ I say then with what I hope is a reassuring smile. ‘Only a few more days and then we will be at the coast again with France within our sight once more.’ Despite myself I feel better at the thought of it, at the prospect of returning to Paris and everything that is comfortable and familiar.
‘There are a few things that I must do first,’ Mam says in a low voice before getting up and going to her bureau which stands before the window and where she attends to her prodigious correspondence. She pulls a key from a pocket concealed in her skirts and opens a drawer to reveal a letter with a huge broken scarlet seal. ‘It’s from Cardinal Mazarin,’ she says softly.
I am surprised. ‘What does he want?’ I ask. Surely he does not want Mam to press his niece Hortense on to Charles? I know that it gave my brother much pleasure to turn Mazarin’s overtures down although he privately told me with a winsome smile that he regretted it for Hortense’s sake as he has heard that she is quite lovely and ‘a little wild too’.
Mam gives an icy smile. ‘He has requested in the strongest terms that I make peace with Lord Hyde before we leave and, furthermore, that I at least appear to welcome his daughter and her child into the family.’
‘So it isn’t really a request then so much as an order?’ I say. ‘What business is it of his anyway?’ I know that there is no matter regarding my cousins that is so insignificant that the Cardinal won’t involve himself in it in some way but surely his interest in my own family is rather more tepid?
My mother takes the letter out of the drawer for a moment then clearly thinks better of it for almost straight away it has been replaced and locked safely away again. ‘It appears that Mazarin has the greatest respect for Hyde’s political prowess and is keen that my personal feelings about both he and his daughter should not in any way risk future relations between our nations.’ She goes a little pink then and halts as if considering her words before continuing. ‘He also pointed out that when it comes to arranging the financial settlements that have been made both for myself and also you, we should have a greater confidence in Hyde’s abilities to implement them than those of Charles who, he says, has always been unpardonably lax when it comes to such matters.’ Her blush turns absolutely rosy then and I realise, too late, that the Cardinal’s words have left her humiliated. ‘He reminded me that he, Aunt Anne and Louis have all shouldered the burden of supporting us for the last nineteen years and that it’s about time our own country was able to do so.’
I am shocked but not altogether surprised for he is speaking the truth after all. We were naturally delighted when Parliament settled the huge sum of £30,000 a year on Mam and a £40,000 dowry on myself - delighted and also somewhat pessimistic about the likelihood of extracting such sums from Charles who squanders money as quickly as it comes into his hands and is now very much on the hunt for a wealthy bride who can donate a handsome dowry to his dwindling coffers.
‘So we must be friends with Hyde then?’ I say lightly, not entirely displeased with this for I have always liked my brother’s kindly chief advisor and besides, I am longing to meet James’ little b
oy.
Mam gives a curt little nod. ‘We must be friends with Hyde.’
James is naturally delighted about Mam’s change of heart and hastens to bring his wife and child to see us the very next day. We wait for them in Mam’s bedchamber at St James’ and as soon as word spreads of this astonishing meeting, crowds begin to gather, pushing as close as they can to the crimson brocade hung bed and knocking against the furniture and paintings.
Charles himself leads Anne, who along with everyone else is dressed in heavy mourning for my sister, in by the hand and gravely presents her to both Mam and myself, while James hops nervously from foot to foot, beaming with pleasure as he directs us to admire the baby who is being carried by a rather stout and sturdy looking nursemaid with thick blonde ringlets peeping out from beneath her starched linen cap. I notice James’ new wife’s eyes watching him from beneath her long dark lashes with an expression of amused irritation as he fidgets and think to myself that perhaps my brother’s match is a better one than he had any right to expect.
‘I am pleased to meet you,’ Mam says graciously if a little cooly as her new daughter in law curtseys before her. She is not the most graceful creature, Anne, and her posture would barely pass muster in the gilded salons of the Louvre but she will do here in England where manners are far more careless and informal.
I try to be more friendly and fix a warm smile onto my face as Anne turns to curtsey before me. ‘How nice to see you at last,’ I say brightly in English as if we have been kept apart by cruel mischance rather than Mam’s fury and whims. ‘And what a splendid baby my nephew is.’ I have carefully rehearsed these two short English phrases and am pleased to see Charles smile with pleasure to hear me speak our native tongue at last.
Anne brightens then and beckons the nursemaid forward with her precious bundle. ‘We are very proud of him,’ she says, gently pulling back the blanket so that I can properly admire the baby’s big pink cheeks and shock of red hair.
‘He is a delight,’ I say and I grin at Charles, who steps forward then and gently takes the child into his own arms. ‘How nice it is to have a baby in the family at last,’ I say, unable to resist the temptation to needle him a little with this reminder of Mrs Palmer’s coming happy event.
‘Let me see my grandson!’ This is Mam, of course, as always hating to feel left out and clearly keen to make amends. ‘James tells me that he is the very image of Your Sainted Father.’ Ah, clever James - he always did know exactly the right way to handle Mam.
Charles laughs then and immediately turns to place the baby into Mam’s arms. ‘He is a handsome little fellow,’ he remarks loud enough to be heard by everyone in the room. ‘I think we shall all have to look to our laurels when he is full grown.’ Everyone laughs and he winks at me as he turns away to coo over the baby, who very obligingly shows exquisite timing and wakes up at that moment to bestow a toothless grin upon my mother. What an excellent courtier he will be one day.
Anne draws close to me then and I fix a welcoming smile on to my face as I turn to her. ‘I was very fond of your sister, Your Highness,’ she whispers to me in perfect French, her breath smelling sweetly of cinnamon sweets and spiced wine. ‘I am so sorry that she has gone.’
I nod. ‘We are all sorry,’ I say eventually. ‘She would have loved to see us all joined together like this,’ I add politely, ignoring the fact that Mary was furious with her former lady in waiting for making off with her brother and had declared several times that she would never speak to her again nor countenance her presence wherever she may happen to be.
Anne smiles then. ‘You do not need to lie to me,’ she says without rancour. ‘I know what Mary thought of me and I do not blame her for it.’ She sighs and shrugs her plump shoulders which are dappled with an unfashionable smattering of tawny freckles. ‘I hoped, of course, that we could be friends or at least civil to each other one day but even though that will never happen now, I hope that I am permitted to still think of her with great fondness.’
I can’t help liking her and instinctively reach out to take her hand. ‘Of course,’ I say and this time my smile is genuine.
We leave London the next morning and my heart is heavy with sorrow as I peer out of the carriage window to get my last glimpse of the higgledy piggledy red brick palace. ‘I wonder if we will ever return?’ I muse.
Mam fusses a little with the heavy pile of blankets and furs that her maids have solicitously piled over her knees. ‘I would be happy never to set foot in this place again,’ she huffs. ‘We used to be so happy here but now it brings nothing but bad luck to our family.’
I sigh and lean over to take her pet pug while she arranges the blankets to her satisfaction, stroking the shivering little dog’s soft fawn head to calm it. ‘Perhaps we could be happy here again?’ I say. ‘I am sure that Charles is planning to make it a family home once more.’
Mam snorts. ‘He plans to fill it with mistresses and bastard children more like,’ she says angrily. ‘I am so glad that his poor dear father isn’t alive to see it.’
She smooths the last of the blankets over her lap and after bestowing one last kiss on its nose, I pass the pug over to her, watching fondly as it curls up and immediately goes to sleep beneath Mam’s petting hands. ‘I suppose that my father was quite an unusual king for not taking a mistress,’ I muse aloud before realising too late that I ought to have kept my thoughts to myself.
‘You know nothing at all about the matter.’ Mam’s voice is cold and her eyes when I chance a quick glance at her face are flashing with annoyance. ‘You have spent too long with your siblings, I think. I would have expected such appalling levity from James or Mary but never from you, Henrietta.’
I sigh. ‘I’m sorry, Mam,’ I murmur, thinking with relish that the day is fast approaching when I can speak and think how I like, without any fear of censure from my mother or anyone else. I turn my head and look again out of the window. We’ve left Whitehall behind now and are bowling through the city streets, which are mostly empty but for a few small smatterings of people who have braved the chill winds and snow to see us off.
‘There she goes!’ I hear a hoarse male voice shout as a clod of snow and earth sharply hits the window beside me, making the glass pane rattle alarmingly. ‘The Catholic Queen, going back to where she belongs.’
I catch my breath and glance nervously at Mam but if she noticed anything amiss, she is giving no sign of it and is sitting in her usual upright way, shoulders flat to the padded velvet seat and eyes fixed firmly straight ahead as she calmly pets the sleeping dog on her lap. She’s used to it of course though, this, after all, being the woman who had to flee the country in a desperate rush just after my birth.
‘Why did you come back?’ I say softly, reaching across to take one of her small cold hands in mine. Her skin is dry, parched even as if the skin is pulled taut as silk over her delicate bones.
Mam’s careful facade breaks down then and tears gleam at the ends of her long dark lashes, one of her natural beauties, inherited from her Italian mother, that time, suffering and mourning will never erase. ‘Because I needed to know it was over,’ she whispers back, clutching my hand almost desperately as if she fears to let me go. ‘Because I needed to see my boy in his father’s place.’
‘And now that you have?’ I ask breathlessly.
She shakes her head and the ghost of a smile lingers in the corners of her lips as she looks out of the window at the motley crowd that has gathered to see us leave. ‘I wish that I need never come to this accursed hell hole of a country ever again.’ Unfortunately we both know that she has to come back, Parliament having stipulated that her allowance is entirely dependant on her residing in England again. ‘I want to see you settled with a child of your own,’ she says giving my fingers a gentle squeeze. ‘When that is accomplished, then will I return and not a moment sooner.’
At Mam’s request, we spend a few days at Hampton Court before making our way down to the coast and I fall instantly in love with t
he Tudor palace as our carriage rattles over the bridge that crosses the Thames and then turns towards the gracious red brick turreted gatehouse with its ornate central window decorated with the royal arms. The winter sun is hanging low as we approach and its soft light makes the burnished bricks of the palace gleam like gold.
Even Mam perks up as we pull up in the central courtyard, where Charles, James and Rupert, who had all gone on ahead, are waiting for us surrounded by a crowd of courtiers, all heavily muffled up against the chill in black cloaks and luxurious fur capes. A footman helps me down from the carriage and I take a moment to look up and around the courtyard with its arched old windows, twisted chimneys and decorative crenellations and statues.
It starts to snow and Charles bustles us indoors, throwing his arm around my shoulders and snuggling me close to him as we go. ‘You look frozen half to death, sweetheart,’ he says, dropping a kiss on the top of my head.
‘I am warm as toast now,’ I say with a smile, reaching up for a moment to touch the small scar near his lip, the pale and twisted souvenir of a long forgotten battle. You’d barely notice it if you just glanced at my brother in passing, but it’s clear as day to me just like every other tiny little detail of his face.
My rooms are in the old wing of the palace and Madame de Bourdes whispers to me that they used to belong to the unfortunate queens of the eighth Henry when he was still in residence. I can’t help but shiver when I hear this, remembering my scanty lessons in English history which seemed to omit everything but the most grisly and gossipy snippets of information about Henry, his wives and sickly offspring. ‘The bed certainly looks old enough,’ one of my younger ladies in waiting, pretty little Lettice who has enormous blue eyes and prettily dimpled cheeks, says with a laugh and I force myself to smile as well as I reach out to touch the beautifully carved old wood of the headboard and then run my fingers slowly down one of the four twisted posts that echo the chimneys outside.
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