The Jacobite's Wife

by Morag Edwards

  Mary Beatrice’s master of music, Mr Fede, had composed new works in the Italian style and the theatre company presented a ballet by Lully. I sat through these in the pretence of improving my education but really I was hoping to catch the eye of one of the young courtiers, so that we might walk in the gardens and flirt before the evening entertainment.

  The departure of the French court made our daily lives even more mundane, especially as we had to make savings to compensate for the money we’d spent on hosting the royal family. Meals were sparse and entertainment was of the most basic, home-grown kind, all too familiar from the tedious Jacobite gatherings held in my sister’s home. Mary Beatrice withdrew into her confinement and didn’t ask me to stay with her, preferring those who had experience of childbirth.

  Something else was happening. Our king had disappeared along with the French court and I heard muttering in corners and men stopped talking and stroked their chins if I came too close. My father walked so fast across the courtyard, his legs seemed to be clockwork, but other important men were rarely to be seen, apart from the Earl of Melfort. Soon we learned that there had been a failed attempt to invade England, resulting in the destruction of the French fleet. Nothing was announced or openly discussed, since maintaining a belief that James would be restored to the crown of England was the whole purpose of our existence. But my father, in a careless moment at dinner, revealed that Louis XIV felt he had been misled by false information from St Germain. This was the whispered shame of the exiled court.

  One morning, a servant knocked on my door, summoning me to the Earl of Melfort and my stomach felt as if it had turned to liquid. I was escorted to the Earl’s quarters and the manservant waited, clearly under instructions to guard me. The door to Melfort’s room was opened from within by yet another servant and inside was dark and hung with tapestries of Old Testament stories. It smelled of that particular animal odour of sweat and food that hangs around men who are not particular about their grooming. Melfort sat at a table, reading a letter. He did not look up or indicate that I should sit. I stood before him, studying his small mouth, pursed as if he had eaten something sour.

  ‘This letter is for you.’ He tossed it across the table as if it were soiled. ‘You may read it.’

  It was my brother’s handwriting. William began by expressing his sorrow and regret at the death of our mother but I read on with dismay.

  ‘Your king is about to invade England. He has deluded himself into believing that many will rise to support him but being the fool he is, he has announced his intentions in advance and has issued a proclamation to the people of this country which has only served to rally support around William of Orange. If the invasion goes ahead it will fail. Be warned, my little sister. Your loving brother.’

  I felt my skin flush. William’s words rang with the disgrace of having been read first by the man in front of me. These words, which would be regarded here as treason, had come from my brother and I would be included in his treachery.

  ‘I am sorry,’ I whispered. ‘I knew nothing of an invasion. My brother has views that my sister and I do not share. I am loyal to King James II and the Jacobite cause.’ I looked down at my hands, hoping that Melfort had forgotten my outburst from the previous year.

  The Earl’s words were measured. ‘Everything that is received here and sent from here is scrutinised by me. I know every movement, every thought, every single breath that you people make. There are spies here from the English government, the French government, the Spanish government and Rome. Sometimes I think that every fucking soul within this chateau is a spy.’ He spat the word at me. ‘Are you a spy, Lady Winifred Herbert, because if you are, not even your father will be able to save you. People disappear from this chateau with puzzling frequency. They are no loss. A girl like you would not be missed. Do I make myself clear?’

  Tears coursed down my face. ‘I am not a spy. You can trust me,’ I whispered, my voice hoarse, my throat tight.

  ‘Do you have any idea,’ Melfort’s voice rose, ‘what might happen if letters like this got into the hands of a French spy and thence to the French government? We must maintain French support. I saw you dancing with those young fools from the French court. What would you not have done to gain their favour? Would you have passed this letter to one of them if he had asked you for it?’ Melfort stared at me with contempt. ‘Is your brother in the pay of the French?’

  I shook my head. ‘He was a prisoner in the Tower of London and he’s lost his title and our estates. He’s bitter but means no harm. He is an angry man, nothing more.’

  Melfort placed his hands together into a steeple and rested them against his lips. He looked at me from under his brows. ‘It is lucky for you,’ he said, ‘that you have become something of a favourite of the queen. I question her judgement. Don’t forget, I am watching you. Always.’

  A different servant escorted me to my staircase. My limbs were weak and carried me with difficulty up the three flights of stairs. Alone in my room I lifted my gown and stripped away my petticoats. Like a child, I had wet myself.

  After my terrifying meeting with Melfort, I hurried to see my father.

  ‘Elizabeth, you must write to William,’ he advised, ‘and ask him never to contact you again.’

  ‘Father, I’m Winifred not Elizabeth. Mother’s name was Elizabeth.’

  He peered at me. ‘Ah yes, you’re so alike. Nevertheless, write the letter and I’ll show it to Melfort. It will be proof of your loyalty.’

  I imagined William’s reaction to reading such cruel words and said, ‘I don’t wish to write to him like that. I came to you to seek your protection.’

  ‘I can’t protect you,’ my father touched some papers on his desk and I saw his eyes glance eagerly over what was written there. ‘I’m often away with the king or caught up in his affairs. If you write to William as I’ve said and stay in favour with the queen, you’ll be safe.’

  Chapter 7

  Lucy now spent every day in silent prayer in the queen’s private chapel, a privilege arranged for her by Lewis Innes, and ate her meals alone in our room. On the nights leading to Lucy’s departure, Grace began to pack her things and I often found a dress or piece of jewellery left in my closet, of no further use to her. At night, in our shared bed, I argued and pleaded with Lucy not to leave us. France was at war with practically everyone and, apart from my own need to cling to her, I worried for her safety.

  ‘I’ll miss you, Winifred, of course I will,’ Lucy whispered into the icy dark, ‘but you have to understand that my life at St Germain is empty of purpose. I must leave soon, under cover of winter darkness.’

  ‘But you are my only family here. Father doesn’t care about me or he would have intervened with the Earl of Melfort.’

  Lucy turned towards me and I felt her warm breath. ‘Thank goodness he’s disappeared. I would have worried about leaving you if he was still here.’

  ‘What do you think happened to him?’ I asked.

  ‘Lewis hinted that Melfort treated powerful people just like he treated us. While he watched over St Germain, others were watching him and in the end his enemies outnumbered his friends.’

  When the evening of our parting came, I shivered alongside Lucy’s carriage, my cloak wrapped tightly against a wind that whipped around the corners of the courtyard. There was nothing more to be said and I was keen to get the farewell over and return to the warmth of my room. Father gave no indication of wishing to linger either and I guessed that he wanted to return to his wine and court accounts.

  As Lucy climbed into her seat and turned to wave farewell, I thought of the night she left for France with our mother and remembered that I had something belonging to her in my room … something special. I called up to the coachman and the horses startled, tossing their heads and shaking their harnesses. He calmed them with some soothing words before giving me his attention. ‘Yes, my lady?’

  ‘Please wait, I’ve left something in my room that I need to give Lady Lucy
.’ He gave a grunt of assent but I heard Father ‘tut’ as I hurried past him towards our staircase. Searching at the back of my closet I found Lucy’s doll, hidden there because I had been too ashamed to admit that I’d brought her from England.

  Lucy looked surprised but took the doll from me, turning over the threadbare toy in her hands.

  ‘Goodness, it’s Elizabeth. Where on earth did you find this?’

  ‘I took her from your room at home, after the fire. I’ve had her with me all this time.’

  Lucy kissed the doll and passed her back to me. ‘Keep her with you, my dearest sister, and remember how much I love you. I have no use for toys but one day you might have a child who will play with her and you can talk about me and the games we played.’

  My father left as soon as the carriage door closed but I remained standing until the back of the coach disappeared through the archway, pressing Lucy’s singed doll against my cheek to catch the tears.

  Within a week, we heard from the coachman that Lucy had arrived safely but I knew that war would make further contact between us difficult. With Lucy gone, I had no further meetings with my father. Apart from Grace, I was alone.

  As soon as Princess Louise-Marie was born in June and was seen to be healthy and thriving, the queen sent for me and I was allowed to hold the exquisite, sweetly perfumed baby girl. I had never before held a baby. I cradled her in the crook of my arm and she instinctively turned to my breast. I touched her cheek with my finger and her skin felt like the smooth surface of a field mushroom on a summer’s day. I knew for certain that I wanted one of my own but I was only twenty and there was plenty of time. I wrote to Lucy to tell her of the birth and months later received a reply. Her description of the convent’s ordered routine of contemplation meant little to me and I saw that Lucy and I, so close as children, now travelled paths that very soon neither of us could share.

  When the queen recovered from the birth, I was formally appointed as one of the Ladies of the Bedchamber. This caused some resentment amongst the older women, those who hoped their daughters, left behind in England or Scotland might join them in the queen’s household. I found Mary Beatrice’s court to be a world within a world, one quite unlike the rest of St Germain. The queen was intelligent and politically astute. Her opinion was valued by powerful men and she smoothed the path between her husband and those who despaired of him. Best of all, she shared some of this with us, relying on our discretion or perhaps our indiscretion, ensuring that husbands heard only what she chose. She was skilled at making other people love her, while remaining the centre of attention. She flirted with men yet remained friends with their wives. She was deeply religious but moved with a grace charged with sexual energy.

  The queen took me with her to Marly, Versailles and Fontainebleau when she visited the French royal family. More often now she went without her husband, as it was rumoured that relations were strained between James and Louis, but Mary Beatrice’s influence with Louis kept us securely in France. She enjoyed the strict French protocol which gave her precedence even above Louis’ wife, as there was no French queen and, without James, she was able to command all of his attention.

  Chapter 8

  It is hot for early summer and I am tired of standing. Ladies of higher rank are allowed to sit on stools while Mary Beatrice, the French king and Madame de Maintenon have chairs. Our fans, so often used to beckon or tease are frantically worked for their original purpose but they only rearrange the stifling smell of powder and sweat. Mary Beatrice and Louis are flirting and I wonder when the interminable game being played out in front of us will end, so that we can go outside and play some real games. I rock on my toes, as I have been taught, to ease the pain in my back.

  Mary Beatrice has brought us here to Marly to build bridges with Louis as yet another attempt to invade England has failed and James is in disgrace again. I have never spoken to her about her relationship with Louis or with James. To raise such a personal matter would cost me my position. But I have eyes and ears and I know there are times when Mary Beatrice and Louis are alone together. I watch Madame de Maintenon but she shows nothing beyond her perfectly mannered façade. The sunlight etches the lines around her eyes and the fine down on her cheeks and I wonder what she must feel watching her husband court a younger woman. I hope this never happens to me.

  I shift again from foot to foot. My bodice is itching. Tonight there is to be a ball and Grace is laying out my gown and petticoats. She will be placing my combs and ribbons on my dressing table and choosing a scent for my bath. There will be wine and candied fruits on the table by my bed. I will let Grace peel my damp clothes from me and I will lie down, quite naked and feel the cool breeze drift across my skin from the open window.

  I lower my fan so that I can wipe away the moisture from between my breasts. My eyes scan the room in case this breach of etiquette is noticed. It has been, but not by one of the Ladies of the Bedchamber. A young man from the French court, like me not expected to move or take his gaze away from the royals, has glanced at me and his lips twitch at the corners. I lower my eyes and flick my fan at him. In the language of courtship, this means I have seen him and the answer is, ‘I am willing to meet you alone.’

  As I prepared for the ball, I had asked Grace to lace my bodice tightly so that my breasts were pushed high. Without being asked, she left my hair in its natural state and pinned it so that strands fell across my shoulders. During dinner I was gracious and attentive to those who sat near me, asking them about their lives and interests even if these were few. He sat at the end of my table, his role to entertain an elderly duchess, and he never failed in his dazzling attention to her charms. His mannered flirtation made her flush and giggle, like a young girl. But when she shifted to speak to the man on her left he looked for me and I had to turn away in case the anticipation in my smile confused the men around me.

  When we danced the Rigaudon, our backs brushed against each other as we spun around our partners and once, his hand stroked mine. Like most of the younger French men, he no longer wore a wig but his long hair was swept back and tied with a loose, velvet bow. His legs were solid in their breeches and the cut of his coat, longer than was the fashion at St Germain, showed off his firm stomach.

  It is almost dark but the air is warm and still. The garden is lit with flares that create secret corners and draw long shadows across the grass. The evening’s entertainment continues with fire eaters who juggle blazing batons and fireworks crackle into the sky. Servants row couples around the lake in boats that are decorated like the French fleet. The lamps on the prows could be fireflies from this distance, darting and crossing in front of my eyes. We had eaten dinner outdoors, in an arbour draped with ropes strung with spring flowers, but the tables are abandoned now apart from those guests too drunk to stand and those who sleep where they sat. The white tablecloths shine in the moonlight but I can see the stains of spilt food and wine from where I wait. The ground around the tables is littered with linen napkins and broken glass. Cats snake amongst the folds of the tablecloths searching for scraps and are chased away by servants who flit amongst the shadows. The royal party has now disappeared inside to watch the fireworks from a balcony and I am alone. I wait for him, leaning against one of the posts of the arbour.

  Couples drift across the grass and into the shadows. I lift one of the loose tendrils from my hair and stroke it across my lips, my eyes straining through the dusk to see my lover. At last, I watch him cross the grass, my pleasure growing as he hurries through the mingling guests, talking briefly to those he knows, while his eyes continue to search for me.

  Finally we meet and he lifts my hand to a brief touch of his lips. We link arms and stroll down to the lake, watching the colours explode above us, then slip into the woods under cover of heavy darkness. We stop at a wide tree just off the path and I lean into its rough bark as he kisses my lips, my hair, my earlobes. His skin smells of almonds. We breath into each other’s necks, panting like dogs and my pleasure rises
with his until he pauses and shudders. He bends his head into my shoulder and swears in French. We kiss again, listening to the applause of the crowd as the fireworks reach their finale, then fumble with our clothes. As the crowds ebb away from the lakeside, we leave the shadows and cross the grass with other couples, our arms linked in acceptable informality. We reach the entrance to the chateau where we have to part and he takes my hand again, kisses it and bows low before he turns away. I don’t know his name and he hasn’t asked for mine.

  The royal party left Marly the next day. Mary Beatrice asked me to ride with her in her carriage and, sitting opposite her, I knew that although her unfocused gaze travelled across the villages and farms, she was not watching the scenery. Like me, she was reliving a private moment. She watched me too and must have seen the same secret smile flicker across my lips.

  ‘He was handsome was he not, Lady Winifred?’

  ‘He was indeed your majesty.’

  ‘And you were careful?’

  I had learned everything I knew about sex and how to avoid babies from the queen. She had delighted in my lack of experience and enjoyed playing at being an older sister, whispering amazing secrets to me, some of which she had learned from my mother.

  I tilted my head in deference to her concern. ‘I was careful, just as you advised, your majesty.’

  Mary Beatrice was pleased with this. ‘You must enjoy yourself, Winifred. This time will never come again. Too soon you will be like me, with a husband and babies. I take you with me so that you can be free, away from the busybodies of St Germain.’

  This was true. My mother’s friends took too great an interest in me, inviting me to evenings in their apartments and worrying about my lack of a husband. Even if a suitable man could be found, I wouldn’t risk an informal liaison at St Germain, but on these trips with the queen, as long as I was discreet, I was free to do as I pleased.