He first removed himself to Tunbridge Wells, away from London and from me, and then retreated farther to his estate of Bretby, in the Peak District. I seldom knew exactly where he was, let alone in whose arms he chose to dally. To my misery, I heard his name linked with many others, including Lady Elizabeth Howard, the daughter of the Earl of Berkshire, a lady far my superior in rank and fortune, if not beauty. Yet my poor heart was so wounded that my pride swallowed that indignity, too, for the sake of but hearing his dear name.
When at last he returned to London, matters were no more improved between us. On the few occasions when he would summon me, I would fain run to his faithless embrace, and forgive him every other transgression. His skill at lovemaking could still make me so weak with trembling delight that it clouded every other thought and common sense. Again and again I suffered these humiliations for what I perceived was his love, with no lasting proof to show for it other than a handful of empty words—a hard lesson for any woman, most especially for one of my still-tender years, yet one I would not forget.
I’ve often considered what would have become of me if Cromwell’s war had not claimed my father, and I’d been blessed with his love, and that of my mother, as she must have been then, before she’d been hardened and drained by misfortune. If as a child I’d seen around me real love, lasting love as warm as a chimney corner, then would I have been better able to recognize the falseness in Philip’s protestations, and tell true love from feigned? If my heart had not been so parched and needy for love of any kind, would I have lapped so desperately at the well-practiced affection he offered?
Is it any wonder, then, that I also missed my friend Anne, whose mother had kept fast her promise to withhold my company from her daughter. I’d not seen Anne since that last summer afternoon, nor did I receive letters from her. Her banishment had been complete. Further, I’d heard she was soon to be married to Lord Carnegie, and would be as good as buried to me forever in the cold Scottish country.
In this sorry fashion, my days did pass until the autumn of 1657, and a fresh scandal for my inconstant lover brought him more trouble than even he could dodge. Having drawn a new lady’s name for a Valentine, he amused himself by sending her a specially made gift, a chamber pot fitted with a looking-glass in the bottom, and a lewd verse to her private charms that would thus be revealed, painted along the rim in French.
But the lady was neither entertained nor seduced—as, alas, I surely would have been—by such a witty token. She soon found a champion in Captain John Whaley, the member of Parliament for Nottingham and Shoreham, and a staunch friend to Cromwell himself. The duel was short, with Philip dispatching Whaley with brisk efficiency and leaving him with a grievous wound. This news roused Cromwell’s vengeful temper, and he sent Philip to imprisonment in the Tower, vowing that if Whaley died, then Philip’s own life would be forfeited.
Even resourceful Philip could discover no way to conduct his affairs of passion while imprisoned in a guarded tower of stone and iron, and while I worried over his eventual fate, I was also spared imagining him with his other loves. This was no small relief. I found jealousy difficult to bear, and had let it gnaw away at me like a plague.
Besides, there were other matters to draw the attention of even the most halfhearted Royalists in London. Groveling Parliament had offered Cromwell the crown, but to the relief and surprise of the true king’s supporters, Cromwell had declined it. While some viewed this as a sign of the Lord Protector’s humility, among my friends it was seen as proof that not even Cromwell or his Puritan God dared interfere with Charles II’s right to the English throne, and there was much giddy talk about a joyful future.
Perhaps because I’d never known England with a king instead of a protector, I was more skeptical than this. Every breath of rebellion that the Royalists had mustered in my lifetime had been quickly smothered, and I couldn’t see that this would be any different. The young Royalist gentlemen of my acquaintance were charming and amusing, yes, but more given to sitting about with their drink and boasting vaguely of what they wished to do against Cromwell’s army than actually accomplishing anything. It was only brave talk, and little more. As quick as Philip’s sword might be in a duel, I’d no wish to see his skill pitted against the grim, somber soldiers who paraded and drilled each day in St. James’s Park.
Oh, it would be pleasing to have that handsome young king to rule us in Whitehall Palace—I still would study the picture of him in my mother’s chamber, fascinated by his regal mien—but in my head I thought of his triumphant return to London as no more than an idle fancy, like wishing for a songbird’s feathered wings so I might fly high and soar over the spire of St. Paul’s.
Yet one evening that autumn, while Philip was still held in the Tower, I was made to realize that such dreams could yet become real.
I had gone to a gathering at Lady Sillsbury’s house on the Strand. It was an old pile of a place, two hundred years old or so, a reminder of the last time that government and religion had warred and claimed each other’s property, in the reign of the eighth King Henry. I’d heard the house had first been built for a flock of papist nuns who haunted it still, reason enough for Cromwell to let the equally ancient Lady Sillsbury keep it. More likely the house was merely too worn and out of fashion for Cromwell’s ambitious generals to bother with, but its rambling wings and black-timbered walls reminded me of the country of my childhood.
I soon wearied of the music we’d been invited to hear, an Italian singer with a quivering belly and a rumbling voice, and the merriment of the company did not suit my loneliness without Philip to leaven it first. Instead I left the singing and found my way to a rambling balcony off the parlor. The house’s green lawns spilled down to a private landing on the Thames, where the boats that had brought guests were tied up and waiting, the clay pipes of the watermen tiny glowing pin-pricks in the dusk. Mists rose in gauzy tangles from the river’s surface, as they do in that season of the year, yet the slivered new moon still hung fresh and bright in the darkening sky.
Heedless of the cooling evening air, I stood and gazed upon this pretty scene, finding some small, rare peace in its tranquility. When I heard another’s footfalls behind me, I didn’t turn, I was so loath for interruption.
“A beautiful evening, is it not?” the gentleman asked.
I’d no choice now but to answer, else seem ill-mannered. “It’s the river that makes it so. Without the Thames, London would be a drab and cheerless place.”
“That will never happen, Miss Villiers,” he said, “so long as you are in London.”
There was an awkward earnestness to this unimaginative compliment that caught my ear and at last made me turn to face its giver.
“Prettily said, if untrue,” I said, deflecting the compliment neatly back to him. “Mr. Palmer, isn’t it?”
“Roger Palmer, your servant.” He swept me a courteous bow, but not before I glimpsed the uneasiness that was close to real fear in his face.
“Miss Villiers, yours.” Was I really so very daunting? I wondered with amusement. He gave the appearance of a man with little to fear, a gentleman by his dress and manner. He was pleasant enough, if not handsome, with a slash of dark brows that sat atop his long nose, dark eyes, and a thin, thoughtful mouth.
“I know who you are,” he said. “Everyone knows you.”
This was true, if bluntly stated, and I smiled to put him at his ease. I felt I should know him, too, for he was close to my own age and did seem familiar, but among the dashing male peacocks in our circle, he’d slipped to the back, unnoticed.
“You didn’t care for the music either, Mr. Palmer?” I asked, languidly opening my fan. Regardless of whether he was handsome or no, an unfamiliar face always meant a new audience. “Did you find that plump Italian rascal as tedious as I?”
“I confess my thoughts were elsewhere,” he said. “I don’t often attend such entertainments as this, you see.”
I raised one brow in play, considering him over the
curve of my fan. “You’re not one of Cromwell’s dour men in disguise, are you, sir?”
“Don’t slander me like that, madam!” he exclaimed, with real fire in his dark eyes. “I’ve dedicated my life toward the return of the rightful king to his throne. My father served the last two kings until their deaths, and though old in years, he lives still and burns with the hope that he can serve their son and grandson as well. I will do my best to make that happen, Miss Villiers, no matter the risks or cost. To see Charles crowned here in London—ah, I’d die content.”
“Hush, hush, sir, and be calm,” I said softly. “I spoke but in jest. How could you follow Cromwell yet be among these people as well? We’re all Royalists, sir, else we’d not be here.”
“Perhaps not,” he said, looking away from me and off to the river, though I doubt that was what he saw in his mind’s eye. “But there are degrees of loyalty, Miss Villiers. To listen to the trills of some Roman popinjay and sigh over the lack of a court is not the same as risking one’s very life for the king’s cause.”
“How do you mean, Mr. Palmer?” I asked, intrigued, for this was not the sort of talk I was accustomed to hearing from gentlemen. “Are you party to planning another uprising?”
“What, those ill-conceived ventures?” he asked, clearly offended I’d suggest such a thing of him. “No, no, there’s other, quieter ways to work to greater effect.”
“Indeed,” I said. “And how precisely do you prepare for these ways?”
“I feel first what is in my heart, and be guided by that,” he said, answering my question in perfect seriousness. “But I also read much of history and political government while at Eton College, and at King’s, Cambridge, and I’m at present a student of the law in the Inner Temple.”
“You are a clever fellow, aren’t you?” Yet I was impressed. For most gentlemen of our generation, education had become but one more casualty of the war, and I couldn’t recall meeting another who could claim such scholarly achievement.
“The king needs educated men as well as soldiers,” he said. “Support must be cultivated with care and diplomacy among the greater populace as well as across the Continent in other courts, not just with a few hotheaded malcontents.”
“You have done this, Mr. Palmer?” I thought of how when Philip traveled through France, all he’d accomplished was to bring back more wicked books and pictures for his own pleasure. “You’ve sought support for the cause abroad?”
He tipped his head to one side with becoming modesty. “I do not work alone, of course. I’m but a link in a greater chain.”
I looked at him in a new light. His earlier shyness had dissipated as surely as those mists upon the water. Instead he seemed decisive, a man of action and importance, bravely risking everything for his monarch. I took a step closer to him, lowering my voice so others—if there’d been others—couldn’t hear.
“Who are these other links?” I asked with excitement, eager to learn more. “Does this courageous chain of yours have a name?”
“To tell the others’ names would be to break a most solemn oath,” he said with genuine regret. “Even though I would do whatever I could to earn your favor, Miss Villiers, I cannot do that. There are too many others who would wish to stop us to make that possible.”
I nodded, intrigued by his loyalty and reticence. “Have you ever met His Majesty? Surely you can tell me that.”
“I’ve had that considerable honor, yes,” he said. “I’ve brought him both assurances from his country and the funds necessary to help him maintain his household and his hopes. My father remains His Majesty’s Chancellor of the Order of the Garter, and as his son, I am welcomed in the royal presence. Charles Stuart is truly the first gentleman of his realm, a thorough king no matter how reduced his circumstances.”
“How pleased His Majesty must be to have such a loyal servant in you, Mr. Palmer,” I said softly, smiling as I did. I was surprised that he’d yet to attempt a kiss; by now most other gentlemen would have done so, and the fact that Mr. Palmer hadn’t was another way he set himself apart in my mind.
He bowed again, a courtly man without a court. “I know of no other way to behave,” he confessed. “Loyalty to my king has been bred into my very blood and bone, and nothing Cromwell or his minions can do will change that.”
In the chamber behind us, the last strains of music had faded away, replaced by applause.
“You’ll want to return to the others, Miss Villiers,” he said, glancing wistfully over his shoulder. “I thank you for your company.”
“Perhaps I’m not ready to return to the others,” I said, slipping my hand into his arm. “Perhaps I should like to walk along the lawn to the river instead.”
He cleared his throat, and I vow that if there’d been more light, I should have seen a blush to his cheeks. “Miss Villiers, I must tell you,” he blurted, “you must be the most beautiful lady I’ve ever seen.”
“I know,” I said, smiling as I curled my arm more closely into his. “Everyone tells me that. Now come, walk with me, and tell me instead more of what you do for King Charles.”
“Is it true you’ve been keeping company with that dull ass Roger Palmer?” Philip asked. He lay sprawled across his bed with his hands linked behind his head, splendidly naked, while he watched me dress. Once again he’d been freed from the Tower, spared of further prosecution by the earnest pleas of his friends. “Or is that only more ridiculous gossip meant to destroy your reputation?”
“I’ve kept Mr. Palmer’s company, yes,” I said, seeing no reason to deny it. “He is a gentleman of great intelligence.”
“Oh, aye, a scholar,” he scoffed. “How long has he been tutoring you, sweet?”
I drew my blackthorn comb through my hair, pulling apart the knots that our passion had tangled into it, and conscious, too, of how my raised arms would flatter my still-bared breasts to his eye. It was warm here in his bedchamber, the afternoon sun heating the shingled roof overhead, and I was in no hurry to dress.
“I met Roger last autumn,” I said. “I’ve seen him since then, here and there.”
“That’s eight months,” he calculated shrewdly. “And a considerable amount of here and there.”
I looked at him from beneath the arc of my raised arm. It was true, I had seen much of Roger this last year. I was seventeen now, and eager for different amusements, and Roger had been one of them. “Are you jealous, my darling?”
“What, of Palmer?” He tipped his head back against the pillow-bier, his rich auburn curls falling over the white linen, and laughed derisively. “We’re well beyond jealousy, Barbara, you and I.”
That stung: not so much that he denied being jealous of me, but that he so readily expected me to feel the same of him, and let him graze wherever he pleased without risk of reprobation.
“I like his company.” I glanced back at my reflection in Philip’s looking-glass, putting from my mind the thought of how many other women had gazed into that same glass. “Roger shares his thoughts with me.”
“His thoughts, Barbara?” asked Philip with mocking emphasis, stretching his muscular, unclad body across the bed in case I somehow missed his meaning, or the sight of his cock against his thigh. “Is that all the sustenance he offers you? And here I’d always believed you’d more a taste for meat.”
A year before, and I would have blushed, but he’d so thoroughly broken me to his ways that I felt more regret for honest Roger to be so abused than for myself.
“Roger sees me as a fit companion for his conversation,” I said, testy. “It is a pleasant change.”
“Oh, Barbara, Barbara,” he said, reaching for more wine from the table beside the bed. “Let him whisper whatever he will into your pretty ear, but his goal’s the same as any other man’s, to lecture his way between your legs and up your cunt.”
“Don’t judge every man by yourself, my lord,” I said tartly. “Roger speaks to me of important matters. He tells me of the growing efforts to overthrow Cromwell and h
is part in the plans to return King Charles to the throne.”
Philip groaned with mock dismay. “There you are, sweet, exactly as I said. He paints himself to be a glorious hero in your eyes, the better to dazzle you onto your back.”
“If that were true, then why has he told me of your doings as well?” I snapped, resentment making me use the secrets that Roger had sworn me not to share. “He’s informed me of the time you’ve spent in the Derby gaol for Royalist plotting, and how you’re likewise with him a member of the Sealed Knot, a group sworn to restore the king.”
Philip went very still with the goblet before his lips. “He speaks to you of that?”
“He does,” I said, realizing my sudden advantage. “Because he trusts me, and regards me as clever enough to understand such important matters. He has not only confided to me many of the activities of the Knot, but the names of members.”
His eyes narrowed. “What makes you believe him?”
“Because of his loyalty to his sovereign,” I answered. “And because unlike you, Roger has no reason to lie to me.”
“Or to lie with you, either? Is that where all these confidences are made? In Palmer’s bed?”
“You know none of that.” I pulled my smock over my head, determined to leave. In truth Roger was either so shy or so respectful that he’d yet to press his suit beyond a handful of dutiful kisses. It was pleasing to be treated with such reverence, yes, but also puzzling, and I did wonder what it was about me that could make all other men desire me in an instant, yet seemingly failed to inspire the same in Roger. “Nor is it any of your affair.”
“It is when Palmer tells tales of me.” He lunged across the bed and caught the hem of my smock, holding me fast. “He’d no right to do that, Barbara.”
“Why not?” I demanded, looking down at him. “Do you fear I’ll carry your name to Cromwell himself? Do you have so little use for my loyalty as that?”
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