Royal Harlot

by Susan Holloway Scott

  This night was no different, save that I was winning handsomely, nearly fifty guineas and the evening still young. This may not seem so vast a sum, I know, but in those days the captain of a ship of war earned but twenty pounds a year, and my own maidservant Wilson subsisted nicely on her four pounds for the same twelve-month.

  Suddenly, after playing his hand, the Duke of Gloucester tossed down his cards, pushed his chair away from the table, and stood, holding to the back for support. This was not like him: he drank even less than his brother, and he was so fervent a gamester that he’d never willingly leave the table.

  “What’s amiss, Henry?” Charles asked cheerfully. “You can’t leave with Mrs. Palmer winning like this. It’s bad luck for the rest of us.”

  But Henry only shook his head, his color poor and his eyes dull. “Forgive me, sir, but I must withdraw,” he said. “I’m not well.”

  “Then take to your bed, Henry,” Charles said. “Go on, that’s the best thing in the world for you, so long as you take your lady for companionship.”

  While the others laughed, Henry retreated, his current mistress darting after him as if fearing to disobey the king. She was a small gold-haired girl, very young, whose name I no longer recall, nor did it matter, considering what we all learned the next day.

  The Duke of Gloucester was suffering from the smallpox.

  Because I’d had this foul pox and could come to no further harm, Charles asked me to call with him upon his brother, thinking to cheer him. But with Henry the disease had moved with astonishing haste, and by the time I came with Charles the next afternoon, the physicians were already despairing of his recovery.

  The room was stifling, the walls draped with red cloth and the fire blazing hot, as was the recommended practice to help draw out the pox’s fever. Henry’s handsome face was covered with sores, fever racked his body and slicked his hair with sweat, and he knew none of us gathered around his bed. At one side sat the Queen Mother, Henrietta Marie, small and wizened as a French monkey, along with James, and their sisters Mary, the Princess Royal from Holland, and Princess Henriette Anne. It was a melancholy family group, made more distraught by the squabbling between the Queen Mother’s Roman priests and the Anglican bishops over which should administer the final rites. I saw at once I’d no place among them, and with a sad heart I murmured my farewell to the prince and left.

  The next day, Henry was dead.

  The stunned court was swathed in the deep purple mourning required for a royal prince. Grieving put a temporary halt to our parties and gaming, and the theatres that Henry had loved so well were ordered closed for six weeks. I’d never seen Charles so distraught with sorrow, nor seen him use his work for the new government as a way to ease his loss. Swallowed up in his grief, Charles could not bring himself to attend the funeral at Henry VII’s chapel, and sent James in his place to act as the family’s principal mourner.

  Much of the court pretended to be scandalized by this imagined slight, but I knew better. Henry’s death had left a tattered hole in our little circle that could never be mended or filled. But the question of another Stuart heir was a different matter entirely.

  Whether I liked it or not, wished it or not, for the sake of England it was time for Charles to take a queen.

  Chapter Eleven

  KING STREET, LONDON

  February 1 6 6 1

  “A girl, mistress, a lovely girl!” exclaimed the midwife. “Well done, mistress, well done!”

  “A girl?” I raised my exhausted head from the pillow to look. In her hands, the midwife was cradling a squirming, muck-covered creature, still bound to me by the snakelike cord.

  “Yes, mistress, a girl, a beautiful, perfect girl.” I heard the first mewling cry, and then the babe was deposited upon my poor ravaged belly. “Your daughter, mistress.”

  Without thinking, I reached down to steady the baby, not wanting her to topple off after so much toil and labor to bring her forth. She was sticky with my blood and twisting in my arms, and as the midwife tied off the cord, my new daughter began to wail as if her tiny heart would break.

  “Hush, enough of that,” I whispered, my eyes filling with tears. I’d no idea what to do with an infant, not even my own flesh and blood.

  “Here now, madam, let me tidy her for you.” Wilson swept the babe away while the midwife finished tending to me.

  With dismay I surveyed the wreckage of my once-beautiful body, stretched and flaccid and worn beyond all recognition, and when I thought of how my pitiful seat of delight had been forced to stretch and tear to accommodate the babe, I wept anew. Once Charles had likened me to Venus herself, but now—what man, let alone a king, could ever find pleasure in me again after this?

  “Will I ever be as I was?” I begged the midwife through my tears. “How, oh, how?”

  But the midwife only chuckled, wiping me clean. “Oh, it’s always the same with new mothers,” she said. “You scarce finish birthing one child, and already you’re planning how to entice your husband to give you another.”

  “Not at all,” I whimpered, horrified. If I’d my way, I never wished to endure such a trial again. “I wish to be restored for myself.”

  Mistress Quinn clucked her tongue. I was certain she knew the truth, either from gossip or from Wilson. Even though I’d retired from the court and the palace before Christmas, when I’d grown too ungainly to pretend to grace, Charles had continued to attend to me with letters, small gifts, even visits to King Street when he could.

  Yet I was not so foolish as to have demanded he remain faithful to me in my absence. I’d not heard of any other ladies having taken my place, but Charles was a man of such voracious appetites that for him to have abstained for so long would have been an unthinkable fast.

  “You’re a young woman, madam,” the midwife said finally, propping a fresh pillow behind my head, “and in fine health. You did not grow overfat with the child, nor was your labor long. I should expect you to recover, yes, but with an added glow to your beauty that only motherhood can grant.”

  “How long?” I demanded. “I cannot lie here idle forever.”

  She shrugged with maddening imprecision. “Some women need a full year to heal, madam. But for a lady of your vigor, I’d venture three months, perhaps four.”

  “One,” I said succinctly, and I meant it, too. I’d stayed away from court and from Charles for too long as it was to make my absence any longer than that. As soon as my lying-in was done, I would return.

  “Here you are, madam,” Wilson said, presenting me once again with the baby, now more agreeably swaddled in a soft woolen cloth, with a worked linen cap tied over her head. “Your beautiful daughter. She favors you, surely.”

  She set the bundled babe into the crook of my arm, and for the first time I gazed into her tiny wrinkled face. For her part, she stared back at me so boldly that I laughed through my tears.

  “Mark that, the saucy little baggage,” I said. “She’s my daughter, no doubt of that.”

  “Yes, madam,” said Wilson. “She has your mouth, and your lips, too.”

  “That fine black hair’s from her father,” Mistress Quinn said, as politic an observation as I’d ever heard, considering how both Charles and Roger had dark hair. “She’ll break her share of hearts. Have you chosen a name for her?”

  “Anne,” I said softly, a name common among the Villiers. I knew most women—and their husbands—longed for sons, but I was glad for a girl. There’d be no difficult question of naming her after either Charles or Roger, and besides, I’d know what to do with a beautiful daughter. I touched my finger to her cheek, marveling at the softness of her skin. “Her name is Anne.”

  But abruptly her tiny face crumpled and her eyes squeezed shut, her toothless mouth springing open to wail again.

  “What have I done?” I asked, startled and worried. “How have I hurt her?”

  “She’s not hurt, madam, but hungry,” Mistress Quinn observed. “You must put her to suck.”

&nbs
p; “To suck?” I asked incredulously over the baby’s growing cries. “But that is why I hired a wet nurse, to spare me that.”

  “The girl won’t come from the country until tomorrow, madam,” Wilson said firmly. “You won’t wish Miss Anne to starve until then, will you?”

  “She’ll not stop crying until you feed her,” Mistress Quinn advised, speaking plain. “You can suckle her for this day or the next, and not harm your breasts, if that is what worries you. There’s plenty of time to bind them and dry your milk.”

  “Very well, then,” I said, steeling myself. “If I must.”

  With trepidation I looked down at that small, demanding mouth. I knew a score of clever ways to suck a man’s cock, but not one for suckling my own daughter.

  “If you please, madam, like this.” The midwife arranged the baby in my arms, and guided my nipple to her mouth. “She’ll know what’s proper.”

  The sensation of Anne latching on to my breast and drawing my milk was astonishing, pulling as it did clear to my womb, and, in a way, tugging at my heart as well. I smiled down at my new daughter, her eyes now closed with contentment as she fed. I’d do everything in my power to see that her father recognized her royal blood and made her a lady in her own right. I’d lavish whatever I could upon her—gowns and jewels, pretty toys and dolls—all the trinkets and amusements that had been absent from my own dismal childhood. I’d make certain that she’d a dowry fit for a princess, and a noble, titled husband worthy of her heritage.

  A king for a father, and I for her mother: what babe could ever ask for a more splendid, more glorious birthright than that?

  “Barbara, my dear wife!” Roger hurried to my bedside and kissed me on the forehead. “I came as soon as I received Wilson’s summons. Oh, Barbara, who is this fine little person? Our son?”

  “My daughter,” I said defensively, holding her the more tightly. “I’ve called her Anne.”

  “Anne,” he said, his expression soft with wonder. “A good name, a saint’s name.”

  “My grandmother’s name,” I said, not wanting my Anne burdened with his saints. Roger’s mother was a papist, and in the last months it had seemed to me that Roger himself had turned more and more toward the Roman church. His conversation had become peppered with Romish sayings, and he now numbered priests among his acquaintance. I even suspected that he ventured to Mass like the Duke of York, and without telling me, either. With the Declaration of Breda, Charles had vowed that Englishmen were now free to worship however they pleased, but I’d never guessed that freedom would extend to my own husband.

  “Anne is a good English name,” I continued. “An Anglican name.”

  “Of course, of course,” he murmured, too enchanted with the babe to listen to me. “How beautiful she is! Oh, Barbara, I cannot wait to show our daughter to the world.”

  “Forgive me, sir,” the midwife sternly interrupted. “But you must take care of a new babe’s health. To parade her about before others and let her be passed from hand to hand, to haul her about amidst the uncleanliness of the city—that, sir, is to put her young life at gravest risk.”

  “I’d never do that,” Roger said, chastised. “I only meant to take her with me to Dorney Court, for my mother’s blessings.”

  I gasped, horrified, and hugged Anne more tightly in my arms. “What you truly mean by that, Roger, is that you plan to spirit my daughter away to your mother’s chapel and have her baptized as a papist, delivering her soul into the hands of the priests.”

  “Hush, madam, hush, don’t alarm yourself,” cautioned Mistress Quinn. “Childbed is a most delicate state for a woman, and ill humors such as these are a hazard for your condition as well.”

  “Yes, yes, Barbara, please calm yourself,” Roger said softly. “I’ve no wish to harm you or our child. Nothing will be done in the matter of baptism without consulting you. How could I ever treat my Anne’s mother with so little regard?”

  “I do not know,” I said, still on my guard. “But I will tell you this: I’d never dare make such a grave decision without consulting her father, and I’d hope you’d do the same with regards to me.”

  He smiled again, though I doubted he understood the depth of the truth, or the threat, behind my words. Instead he leaned forward to first kiss Anne’s cheek, then mine.

  “Whatever you wish, Barbara,” he said softly. “I know better than to cross you, even on this day when you’ve made me the happiest of men. Whatever you wish, I shall abide by it.”

  Charles was overjoyed at the news of Anne’s arrival, and promised to call upon us as soon as I was permitted to sit up, and the rigors of my lying-in were lessened. In the meantime, he wrote to me the prettiest letter imaginable, full of tenderness and promises for my future and for our daughter’s, which I carefully saved for her to read when she was older, as proof of her father’s devotion. He also sent as a token to her a handsome rattle truly fit for a princess, a large coral set within a silver handle with numerous bells and much fine engraving. For me came a pair of large, exquisitely matched pearl drops for my ears, all the more memorable for being my first pearls.

  I still did not trust Roger in the matter of Anne’s christening. Instead, three days after she was born, I arranged for the Anglican minister of our parish to come to King Street and baptize Anne in the proper faith. It was done with as little fanfare as can be imagined, with her godparents left to be named later. But at least now I could rest easily, knowing her little soul was preserved as a Protestant, and that whatever Romish tomfoolery Roger might attempt would be of no effect.

  At this same time, my stepfather, the Earl of Anglesea, perished of smallpox. He was buried beside my mother in the churchyard of St. Martin-in-the-Fields, where I hoped they’d plague one another for all eternity. Like my mother, he left me nothing, his entire estate passing to his decrepit sister, the Countess of Sussex, who never would deign to receive me. I would remember her later, I promised myself, and in a way, too, that would show her who was above, and who was beneath.

  But for most of that February and into March, I concentrated on regaining my strength and my form. I’d missed Charles while I’d been away, missed him mightily, missed his wit and his charm, his affection and his lusty skills as my lover. I could but hope he’d missed me as much. Like a warrior who readies himself for battle, I planned my return to court, determined to defy those like Hyde who’d try to keep me away from the king.

  April would at last mark the celebration for his coronation on St. George’s Day, nearly a year after his return, and the pageantry and show would be rare indeed. The first uncertain days of his realm were done, the shabbiness of exile forgotten. It was not just Charles who’d been restored to power, but the palaces and churches, the markets and shops and theatres—the life of the entire city had returned with him. Soon guests and dignitaries would begin arriving, adding even more luster to the court.

  I could not take part in the coronation itself, of course. Neither my beauty nor the king’s affection for me could accomplish that. Just as in the procession that had marked his return to England, nearly all of the participants would be men, and the few women permitted to watch in Westminster Abbey would be ladies from the highest-ranking families of the peerage.

  It vexed me mightily that I was not among them, just as it vexed me that for now my daughter was no more than lowly Miss Palmer. But I vowed that would change. As much as I longed to be again with Charles, I wasn’t returning to court simply to enjoy myself. I was twenty now, and already I’d squandered too much of my youth on idleness. A gentleman can rely on his intelligence, education, and courage to advance himself, but while the surest weapons a lady has in her arsenal are far more potent, they are also far more fleeting. If I wished to make the most of my Villiers gifts, I must use my wit and beauty while I could to advance my station and secure my future. I owed it to my little Anne to settle for nothing less.

  Thus when Roger insisted on taking my daughter to his mother at Dorney Court in March, I’d n
o choice but to agree. In the eyes of the world, he was her father, and had that right. It was better that way, too, I suppose, to have them both away from London now. Besides, the Palmers had even less wish to see me than I them, accepting my excuses so I could remain behind in town. I put aside the crystal cypher heart that Roger had given me at our betrothal, and instead hooked the pearl drops from Charles into my ears, ready for my triumphant return to court.

  To court, to Charles, and to battle.

  One of the first acts that Charles had ordered on his return was to reopen the theatres. Unlike Cromwell, he found no sin in plays or players, and unlike his father, he preferred to venture out and see the public performances among his people, rather than isolated command performances at the palace. Most startlingly of all, however, was how he’d ended the long-held ban of women upon the stage. Now instead of beardless men assuming roles meant for females, women actors in the style of the French theatres played the parts as surely Nature ever intended.

  For me, whose life had coincided so completely with the parliamentary locking of the theatres, seeing plays for the first time was both a wonder and a treat, and my enthusiasm had delighted Charles as well. There was no finer entertainment to be had—excepting, of course, the one—than a night spent at the theatre, whether the King’s Company in Vere Street or the Duke’s Company in Lincoln’s Inn Fields.

  And I found pleasure not only in viewing but in being viewed. Attending plays was the finest way to increase my reputation as the king’s favorite. Though I’d doubted the midwife’s prediction when I’d first heard it, my accouchement had indeed added new richness to my beauty, a soft luxuriance that Charles had noticed at once with demonstrative approval. I was commonly called the most beautiful lady at the court; no other came close.