by Nina Mason
Maggie sputtered, unable to believe her ears. How could anyone be so oblivious to her feelings? Fighting to keep her temper in check, she said through a forced smile, “Thankfully, neither of us is plagued by the flaw of vanity.”
“It gladdens me to hear it, My Lady Dunwoody. For without virtue, beauty is naught but a golden jewel in the snout of a pig.” With a little bow, he added, “Now, if you will excuse me, I am meeting someone here who expects to find me alone.”
Maggie’s curiosity was as aroused as was her indignation. Who was this tactless courtier, and who might he be meeting in the Royal Chapel? She could only assume the rendezvous was of a romantic nature, though she was hard pressed to imagine the sort of lady who would find such a tactless buffoon an appealing lover.
Now deeply intrigued, she decided to stay and play the spy. It had been far too long since she’d indulged her passion for watching others enjoying the pleasures of the flesh.
Robert had been asleep when she’d left the apartment and would likely remain somnolent, if not altogether insensible, for the next hour or more. If, perchance, he should regain his wits before she returned, the valet or chamber maid could either see to his needs or seek her out. She was, however, quite certain he would not miss her, as she planned to linger only as long as it took to catch a glimpse of the lady who found such a conceited clown worthy of her affections.
And perhaps long enough to judge his performance. Surely, no one would begrudge her that small entertainment after she’d been cooped up for so long in the sickroom. Especially if she took precautions to evade discovery.
She let the door slam—to fool the oaf into believing she’d taken her leave—before slipping behind one of the immense tapestries covering the chapel’s rear wall. From there, through the gap betwixt the musty textiles, she could see the whole of the nave.
Within moments, the squeal of hinges shattered the silence. Her pulse quickened at the sound of the bolt being thrown by whoever had just entered. The rustle of silk petticoats and clacking of high-heeled slippers grew fainter as the gentleman’s paramour moved down the aisle. A peek through the gap revealed the back of a dark-haired lady in an elegant, midnight-blue mantua. Maggie kept one eye on the woman as she made her way toward her lover, who still stood at the foot of the altar.
Surely, they did not plan to make the beast with two backs right here in the chapel. On the other hand, how deliciously wicked it would be to observe such an act of sacrilege.
How still and hush she kept behind her tapestry. It soon became clear she need not fear being found out, as the lovers had eyes for none but each other. After embracing the lady, the man proceeded instantly to essentials. Freeing the lady’s breasts from her stays, he set upon them in the manner of a hungry beggar presented with a shoulder of mutton. After mauling her paps thusly for a time, he guided his lover to the face of the pew box, where he pinned her shoulders whilst she hiked up her petticoats.
As he stood over her, gazing greedily upon his goal, Maggie strained to see his partner’s face, if for no other reason than to ascertain which of her peers had such appalling taste in men. To her vexation, the woman kept her face turned away.
The gentleman, breeches now unbuttoned, held in his hand the probable reason for the lady’s attraction. Never before had Maggie beheld a phallus of such immense proportions. Not even the dildol she called Goliath could hold a candle to the stiff, saber-like appendage the courtier now stroked in the manner of a favorite dog.
At least his substantial endowment partially explained his arrogance—and very possibly the lady’s reasons for choosing such a codfish for a lover.
After a few more good strokes, he penetrated his partner—or Maggie assumed intercourse had been achieved, given the jackrabbit thrusting that ensued. The pew box upon which they performed the act now shook so violently, she began to fear God’s wrath might be in part responsible. So loud was the banging, in fact, she could scarcely hear the sighs, murmurs, and heaving breathing accompanying the action—the sight of which made her yearn to be similarly engaged.
With her husband, not this clumsy buffoon.
Whilst she watched the pair go at it, she stole a hand up her petticoats, set upon her inflamed clitoris, and quickly achieved her release.
After recovering her composure, Maggie returned her attention to the nave. The couple had just finished and, as the gentleman made to withdraw, the lady pulled him back and began kissing his mouth, petting his face, and stroking his hair. All of these displays of affection he received with an air of indifference and coolness that made Maggie sorry for the lady.
Shock supplanted her pity when the lady at last turned her way. The face belonged to none other than her own half-sister, Princess Anne.
Princess Anne, who was married to Prince George of Denmark—not the man she now doted upon.
Princess Anne, who always acted so holier than thou.
Princess Anne, who paid lip service to religious tolerance whilst treating all Catholics with barely veiled contempt.
Princess Anne, whose avowed allegiance to their father Maggie trusted not in the least.
All at once, she saw the princess—and her clandestine assignation—with renewed distrust. What if the pair met in secret to exchange more than bodily fluids? Now, Maggie really had to know the gentleman’s identity—so she could warn her father to be wary of him in addition to Anne. Maybe now the king would open his eyes to the truth about his Janus of a daughter, and employ the necessary precautions to armor himself against her duplicity.
As the gentleman started to leave, Maggie held her breath and pressed her back hard against the wall. Upon reaching the door, he released the bolt before turning back to the princess, who remained at the altar.
“Oh—I nearly forgot,” he said. “Your father’s bastard daughter has been availing herself of your private chapel.”
Anne’s dark eyes flamed with rage. “How dare she defile my sanctuary with her Popery! God be thanked, my sister and I were not bred up in that wicked religion, but are of a church that teaches only what is just, holy, good, and profitable to salvation.” With a laugh she added, “Though Catholics love to claim theirs as The One True Faith, such assertions are as false as the idols they worship. For, as you and I both know, it is indisputable fact that the Church of England is the only true church.”
Fury surged through Maggie’s bloodstream. What hypocrisy, dishonesty, and self-delusion! How could the woman put on such pious airs when she’d just broken her marriage vows? In a place of worship, no less. How were her actions just, holy, or good? Last time Maggie checked, God’s Holy Commandments specifically prohibited adultery. Moreover, Anne was mistaken about Catholics worshiping idols. The statues they prayed to merely symbolized the spirits of the saints and martyrs who interceded in human affairs.
Catholics worshipped only the Holy Trinity, just as Protestants did. To state otherwise was a misrepresentation, which Anne, being born of Catholic parents, surely knew.
Furthermore, to claim the Church of England was the only true church was downright laughable. Everybody knew Anglicanism only existed separate from Catholicism because King Henry VIII wanted a divorce from Catherine of Aragon, his queen of twenty years, so he could marry Anne Boleyn—the mistress he later beheaded for committing adultery. How could a religion founded upon sin be the one true church?
Maggie gritted her teeth and balled her fists to keep from leaping from her hiding place and wringing her half-sister’s neck. Wait until she told her father what she’d overheard—and witnessed with her own two eyes!
But, alas. If she told on the princess, she’d have to admit she’d trespassed upon Anne’s place of worship in defiance of her father’s orders. Worse yet, she’d have to confess to eavesdropping and voyeurism, which would only make him think less of her than was already the case.
Yes, he doted upon her, but Maggie still sensed she stood lower in his esteem than did Anne and Mary. Despite being his only Catholic and truly loyal
daughter. And she was definitely inferior to her sisters in the eyes of the other courtiers. She was a bastard child, after all, and, though a duchess by marriage, would never be queen. Unlike her sisters, both of whom were titled princesses by birth as well as wedlock.
If Queen Mary failed to produce an heir—and, given her history of miscarriages, the odds were against it—Princess Mary would take the throne next, followed by Anne. And all the known Catholics, including their illegitimate half-sister and her husband, would be expelled from the court.
Maggie’s thoughts turned sharply to Robert. Though she’d been away from his side for too long and needed to get back, she was trapped here as long as Anne remained. God alone knew what the princess would do if she discovered she’d been spied upon—or what depths Maggie might sink to if confronted by the back-stabbing bitch.
No, better to stay hidden until the coast was clear.
As the minutes ticked by, Maggie grew restless, frustrated, and fatigued. Why would the two-faced shrew not leave? Finally, Anne did go, God be thanked. After a reasonable interval, when Maggie was sure she would not be seen, she stole out of the chapel and crept down the hall to her apartment. Tiptoeing into the bedroom, she found Robert still asleep. The relief that washed through her soon gave way to a deep pang of longing. He might not have missed her, but she definitely had missed him—rather fiercely—and could not bear the thought of doing without him for the rest of her days.
* * * *
In his few moments of lucidity, Robert mostly prayed.
Almighty everlasting God, who with wisdom and fatherly goodness disposest of the destiny of mankind, and directest all things to our highest good, thou hast now laid me on a bed of sickness, and with merciful intention hast sent me a painful trial. Vouchsafe unto me Christian patience, and strengthen my trust in thy goodness, that I may neither be feeble-minded and despondent, nor murmur against thy wise decrees.
When he slept, he dreamed of being at his mother’s breast, suckling as if a wee bairn. The dream seemed so real he could feel the softness of her flesh against his cheek, smell her familiar floral scent, and taste the sweetness of her milk upon his tongue.
Thou art my Father, equally tender both in the time of sickness and in the time of health. I am in thy hands, and thou wilt not forsake thy servant at a moment when he standeth in such sore need of thy assistance. Dispose of me according to thy holy pleasure. My will through life, both in suffering and in death, shall be one with thine.
Maggie seemed always at his bedside, cooling his fevered brow with cold cloths, applying odiferous poultices, speaking soft words of affection and encouragement, and praying under her breath for mercy and the strength to endure.
On the third or fourth day, the king paid a visit. Robert, in and out of sleep and delirium as he was, heard only part of what passed betwixt Maggie and her father. He did not fear contamination because he’d had the smallpox back in the sixties, when he was roughly the same age as Robert.
“Fret not, my dear,” he heard King James tell Maggie. “For I made a full recovery, as you see, and I have every confidence your treasured husband will be as right as rain in no time.”
After the monarch took his leave, Maggie’s spirits seemed higher. Not quite sanguine, but less depressed to be sure. And for this, Robert was grateful to his father in heaven and his father-in-law.
With childlike resignation I will bear whatever pain or suffering thou sendest me. Only support me with thy grace, and come to the rescue of my weakness. Without thee can I do nothing; strengthen thou me, thou that art the stay of the weak.
Through the haze enshrouding his mind, Robert was dimly aware of Dr. Wakeman, who attended him daily to open his veins and administer vomits, enemas, blisters, and Small Beer acidulated with Spirits of Vitriol. No fire was allowed in the room, the windows were constantly open, and the bedclothes never laid higher than his waist.
“I believe the duke suffers from the anomalous variety of the contagion,” he’d heard the physician tell Maggie earlier in the day.
Or was it yesterday? He could not be sure, as all the days and hours seemed to have melted together.
“What is the anomalous variety?” she’d asked.
“Part discrete and part confluent.”
“Meaning what?”
“Meaning he could just as easily die as live,” said the good doctor. “You should prepare yourself for the worst, My Lady Dunwoody, if you have not already done so.”
Sometimes, Robert tossed and turned in fevered delirium, as terrified of being spared as he was of dying. If he should survive, his face would be peppered with pock holes. In his years at the court of Charles II, he’d seen great beauties so ravaged by the disease men would weep to see them, knowing what they’d lost.
At court, a lady’s face was her fortune, after all, and the smallpox was seen as a ruthless and indiscriminate thief who would steal her prospects, if not her life.
The contagion’s battle scars were less ruinous to men, of course. For gentlemen had more than their faces to attract a desirable wife. Only a very foolish woman would rank good looks above title, fortune, and connections when choosing a life partner. And any man daft enough to marry such a silly, superficial chit got the match he deserved.
Though Maggie was miles from shallow, his good looks had been part of the package when she’d married him. How might she change toward him if he were rendered repulsive by pockmarks? Would she still love him? Would she still welcome him in her bed?
The fear that she might not tied him in knots. For he would much rather die than be spurned by the woman he so adored.
“Rosebud,” he murmured in his angst, “I beg of you not to rebuke me.”
“Be easy, dear heart,” she replied, stroking his hair. “I perceive you not with my eyes, but with my heart, which will always see you only as the man I love.”
Her pledge helped to ease his mind, but did naught to relieve his symptoms. Bodily, he felt so dreadful he almost wished death would claim him to spare him further agony. His head, back, and joints ached intolerably and itchy pocks covered the whole of his body, including the palms of his hands, the soles of his feet, his eyeballs, and the membranes inside his nose and mouth.
Father, if it be possible, let this cup pass from me: nevertheless not my will but thine be done. Restore me to life again, if a longer life is more beneficial to me than death. But if thou hast decreed in thy wisdom to summon me away from this earth, I bow myself humbly under thy strong hand. I know it. Eye hath not seen, nor ear heard, neither hath entered into the heart of man what God hath prepared for them that love him. Lord, I love thee with my whole heart. Assist me, that I may continue and ever increase in this love, until I can say with the apostles, “I could wish to depart and be with Christ.”
Father, into thy hands I commend my spirit.
The vesicles seemed to enjoy a life of their own. When first they’d erupted, they resembled flea bites, which, within days, grew into small, solid bumps. Over the next ten days or so, they turned into fluid-filled blisters, which seeped noxious yellow pus upon bursting. The blisters then formed scabs, which hurt like the devil when they caught upon his nightshirt and bedclothes, making even the smallest movement unbearable.
In his darkest hours, when he longed for death, he would think of Maggie and wee Jamie. If he perished, they would have no protection…unless she remarried—a hellish prospect whose idea he could endure far less than the ravages of his illness.
Chapter Four
Two days had passed away since Maggie spied the lovers in the Royal Chapel, and Robert’s condition only grew worse. Dr. Wakeman still talked of her husband’s recovery, but she had begun to entertain doubts. The valet, her sole companion excepting the physician’s daily visits, had been convinced from the beginning her husband’s fate was sealed, and exhaustion had left her in no state of mind to resist his dispiriting influence. She tried to reason herself out of her fears, which the doctor’s optimism seemed to render u
nfounded. The many hours she spent alone with her declining patient, however, only fed her melancholy until she was fully convinced God meant to call her beloved home.
And far sooner than she could bear to contemplate.
On the morning of the third day, however, her gloomy expectation was almost carried away; for when Dr. Wakeman arrived, he declared his patient noticeably improved.
“His pulse is much stronger,” the doctor said after examining Robert, “and every other symptom more favorable than on my previous visit.”
Unhappily, the day did not end as propitiously as it began. Toward evening, Robert became ill again, growing more fevered, pale, and listless than ever before. Her anxieties returning with renewed vigor, Maggie washed him with cool water and offered him her breast, but he proved too weak to take nourishment.
Just when she’d reached her wits end, he sank into a deep slumber. Taking this as a positive sign, she dismissed Duncan for the night and sat up alone to keep watch over her beloved. As the hours passed, Robert’s repose grew steadily more disturbed. Watching attentively his constant thrashing, and hearing his mutterings of complaint, she debated within herself over whether or not to summon Dr. Wakeman at so late an hour.
As she ruminated, Robert sat bolt upright and, with feverish wildness, cried out, “Mother, I need you. Where have you gone?”
Seeing he was out of his senses and not knowing what else to do, Maggie set her hand on his arm, which felt feverish to a frightful degree. “Fret not, my love. Your Rosebud is here to see to you.”
Seemingly comforted, he lay back down, but remained agitated. Whilst attempting to make him easier, Maggie checked his pulse. Finding it faster and weaker than ever before, she determined to send for Dr. Wakeman without delay.