As the van drove away, Claire spotted Andrew Kent on the far side of the stream. He was wearing his running gear, and he was talking with a pretty blond woman in a black raincoat, black jeans, and boots. She was almost as tall as he, and as they spoke their heads leaned together in a friendly, familiar way. Seeing him immediately brought back her regrets about yesterday, and, oddly enough, stirred some vaguely proprietary feelings. Who was the blonde, and why was she talking to Andrew in such an intimate manner?
“All right, everybody,” one of the constables announced, “it’s time to move on. There’s nothing more to see.” With a few soft murmurs of protest, the crowd began breaking up. A woman in pajamas, a dressing gown, and knee-high Wellingtons pushed past Claire. Her face was pale and her eyes were red. At first Claire didn’t recognize her.
“Dr. Bennet,” Claire called as she quickly caught up with her. “What’s happened?”
Elizabeth stopped and looked at Claire blankly, as if she didn’t know her. Then a flicker of recognition glimmered in her dulled eyes.
“Derek Goodman is dead,” she said.
Chapter Seventeen
12 November 1672
Whitehall
To the Rue de Varenne, Paris
After first begging your Forgiveness for my long silence, I hope you will appreciate that these past weeks have been filled with Obligations and Duties attached to my new office of Master of the Great Wardrobe, a position which cost me prettily but has yet to Reimburse me for my Pains.
For more than a month now I have been back at Whitehall, and a miserable Prospect it is. The long, sodden English winter has already begun and the Palace is none the better for it. As you have never had the dubious Pleasure of a visit to our Monarch’s favorite Residence, I shall provide you with a Picture: it is a jumble of disparate buildings, courtyards, and galleries without Cohesion or Style, having been built at various times by various Kings, and generally allowed to fall into Ruin during the Interregnum. From where I now sit in my Lord Arlington’s chambers, I have what is considered one of the finest Views, encompassing the Palace’s main courtyard and the relatively new Banqueting House, but nothing here compares to the serene and well-planned Palaces of King Louis; even that rustic hunting Lodge at Versailles he is currently rebuilding is more luxurious than the most part of Whitehall. However, this in no way lessens the Machinations, Bribery, and tooth-and-nail Struggles of courtiers to procure rooms here. There is never enough for the Scores who want to be near the King and the opportunity for Advancement, as the only way to achieve Wealth is to be here at the center of power. My own lodgings are near the river on the Scotland yard, and their Condition is such that I am already wistful for my former digs in Paris in your excellent and very gracious home. My Whitehall rooms are flooded at least once a Year, and stink of the Thames and the cook-smells from the nearby privy Kitchens.
The King’s finances being what they are—even after the Stop of the Exchequer earlier this year, when the Crown refused to pay the interest on its outstanding loans and so Bankrupted some goldsmiths and turned the City upside down—he has but few funds set aside for Improvements, except to his own suite, of course, and those of his family and his Mistresses. The best lodgings by far are those occupied by Mademoiselle de Keroualle, installed near the King in what used to be the Queen’s quarters. The young Mademoiselle seems determined to reproduce the Louvre in her extensive suite; in less than two years, she has had it redecorated three times. Speaking of whom, I have much to tell—but for the moment my Lord beckons, and I must be at his Service.
It was nothing, really; he asked me to fetch a Clerk so he could dictate a letter, a Task which he is now engaged upon. I have largely closed my ears to him so that I may write to you undisturbed, but a few words pierce my self-imposed Deafness: “beggaring bastards,” and “indigested vomit of the sea,” he says, which indicates to me that he is writing to someone about the Dutch. He does not hate the Dutch, but it behooves the King to be at War with them at present; and whatever the King wants, Arlington supplies, regardless of his convictions (although I am not entirely certain that my Lord has any). Indeed, Arlington has a Dutch wife whom he loves immoderately for reasons no one can Fathom. She has no Beauty and her marriage Portion was so meager that it was spent almost at once. They are always a step away from Ruin and live well beyond their Means, for they love fine things and love to Entertain, but my Lord Arlington was not born to Wealth and so finds it necessary to cling to Office for his income. I believe it is this, rather than reasons of Religion or Politics, that makes him believe France the best pattern in the world; the more absolute Charles’s power, the more my Lord is free to Benefit as he can, without interference from Parliament. He is lately much aggrieved by the King’s appointment of his former protégé Thomas Clifford to the office of Lord Treasurer, a post which he coveted for himself. He feels Betrayed and now considers Clifford a most ungrateful Wretch. But he has only himself to blame, for though the King values him highly, His Majesty is also well aware of my Lord’s spendthrift ways, and for this reason made Clifford Treasurer instead of him.
Arlington has a great estate at Euston where the King’s year-long courtship of Mlle. de Keroualle was finally Consummated, with much Direction given to the pretty little Breton by my Lord and Lady Arlington. They staged a mock Wedding between the Mademoiselle and the King, to make her the more easy about giving to the King the only Riches she possessed without in return becoming Queen. Of course now that she has given the King a child (one of thirteen at last count, although there may be more who are unknown or unrecognized; the King’s fecundity is such that when he was once addressed as “the father of the people,” Lord Buckingham quipped, “Yes, a good many of them”), the news of her Triumph has spread throughout England and the Continent, and no woman could be more self-pleased than she.
Until of late, when matters have taken a decided Turn against her. It is mainly for the following (although what I have written above also requires your utmost Discretion) that I ask you to burn this Epistle once you have read it. The King has passed on to the young Mademoiselle an Affliction which he likely got from some backstairs doxy. Arlington and Madame Severin go to great lengths to keep this matter Private, though you know as well as I this sort of Secret cannot be Concealed for long. And when it is known, there will be jockeying for Power such as has rarely been seen, as every Minister tries to capture the King’s attention by dangling in front of him yet another Miss. “And howe’er so weak and slender be the string/Bait it with a Whore, and it will hold a King.”
They have gone so far as to bring in a doctor whom no one would recognize or even suspect of practicing Physick. She is the daughter—yes, daughter—of Charles Briscoe, whom you may recall performed the Post-mortem on Princess Henriette-Anne; and who confirmed that there was no Poison in her, but that her death came about by Natural Means. Though this was no Comfort to the King, who, when told of his sister’s demise, collapsed with Grief. Dr. Briscoe was renowned for (among other remedies and skills) his curative treatment for the Clap. Many courtiers availed themselves of his Service, even my Lord Arlington, I believe, in his incontinent years before his marriage.
I must end this for now, but promise to write again soon. I will forgo the excessive Compliments and Praise of a less familiar correspondent in the knowledge that our intimacy is above the common niceties of strangers. Please know that I remain
Your most Humble & Obedient, &c.
Ralph Montagu dusts his letter with powder as Arlington dismisses his clerk with a wave of his hand. Montagu waits for the ink to dry while looking out the window at the desolate view. Miserable English rain pours down on the palace courtyard, on the Banqueting House, on the offices of the king’s ministers and secretaries, stewards and masters, comptrollers and clerks; miserable English rain pours down on the workshops of barbers and carpenters and laundresses and cooks. God’s balls, Whitehall is a dismal place. Once he earns enough in bribes from his newly purchased office, h
e will build a house for himself in the French style such as no one in London has ever seen.
Montagu stifles a yawn. On days like today his grand future feels much too far away. He folds his letter in two and suddenly remembers that he is supposed to be meeting someone. He has little inclination to go out in the rain. No matter, she will wait. They always do. This fact used to surprise him, but no longer.
Instead of stirring himself from his chair or going out into the inclement weather, he thinks of Mrs. Devlin. He noticed the resemblance between Hannah and her father. It wasn’t their appearance so much as the fact that they both seemed to possess lofty principles—in itself, a rare quality these days—tempered by kindness, although neither was inclined to suffer fools. He smiles to himself as he recalls the way she spoke to Sir Granville. The man might never have the courage to address a woman again—most surely a victory for womankind.
Montagu is drawn to Hannah, although she is not really his type. He regards her as a little too thin, not coquettish enough; and he generally prefers fair-haired, not dark-haired, women. Nevertheless, Mrs. Devlin has captivated him. He cannot help but like the quick understanding in her warm brown eyes. He likes even more the promise of her lush mouth; indeed, her lips are almost too full, as if in defiance of her fine-featured but angular face. A tiny fox’s face, wise and sharp, looking out from under all that raven hair. And she has something few women have: learning combined with passion. He wonders what it would be like to kiss her. Would she be equally passionate then?
A woman like Mrs. Devlin would set him down whenever she thought he deserved it, however, which makes him uneasy. Montagu knows that he deserves setting down all too often. Still, he is attracted to her. There is something in her eyes, something more than just her quick wit. He has to think for a moment before he hits on the answer: her eyes had seen too much suffering. He has never considered before how something like that could leave a person marked, but he is sure of it now. He remembers Dr. Briscoe from Paris; yes, the same eyes. Passionate, strong, perceptive. The kind of eyes it’s easy to get lost in. Montagu reminds himself that Hannah is not his type, and then it occurs to him that he may be getting tired of his type.
His meandering thoughts are interrupted when a solitary figure enters the courtyard. The man angrily strides across the rain-soaked square without hesitation, as if he were impervious to the storm, the head of steam on him noticeable even at this distance.
“Trouble this way comes,” Montagu says.
“Clifford?” Arlington asks. At Montagu’s nod, he gestures at the back of the room. “Go on,” he says, “get behind the curtains.”
“What have you done with him?” Clifford shrieks.
“Done with whom?” Arlington says.
“Osborne, of course.”
Sir Thomas Clifford has a rather pretty face, Montagu decides, even when it is red with rage. It’s not the first time he’s seen the Lord Treasurer in a temper; he habitually resorts to shows of anger in order to achieve his ends. Although no one else on the king’s privy council believes that Clifford deserves the king’s favor, he has it, and as long as he does his tirades must be endured. Although a tirade delivered soaking wet, while wearing a wig that looks like a drowned muskrat, makes his performance somewhat comical.
Arlington appears genuinely bewildered. “I’ve done something with Osborne?”
“Don’t act the fool with me, I know you too well. Osborne was supposed to be here three days ago with the money from France, and I’ve not had one word from him. What was his price, Arlington? How much did you pay him to relieve him of the king’s gold?”
“Good Lord, man, calm down.” Arlington appears genuinely concerned. “I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.”
“I’ve got Castlemaine and Severin and that brat Monmouth all banging on my door wondering where their money is. Why don’t I send them over here so that you can explain?”
“Are you telling me that you don’t know where Osborne is—or the money? He keeps a room on Drury Lane. Have you checked there?”
“He hasn’t been seen there since he left for France three weeks ago.”
“I’ll have it looked into, then.”
Sir Thomas eyes him suspiciously. “If you’re lying, I swear to God I’ll take you down to the Devil with me. And you know very well I can.” He looks to the back of the room, where Montagu is concealed. “And that goes for you too, Montagu,” he calls. “I know you’re there. I used to stand behind those curtains myself. Take care that you see what being Arlington’s favorite will get you—a stab in the back.” Clifford storms out, slamming the door behind him.
Montagu comes out from hiding. “You honestly don’t know where Osborne is?”
“For God’s sake, man, I am to be guilty of every black deed some idiot dreams up? I don’t have a clue where he is.” Arlington sighs. “Trouble this way comes, indeed.”
Chapter Eighteen
18 November 1672
HANNAH LOOKS ON with the other courtiers and their footmen as the king sits down next to Louise de Keroualle’s bedside and presents her with a golden box. When his mistress opens it, her eyes light up and she favors him with a joyful yet tender smile.
“Your Majesty, they are the most beautiful jewels I’ve ever seen.”
She displays its contents to the courtiers, Louise’s and Charles’s closest intimates: Lord Arlington, Lady Arlington, Madame Severin, and the king’s brother James, Duke of York. Nestled within the box’s velvet innards are two extraordinary necklaces, one of diamonds and one of pearls. The courtiers make the appropriate murmurs of appreciation and delight, much like a well-mannered audience attending a private play.
“A love token for my little Fubsy,” the King says, calling Louise by the pet name he has given her—Fubsy meaning plump, for her well-rounded figure—and chucking her under the chin.
“We’re humbled by this impressive act of random generosity,” Madame Severin says, offering the words that should have rightly been spoken by her lady, who is already busily engaged putting the strand of diamonds on her neck. The others smile and nod, even though they all know that the king is attempting to make amends to Louise for the sad effects of the last gift he inadvertently gave her. An objective outsider might think that it was the least he could do, but among those most concerned there is immense relief. The king’s actions are seldom taken for granted, as no one, even Arlington, is ever entirely sure of the course he will take.
Hannah has observed His Majesty for more than a week now, and she is beginning to understand what her father meant when he once remarked that the king was full of idle potential and contradiction. In appearance, Charles Stuart is supremely regal: well over two yards high, he towers over both women and men, and is very fit and vigorous in body, even now, at forty-two. He is sometimes referred to as “Charles the Black” because of the dark intensity of his eyes and hair, inherited traits from his French ancestors and his de Medici grandmother. His visage is saturnine and stern in repose, with a curling, sensual mouth and deep lines from nose to chin. But the king’s manner is never imposing or rude; indeed, his severe expression is greatly softened when he speaks. He is unfailingly polite and chivalrous, treating both the low-and high-born with equal consideration and respect. His court is marked by a relaxed openness that would be unthinkable in France. Anyone, even a servant, is allowed to approach His Majesty, and everyone in London knows that if they want to speak to the king they have only to go to St. James’s Park of a morning, where they will find him taking the air. His life at Whitehall is at best semiprivate.
The king prides himself on being easily accessible to his people, yet his ministers can seldom pin him down. He takes an unusual interest in natural philosophy, and can spend hours experimenting in his laboratory or observing the movements of the stars, yet he insists on continuing to touch for the King’s Evil—the laying on of the royal hands to cure scrofula, a disease of the lymph nodes in the neck, a tradition that began with King Edw
ard the Confessor in the eleventh century—thereby encouraging his subjects to believe in superstitions. He discourses on many topics but appears to have no profound understanding of any one in particular. A few times now Hannah has seen a glimmer in his eyes that she took for a sharp intelligence, only to be disappointed by his subsequent remark. Twice when this happened she caught Ralph Montagu’s eye and remembered his words: “You may see for yourself the depth of the king’s understanding.” Hannah wishes that she had not. She has little enough to believe in.
Of course he is the king and he may do as he pleases, but Hannah is sometimes shocked at his capriciousness. He is followed everywhere by a pack of small, liver-spotted spaniels that continually yap and run in circles at his feet; he so indulges them, they are allowed to relieve themselves indoors. A harried sergeant of the hawk trails the dogs with sponge, mop, and bucket. And the king is too often in the company of the young rakes of the court, some of whom are no better behaved than the dogs, for he will forgive almost any indecency if it is accompanied by beauty or wit. He attempts at all times to keep himself amused by empty and vulgar conversations and mirth. He abhors seriousness, and has a habit of taking out his pocket watch and checking the time whenever he is bored or vexed by someone’s company. The more experienced courtiers will scatter the moment they see him reach for it, not wanting to be in any way associated with the king’s displeasure. He does not seem to mind, or even to be aware, that people think him frivolous and foolish. Hannah had not thought it possible, but she has actually felt something approaching pity for Lord Arlington, who constantly waits on the king, attempting to get him to do this or that, and whose strain is always apparent, as the king seldom puts his mind to business.
The Devlin Diary Page 15