Father held up a coin between two fingers. “I’ll wager that Her Highness will produce a child in exactly nine months. Italian women are reputed to be notoriously fecund, the reason she was chosen. Thus I say nine months to the day, but a daughter, not a son.”
“There’s nothing wrong with a daughter, Father,” I protested, swatting aside his offered coin. Having a son by Lady Sedley had made my father as proud as a strutting rooster (or at least a strutting bantam), as if the production of another male was enough to make him a petty king in his own right. “There’d be no sons at all if it weren’t for daughters, too.”
Father smiled fondly. “I do not include you, sweet, for the duke would never sire so superior a daughter as you. But then, there was no crown hovering over your birth, either.”
“You know we’d never slander you, dear Katherine,” Lord Rochester said, winking at me. “We wouldn’t dare, knowing how quick you’d be to repay us in kind.”
“In kind, my lord, and in plenty,” I said, smiling slyly over my fan at him. “I believe in returning such a loan with interest, as any good friend would another.”
“Don’t test her, Rochester,” Father warned. “She’s only begging for an excuse to launch her attack.”
I grinned proudly. Still, I knew better than to engage Lord Rochester in such a battle, even in jest. Precocious though I might be for a lady of my age, I still knew that the earl’s wit was as sharp as his sword, and I was wary of becoming his target.
“Much safer to speak of the king,” Lord Buckhurst said, looking back toward the doors to the river as if expecting His Majesty at any moment. “The worst he can do is send us to the Tower.”
“Ahh, but I’ve fresh slander of a more interesting variety.” Lord Rochester leaned between Father and me with a conspirator’s gleam to his eye. “I’ve had it on most excellent and irrefutable authority that the Italian ladies have brought with them a certain special friend as a comfort against our chill northern land.”
Father began to laugh, and I guessed this must be an old jest between them.
“I believe I know this friend of theirs,” he said. “A modest fellow for an Italian, and despite all the places he has traveled, as silent as the grave itself. Not at all like you, Rochester.”
“Who is it, my lord?” I begged, for I hated to be left out of their foolery. “Tell me, if you please. If he’s part of Her Highness’s household, then I must know him. What is the gentleman’s name?”
The earl made a long, woeful face and sighed. “Oh, my cherub, I doubt Her Highness will introduce you to him. He is so wicked dear to her, so—so essential, that I warrant she’d rather give up her priests than share him with other ladies.”
“You torment my poor daughter, Rochester,” Father said, laughing harder. “Go on, tell her the name of this shy Italian-made gallant.”
His Lordship leaned closer to me, pressing his hand over his heart. “You must vow never to confess that you learned this from me,” he said solemnly. “The gentleman’s name is Signior Dildo.”
Signior Dildo. I flushed scarlet, yet couldn’t help but laugh heartily, too. It showed the shameless company in which I’d been raised that at sixteen I knew enough of these lascivious playthings (though I vow I’d never employed one myself ) to understand the earl’s jest in all its meanings.
Somehow His Lordship kept from laughing himself, and instead screwed his face up with mock distress. “Oh, Miss Katherine, Miss Katherine, pray do not laugh at the poor signior’s plight!” he chided dramatically. “If His Highness learns of the signior’s very existence in his bride’s household, why, he’s sure to fall into a jealous rage, or even a deep melancholy. Truly, what English husband could blame him, considering—”
But at that moment the king was announced, and even the infamous Signior Dildo was forgotten as the footmen opened the doors at the far end of the gallery. We’d expected His Majesty to come first, as was proper, but no one had thought he’d appear with the new duchess on his arm instead of his brother’s. It presented an interesting challenge: we all wished to see the lady for ourselves, but at the same time protocol demanded that we sink low in a bow or curtsy with downcast eyes before the king. Like the rolling tide of the ocean before the moon, we dutifully drew back and sank as his tall figure walked between us, yet at the same time we did our best to steal a glimpse of Her Highness.
I was the same, peeking up from beneath the nodding curls on my forehead. The king had already shed his boat cloak from his little voyage from Greenwich, and it was apparent he’d dressed with more care than usual in honor of his new sister-in-law. He was dressed with rare splendor, his dark gray coat and breeches picked out with silver and trimmed with loops of scarlet ribbon, the Order of the Garter embroidered in gold thread on the breast of his coat and a curling red plume on his flat-brimmed hat. His expression was easy and pleasing as he chatted with the lady (in French, a language they shared in common), his dark eyes bright with admiration. So it always was with our king and women of every age and nation; Father swore His Majesty could charm the fleas from the back of a mongrel, so long as the fleas were female.
As an Italian princess of an ancient family, Mary Beatrice was hardly a flea. But she could not have been any more dazzled by the king than if she’d been one of those besotted fleas, her hand tucked familiarly into the crook of his arm and her lips parted in breathless fascination as she listened to whatever pretty nonsense he was casting her way.
Of course it must have been the simplest thing in the world for the king to speak pretty nonsense to Her Highness, for she did indeed possess the great beauty that everyone had predicted. She was blessed with large, expressive eyes, white skin, full lips, and masses of glossy black curls: in short, the ideal of beauty in our time. Elegantly tall and slender without being thin, she knew exactly how to sweep her fur-trimmed skirts across the black-and-white floor as she walked on the arm of a king.
“What a divinely delicious creature,” Lord Rochester murmured behind me, and Father and the other gentlemen around me made happy, low sounds of agreement.
I felt the familiar pang of longing that always struck when confronted with beauty that would never be mine. It was not exactly jealousy, so much as a familiar, wistful melancholy. Gentlemen would never gaze at me with the same fervid desire, or smile at me with that kind of unthinking male approval that these gentlemen showered upon Mary Beatrice. Yet just as my melancholy was sadly familiar, it was also one I’d long ago learned to push away, a burden I didn’t need. As Father often told me, I’d other gifts.
Thus I forced myself to look past her beauty. It was strange to me that she was even younger than I by four months, yet already pushed forward to play the grand role of royal breeder. There was an empty, trusting innocence to her face that must have come from being raised in a convent in ignorance of the world, as Italians did with their ladies. No wonder the gentlemen here found her so pleasing, for an unthreatening beauty will always be in favor.
I wondered idly how much—or how little—she knew of this Court and the new life she’d have here. Was Modena so far away that she wouldn’t have heard of our charming king’s profligacy, or how Whitehall was lately ruled by his French mistress, Louise de Keroualle, the newly created Duchess of Portsmouth? Doubtless she’d been told the unhappy tale of how neither king nor duke had yet fathered the much-desired son necessary for the succession. But had she likewise been informed of the numerous bastards that the royal brothers had sired outside their wives’ beds? Did she know that at this moment, Arabella Churchill sat contentedly installed in her new house in fashionable St. James’s Square, awaiting the birth of her fourth child by the duke?
I’d wager that she knew none of it, a thought that made my spirits rise. She might have beauty, but thanks to my father, I had wit. It was no mean consolation, either, for vacant beauties did not long survive or prosper at this Court. His Majesty set the precedent for that. He’d dallied with more women than he could likely recall, but the
ones who’d remained in his life—Lady Cleveland, Lady Portsmouth, even my old friend Nell Gwyn—had done so by their cleverness, and their ability to amuse a gentleman who was both quick-witted and easily bored.
I was smiling as the duke walked past me, escorting his wife’s mother, the Dowager Duchess of Modena. He didn’t notice me, nor did I in honesty expect him to. There were so many of us in the gallery that he likely would have required one of his admiral’s spyglasses to have spotted me in that crowd.
No matter. As the time had drawn closer to my actually attending the Court in St. James’s Palace, I’d realized that Father was right, and that I would be wise to use this time to find my own place among so many strangers without being the scandalous center of their attention. It was, I suppose, one small advantage I had over a beautiful princess. No one would be studying me today and wondering if, after three wedded nights, I was already quickening with the heir to the throne of England.
But though the duke might not have noticed me, he was the one in that grand procession who caught and held my eye. He wore his magnificent wedding suit, a soft gray woolen fantastically embroidered with gold and silver honeysuckles and lilies and lined with bright coral silk. As splendid as any ancient god to me, he still was made to follow his brother the king, who’d claimed not only all the attention, but also his bride. For once it would have seemed more fair for the duke to have gone first, or so I thought, and felt a righteous indignation on his behalf. I knew what it was like to be overlooked, and there was no pleasure to be found in it.
“Ah, now, here’s Her Majesty at last,” Lord Buckhurst said softly. “If ever there were two women made to be sisters in misery, then it would be these.”
The queen had entered the far end of the gallery, and stood with her ladies around her, a dour scowl on her unlovely face as she waited for the king to bring the new duchess to her to be introduced. The two seemingly had much in common: both were princesses sent away from their homelands to marry strangers in a foreign country, and both were Papists, too. But the queen’s greeting to the younger lady was as chill and unwelcoming as she could make it, without so much as the hint of a smile on her ill-tempered face. Clearly this response had been planned, for every one of her ladies echoed her mistress’s expression, stony and unkind. The new duchess drew back, wounded and confused, while the king frowned and tried to make a jest to ease the awkwardness. A murmur of surprise rippled through us courtiers, whispered amazement and delight that we’d witnessed such a ripe and scandalous insult.
“There you are, Katherine,” Father whispered, close to my ear. “That’s exactly what you needed.”
“What, for the queen to be ill-mannered?” I asked, incredulous. “What need do I have for that?”
“What you need, sweet, is to be more observant, if you wish to prosper,” he said, his voice low and intense as the royal procession disappeared from our view. “You’ve seen Her Majesty behave badly, yes, but you’ve also seen more than that. She’s drawn her battle lines as neatly as any general, and with all of her best officers at her side, too. But given how weak her position already is at Court, and how little anyone cares for what she says or does, this was not wise. Instead of making the princess an ally she could most likely have controlled, she has chosen to view her as a rival. A foolish move, especially if the princess produces the heir that the queen has not. But then, Her Majesty has never been particularly adroit in such matters.”
I sniffed with disdain. Whether from an incomplete knowledge of English, her barrenness, or simply from her native character, the queen had no gift for Court politics. “That is true enough.”
“It is,” Father agreed shrewdly, “but you’d be wise to learn from how she errs, rather than simply to mock it. The king is already disposed to like the duchess. That’s clear enough. But because the queen has foolishly scorned her, he’ll now become Her Highness’s champion, too. Just as it has been a risk to be too closely linked to the duke, now there’ll be a great rush to be among his duchess’s circle. Perhaps she’ll even have enough power to draw her husband back into favor, too. If she can manage to conceive, why, then perhaps she’ll even be forgiven her religion.”
I nodded eagerly. “So you would have me ingratiate myself with her?”
“ ‘Ingratiate’ might be a bit strong, Katherine,” he cautioned. The crowd was beginning to scatter, and he offered me his arm to lead me away, too. “But it would do you well to learn what pleases her and what doesn’t, so that when you are presented to her, you’ll be so pleasing that she’ll long for more of your company, even your friendship.”
This had been Father’s own successful path with the king for as long as I could remember. He had made the king laugh with his offhanded jests, had entertained him with his poetry and plays, had supported him endlessly in the House of Commons, and had been one of his most reliable partners at the royal tennis court.
“Be agreeable, and ask nothing for yourself,” he advised. “That will make you stand out from all the others groveling around her.”
I nodded, for this, too, was drawn from his own experience. Father often spoke proudly of how he’d never once asked a favor of the king. Given our family’s fortunes, cynics might say that it was an easy vow for Father to keep. But there were plenty of other gentlemen who were higher born and far richer (most notable being the Duke of Buckingham), who hounded the king with endless requests for boons and gifts, so I judged Father’s restraint as a true and honorable one, and also one I’d do well to emulate. Besides, what could I beg from the princess that I didn’t already have?
“Most of all, Katherine, you must decide what is best for yourself,” Father said, giving my hand a reassuring pat. “Given the foolish, fawning young creatures who’ll swarm about the duchess, I can well imagine that she’ll find you the one lady of truth in the lot.”
“A lady of truth is not the same as a true lady, Father.” I smiled wryly. “I can only be who I am. You, of all others, must know that.”
“I do, Daughter,” he said, and winked at me as he’d done when I was a child. “And that is why I might fear for Her Highness, but not for you.”
Chapter Eight
WHITEHALL PALACE, LONDON
January 1674
As Father had predicted, there were a great many foolish, fawning creatures clamoring to make their faces known to the new duchess. But no matter how foolish or how fawning, the irritating truth was that many of them also possessed a higher rank than mine. No matter how impoverished, a highborn lady would always take precedence over mere Miss Sedley, for my father’s baronetcy was as minor a title as there could be. Thus, for the first weeks of Her Highness’s residence, I dressed myself with care and rode each day to the palace in our carriage, and returned home late that evening disappointed once again in my quest to be presented.
Christmas passed and my sixteenth birthday with it, and Twelfth Night after that, with the new year of 1674 beginning as well. Most of the Italians who had accompanied Mary Beatrice made their farewells in January, and began their long journey back to their homeland. The duke showed considerable kindness in permitting his bride to keep a number of Italians in her household. (The king had shown his wife no such courtesy; when they’d wed, he’d immediately dismissed most of the queen’s Portuguese attendants and all of her priests.) Countess Lucrezia Pretonari Vezzani would serve as Her Highness’s lady-in-waiting and Pellegrina Turini as her woman of the bedchamber, both dear friends from her childhood, as well as several lesser servants and two cooks familiar with her foreign tastes. To considerable grumbling about London, she was also permitted two Romish priests, Father Antonio Guidici as her confessor and Dr. James Ronchi as her chaplain.
But nothing could compensate for the departure of the duchess’s mother. Mary Beatrice was inconsolable, refusing to eat and keeping to her rooms to weep. This was understandable, for the duchess was only fifteen, and given the distance between Modena and London, she’d likely never see her mother again in this lif
e. I’d never been close to my own mother, given her madness, but if I’d been told I must bid farewell to Father forever, I’d have been inconsolable, too, exactly like the princess. There were already rumors that she was with child, which would have likewise explained her tears and, perhaps, her unhappiness. But her distress made for another string of days in which I wasn’t presented to her, another delay during which I fussed and fumed. How could I hope to win her trust if she’d yet to know of my very existence?
Yet I wasn’t idle. Far from it. As Father had counseled, I used my time well. Since I was now freely admitted to both St. James’s and Whitehall, I took the opportunity to learn my way about both palaces, sometimes with Father as my guide, but more often on my own, or in the company of a friend or two. As I did, I took care to observe as much as I could, just as Father had advised, to see such subtle messages as how one lord’s palace lodgings might overlook the flowers of the Privy Garden, while another was cramped and crowded behind a staircase. I learned the names and faces of all of the ladies who’d positions with both the duchess and the queen, because such knowledge might someday have use. I even asked Lord Rochester, who had made a tour of Italy in his youth, to teach me a phrase or two in greeting in Italian, so I might salute Her Highness in her own language.
Most of all, I began to increase my acquaintance. Following the manner of the king, our English Court was an informal one, and while I might have to wait for my introduction to Her Highness, there were no such formalities among lesser courtiers. People addressed one another freely wherever they were, and because I wasn’t some shy, unsure country miss, I was confident that I’d soon make the new friends that would become the allies Father swore I needed.
All of which explains how, on a January morning, I came to be waiting once again in the duchess’s antechamber while I hoped to be called. Beside my seat on a window bench stood another hopeful visitor, a handsome young captain serving in the Scottish regiment of Douglas’s Foot, new returned from fighting under Lord Monmouth with the French army against the Dutch. This officer wore his scarlet coat with dashing aplomb, the fat silk knot on his shoulder and his sword at his hip, and the skirts of his laced coat flaring at the exact degree to display his manly form. It was natural that we converse, we two being the youngest supplicants by many years. I soon learned from his own lips that his name was James Grahme, and he’d been born in Yorkshire twenty-three years before, and that his father was a baronet, the same as was mine.
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