The Puritan Princess

by Miranda Malins

  Jeremiah jumps to his feet at our approach and, brushing breadcrumbs from his gown, gladly follows us to our family’s private rooms. We talk easily of the music as we walk, of its closely knitted harmony and sweet sound, and it is not until we are settled in the deep blue-cushioned chairs of the balcony room, Katherine dispatched to summon cups of sweetened hot chocolate for us, that I come to the point.

  ‘I seek your advice, sir,’ I begin, a little embarrassed now at the topic ahead of me. ‘I have been … I have found myself very upset and fearful following the attack at Whitehall.’

  He inclines his head towards me. ‘I too, Your Highness. Grieved, in particular, that the villains hid the device in His Highness’s chapel.’

  I nod in sympathy though I admit to myself that this aspect of the offence hadn’t occurred to me. It was the proximity of the bomb to me and to my family that shook me to my core. It was not like the attempts taken before on Father’s life – the pistol pointing from the crowd. This attack could have killed us all, much as the Gunpowder Plotters had planned to blow up the king and his court assembled in Parliament half a century before.

  ‘But can this be God’s intention for us? For me? Before I have done anything of worth with my life?’ My eyes flick to Katherine as she re-enters the room and comes to sit beside me, taking out the sampler of needlework she always keeps in her left pocket.

  ‘I am sure that it is not God’s plan for you, Lady Frances,’ Jeremiah says, placing a hand on mine, his voice soothing as lavender oil. ‘He will intend a great deal of joy for you and your sister, I have no doubt.’

  I relax with his words even as the warmth of his large palm covering mine unsettles me. I press on. ‘I am glad that you speak of joy for I have been thinking that the search for happiness is the best and proper answer to the wicked designs of our enemies.’

  ‘A fine thought, my lady Frances, and well said.’

  Encouraged, I lean towards him. ‘And I wondered if you could give me any guidance on how I should set about this search?’

  ‘Well, my lady.’ Jeremiah shifts a little forward in his seat and settles his green eyes on mine. ‘God informs us that the greatest happiness available to man or woman is to be found in marriage. And, indeed, this is a state of happiness I have long wished to enter into myself.’

  This is not the reply I expect and it is my turn to hesitate. I smile to cover my embarrassment, aware anew of his hand on mine and of the quickening of my pulse. Out of the corner of my eye I see Katherine’s needle pause mid-stitch.

  Before I can take another breath, Jeremiah has taken my hand in both of his.

  ‘Perhaps we could find such happiness together, my lady,’ he says softly, eyes locked on mine. ‘We have long found a happy accord in our conversation and share a delight in music. Might this not be nourishing ground in which to grow a fine, lasting love?’

  The room spins. Dizzy, I am reaching around in the blank spaces of my mind for an answer when the door opens smartly, revealing no less a figure than Father himself. Jeremiah, Katherine and I freeze, fixed in a canvas of painted shock.

  ‘What’s this?’ Father’s voice crosses the room like a cannon shot. ‘Do you make love to my daughter, sir?’ His eyes bore into the unfortunate chaplain.

  I drag my gaze from Father back to Jeremiah and watch as the full horror of the situation floods his face. I dare not speak; it is Jeremiah Father has addressed, not me. Softly, slowly I slide my hand out of his and fold it underneath the other on my lap. The motion seems to waken Jeremiah and he springs to his feet, turning to face the Lord Protector.

  ‘Not at all, Your Highness,’ he says, his voice higher than usual. ‘This is not how it may appear.’

  ‘Then enlighten me.’ Father strides towards us, his weathered forehead crumpled in a frown, a marksman’s eyes trained on the chaplain. Though I know Father’s quick temper better than most, I am surprised at its ferocity.

  Jeremiah looks back to me but I have no inspiration to help him. Helplessly I glance sideways at Katherine but she is watching the scene with the same blankness. Jeremiah turns back to Father with a sudden torrent of words.

  ‘Sir, I wasn’t seeking your daughter’s favour as you may have supposed but … rather, seeking your daughter’s intercession on my behalf with another lady.’

  ‘Another lady?’ Father raises a sandy eyebrow.

  ‘Yes!’ Jeremiah dances forward. ‘Your daughter’s lady-in-waiting, Mistress Katherine here.’ He gestures unnecessarily to Katherine as if Father cannot see her for himself.

  Katherine’s sewing slides off her skirts and onto the floor. I gape at her before composing my features into an expression of agreement, though I am sure I do not fool Father; I have never been able to dissemble with him, he reads people too easily.

  ‘Mistress Katherine,’ Father repeats, turning his gaze on her, though his eyes catch mine for an instant as they sweep past me and onto her and I see them begin to dance as his mood shifts with customary speed. ‘And why, Mistress Katherine,’ he addresses her directly, his voice stern, ‘have you so rejected my good and worthy friend Chaplain White so as to drive him to seek help from my daughter?’

  Katherine rises to her feet at this but is struck dumb.

  My wits suddenly returned to me, I stand up beside her. ‘Please, Father, this is a delicate matter. You know how Katherine loved her poor husband.’ Jeremiah shoots me a look of desperate gratitude, though Katherine remains as still as one of the garden statues. I know I have said the right thing as Father’s frame softens and he takes a few steps closer to us.

  ‘William was a good man indeed, and as fine a captain as ever I served with. You know the love I bore for him, my dears,’ he says softly, his voice carried to the far-off place he visits when he is reminded of the men lost in the war. But Father summons himself back to us and sets his face in a sincere smile as he takes Katherine’s hand. ‘You know too that it is my love for him – for you both – that saw me take you into my household on his death; where you have been happy, have you not?’

  Katherine nods silently and I see the beginnings of panic steal across Jeremiah’s face, a panic echoed in my quickening pulse.

  We all wait on Father’s next words.

  ‘Well, then,’ he grins. ‘Let us have no more worrying about this. William would wish you to be happy and it will be a fine thing to see you settled again, Katherine. You will do well with the chaplain here. Will you not have him with my blessing?’

  I gape at him, at her, amazed at how this scene has swept away from me, not knowing how Katherine could possibly respond when her fate is snatched away from her in an instant.

  ‘I will, Your Highness, gladly.’ She smiles then, a faint rose blush spreading across her cheeks. I look at her closely and reflect that though Katherine is nearer thirty than twenty, with a thickening waist and eyes edged with lines, she is quite pretty. I look at Jeremiah, who is staring at her much in the same way, rapidly assessing her worth in the manner of an unsuspecting winner at an auction.

  But what else can he do?

  ‘Come.’ Father sweeps his grin over us all, dazzling as the arcing light of a lantern. ‘I will see you both married, here and now!’

  ‘No!’ Mary almost bursts as I reach this point in the story. ‘He couldn’t! He didn’t!’

  ‘He could. He did,’ I reply, as we pass through the grand west gate of the palace and turn in the direction of the stables.

  ‘So what happened then?’

  ‘Father summoned Chaplain Peters and a Justice of the Peace and they were married there and then. He’s promised them £500 as a wedding present.’

  ‘Good God. Chaplain White must have turned the colour of his name. And for Katherine to be married off like that.’

  I laugh nervously then grimace, the strain of the morning spilling out of me in a jumble of emotions and noises. ‘Oh Mary, it was awful! To see her future decided for her on a whim, because of my foolishness. Katherine went into that room a wi
dow and came out of it a wife without the least notion that any such thing would happen. I don’t know how I’ll ever face her again.’

  ‘Was she upset?’

  ‘Well, no,’ I concede, the thought cheering me a little. ‘Actually, she seemed rather pleased with herself.’

  ‘No!’ Mary said again, eyes widening with each new revelation.

  ‘She did! Of course she was shocked and dazed at first – we all were – but you have to admit that Jeremiah is handsome and very charming. She could do a lot worse.’

  ‘Frances.’ Mary’s eyes narrow at me. ‘You did not want him for yourself, did you?’

  ‘Of course not,’ I say quickly, but she holds my gaze until I know I must tell all. ‘But I confess I found the feel of his hands on mine, the pretty words he spoke, rather thrilling. I could imagine how the same touch, the same words of another man might send my head spinning.’

  Mary grins, her smile so like Father’s; of all of us girls, it is she who resembles him most closely in her features, yet also least in temperament. ‘Well, we must find a way then to become better acquainted with the gentlemen at court.’ She takes my arm and we walk some way lost in our own thoughts. The pungent smell of the stables drifts towards us on a strong breeze and we draw closer together against the chill, hurrying along the driveway and plunging with relief into the straw-bailed warmth of the stable block.

  The stables are a riot of colour and noise as liveried grooms and footmen bustle about, fussing over the horses, cleaning tack and carriage parts. I see the master of this domain and our brother-in-law, Elizabeth’s husband John Claypole, leaning over the farthest stall, in close conference with a groom, his dog Badger worrying at his boots. Another gentleman completes the group, standing with his back to us, dressed in a beautiful silk laced coat of deep evergreen.

  ‘John!’

  He turns towards us smiling, his dark curls springing around his rosy cheeks.

  ‘Hello, girls,’ John says brightly. ‘Come to see the new mare?’

  Mary pulls forward eagerly, her passion for horses an abiding love where mine, a brief childhood infatuation, has long since burned away. It is she who insists we visit each new addition to Father’s stables.

  ‘An Arabian!’ Mary says, admiring the large grey tossing its head before us. ‘From Africa? Fourteen hands by the look of her. Will Father breed her?’

  ‘I should think so,’ John answers. ‘She’s the best specimen yet. Though we need more like her and stallions too if your father is ever going to see the breed take root in England as he wishes; they’re the best bloodstock for racing horses, he says.’

  I catch up with Mary then and incline my head to acknowledge the gentleman in green who has bent his own low before me. When he sweeps up straight, shaking his tawny hair much as the horse does, I see that it is Robert Rich, the arrogant young courtier who danced with me at Lavinia’s wedding and then laughed at my family behind my back. The wide smile that is always my instinct shrinks into a shallow, polite curve and I fold my arms across my body, gloved hands lost under my sapphire blue shawl.

  ‘Lady Frances, I trust you are well.’ Robert pours his copper-rich voice on me and I cannot help but hear a sharp, metallic edge.

  ‘Perfectly well, thank you.’ I return my gaze to Mary and John, indicating that we should listen to their conversation rather than have our own, though I find myself hearing instead the words Robert spoke about us at Lavinia’s wedding even as I watch Mary and John’s lips moving.

  They talk a little more of the horse. How to acclimatise her to England’s weather. Her feed, mixed oats with a little bran until she is settled. But then the arrival of a liveried messenger with a packet of letters from Westminster halts the discussion. John scans the handwriting of the small squares of paper before making his excuses.

  ‘I’m sorry, girls, but I must attend to these at once. We’ve a fight on our hands if we’re to defeat your Uncle Desborough’s bill.’

  I am listening now, the memories of Robert’s insults pushed aside by a subject more to my taste than oats and bran. ‘A fight, John?’ I ask.

  ‘A battle.’ He nods. ‘Your uncle and the other Major-Generals who govern the country are short of funds and he is proposing to raise the taxes on royalists to plug the shortfall. If his Militia Bill passes, we’ll be living under martial rule for years to come.’

  ‘Poor Uncle,’ Mary interrupts. ‘He still mourns Aunt Jane; her death upset him greatly.’

  I look at her fondly. Mary always brings the political back to the personal; always thinks of how people feel before she considers how they act. Indeed the recent death of Father’s sister Jane Desborough had upset all of us. Not least Father who, as the only boy, never lost his feelings of responsibility for the women in his family even once most of them had married and left home. Still I struggle to summon much sympathy for my uncle John Desborough, always so stern and forbidding, with no time between God and his soldiers for his silly nieces.

  John Claypole inclines his head. ‘That may be, Mary, but it doesn’t stop your uncle being wrong about this. We can’t keep the army in power over us.’

  ‘And this bill is your best chance of killing off the rule of the Major-Generals for good?’ I say, remembering Elizabeth’s words yesterday.

  My favourite brother-in-law takes a moment to smile at me. ‘You have the nub of it, Fanny, as always. We have the numbers in Parliament to block the bill but it will be tight. And so I must leave you. Girls,’ he nods to us each in turn, winking as he does it, ‘enjoy the mare. Though, Robert – see that my sisters-in-law don’t take it upon themselves to ride her.’

  Whistling to Badger, John hurries away and Robert chuckles with the air of a man of leisure content to watch the industry of others. He pats the mare’s neck which now hangs steady over the edge of the box, her thick rubber lips exploring Mary’s palm. ‘She is lovely,’ Robert says, smiling at Mary as I watch from a few feet away. Still patting the horse’s neck, he glances over his shoulder at me. ‘Are you tempted to a ride, Lady Frances? Will I have to restrain you as your brother-in-law commands me?’

  ‘Frances takes little interest in horses.’ Mary is teasing me.

  ‘Oh really? And what is Lady Frances interested in?’ Robert looks at me but I set my lips.

  ‘My sister is a great scholar,’ Mary says, her tone shifting from teasing to proud, ‘with a fine knowledge of history and the classics. Though her love of books does not preclude an enjoyment of the outdoors,’ she adds quickly, eager I can see to paint a rounded portrait. ‘In the summer months she likes to read and walk in the gardens.’

  Robert raises an eyebrow. ‘Then she must take care not to fall. It is a particular hazard of walking while reading.’

  Mary laughs at that. ‘Not if you know these gardens as well as she does.’

  ‘Of course.’ He inclines his head to us both, allowing Mary the point.

  ‘I hear that I am to congratulate you on the recent and very sudden marriage of your lady-in-waiting.’ Robert drops his hand from the mare then and turns to face me fully.

  I am amazed that he should have heard the news so quickly. He must be woven into the web of court gossip like a spinning spider. Though, I reflect, with a noble name but no offices to occupy him, he will have plenty of time on his hands for idle conversation.

  ‘Indeed,’ I reply. ‘A most happy event.’

  ‘Of course,’ Robert says again and I wonder if this is what he says whenever he means precisely the opposite. ‘I love weddings. Would that there were more at court like your cousin Lavinia’s last year; a most spectacular affair.’

  I bridle at his mention of that day, calling to mind our brief intimacy, but Mary seems not to notice.

  ‘Wonderful, wasn’t it? Though I’m sure my sister’s would be every bit as fine.’

  I curse her inwardly for walking into his trap.

  ‘I do not doubt it,’ Robert chuckles. ‘And who is the fortunate gentleman to be?’


  Mary colours at that, realising at last that we are straying into an intimate topic. I feel my blush rising too and though with anyone else I would bat my eyes and manoeuvre a way out of the conversation, Robert inflames me to haughtiness: ‘I am yet to make my selection, sir. Though,’ I add, ‘I will be sure to inform you the moment that I do.’

  He bows to me. ‘Please do. And perhaps I can be of assistance to you in making that choice? If your candidates are the young gentlemen at court, you will find none who knows more of them each than I.’

  ‘Oh really?’ I scoff, hardly believing the brazenness of his words. ‘You offer your advice to me on this most personal of subjects?’

  ‘I can think of none better.’

  ‘None better than an idle gossip,’ I agree.

  His shoulders shake with laughter at that, a wolfish grin spreading above his collar. ‘None better than a young man well connected and popular at court, against whom you have – for some reason – formed an evident dislike and who would not, therefore, feature on your list of prospective suitors.’

  I stare at him, shocked into silence while Mary laughs nervously as she glances between us. ‘Come, Mary,’ I say when the power of speech at last returns to me. ‘Dusk approaches, we must return to the palace.’

  I gather her to me and walk hastily away from Robert Rich, the low baritone of his chuckles following us.

  ‘Consider my offer,’ he calls after us as we hurry out of the stables, knocking into a mortified stable boy in our haste to reach the palace gate, looming now out of the twilight.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Returning from Hampton Court on Monday, we find Whitehall in a state of nervous tension. The conspirators languish in the Tower and, though we know Thurloe to be busy questioning them, few details of their plot leak out of the thick stone walls of the Norman fortress. I feel an increasing unease as I walk around the palace, the sense of security I had felt in our country refuge slipping from me as I round each corner. While the doubling of the guards at every door should reassure me, the sight of so many soldiers only heightens my anxiety.