by Jean Plaidy
‘They are,’ he declared, ‘too slender. I would admire legs that are plump, and not so long as Mrs Stuart’s. Most important of all, the legs I most admire should be clothed in a green stocking.’
The King burst into merry laughter, for, like everyone else, he knew that the Duke was referring to Lady Chesterfield who had introduced the green stocking to Court; Charles clapped his brother on the back and pushed him in the direction of the lady.
Barbara continued to watch this horse-play. She saw Lord Chesterfield’s angry glance at the royal brothers.
To think, thought Barbara, in rising fury, that I should ever live to see Chesterfield in love with his own wife!
She looked about her for the man whom she would invite to her bed that night. It would not be the King, nor Buckingham, nor Chesterfield, nor Hamilton.
She wished to have a new lover, someone young and lusty, who would take the memory of this evening with its warning shadows from her mind.
*
The Chesterfield scandal burst suddenly on the Court. It was astonishing to all, for Chesterfield was known as a rake and a libertine, and none would have suspected him of having any deep feelings for a woman, least of all for his own wife.
Music was the delight of the Court, and Tom Killigrew, one of the leading lights in the theatrical world, had brought with him from Italy a company of singers and musicians who had a great success at Court. One of these, Francisco Corbetta, was a magnificent performer on the guitar, and it was due to this that many ladies and gentlemen determined to learn the instrument. Lady Chesterfield had acquired one of the finest guitars in the country, and her brother, Lord Arran, learned to play the instrument better than any man at Court.
Francisco had composed a Sarabande, and this piece of music so delighted the King that he would hear it again and again. All at Court followed the King’s example, and through courtyards and apartments would be heard the Sarabande, in deep bass and high sopranos, played on all kinds of musical instruments, but the favourite way of delivering the Sarabande was to strum on the guitar and to sing at the same time.
When the Duke of York expressed his desire to hear Arran play the Sarabande on his sister’s guitar, Arran immediately invited the Duke to his sister’s apartments.
Chesterfield, hearing what was about to happen, stormed into his wife’s chamber and accused her of indulging in a love affair with the Duke of York.
Elizabeth, laughing inwardly, and remembering that occasion when she had first discovered that the husband she loved was in love with the King’s mistress, merely turned away and would neither deny nor admit that the Duke was her lover.
‘Do you think,’ cried Chesterfield, ‘that I shall allow you to deceive me . . . blatantly like this?’
‘My thoughts are never concerned with you at all,’ Elizabeth told him.
She sat down and took up the guitar, crossing those plump legs encased in green stockings for which the Duke had displayed public admiration.
Chesterfield cried: ‘Is he your lover? Is he? Is he?’
Elizabeth’s answer was to play the first notes of the Sarabande.
She looked at him coolly, and she remembered how she had loved him in the first weeks of their marriage, how she had sought to please him in every way, how she had dreamed of a marriage as happy as that enjoyed by her parents.
And then, when she had known that Barbara Castlemaine was his mistress – that woman of all women, that blatant, vulgar woman of whom there were so many stories current, that woman who had lost count of her lovers – when she had allowed herself to imagine them together, when she had seen how foolish she had been to hope for that happy marriage, quite suddenly she had ceased to grieve, she had come to believe that she would never care about anything any more. It had seemed to her that in loving there could only be folly. The Court was corrupt; chastity and fidelity were laughed at even by the kindly King. Her feeling for her husband died suddenly. She had stood humiliated as a simple fool; and she would be so no longer.
Then she had discovered that there was much to enjoy in the Court; she had found that she was deemed beautiful. Gradually this understanding had come to her, and it was amusing to dance, to flirt, to astonish all by some extraordinary costume which, on her beautiful form, was charming. Like any other beautiful woman at Court she could have her lover. The King’s brother now sought her; mayhap soon the King himself would.
As for her husband, she could never look at him without remembering the acute humiliation he had inflicted on a tender young spirit which had been too childlike to bear such brutality.
One of her greatest joys henceforth would be to try to inflict on him a little of the torture he had carelessly made her suffer. She had never thought to accomplish it; but now the perverse man was, in his stupidity, ready to love a wife who would be cold to him for ever more, although he had turned slightingly away from her youthful love.
That was life. Cynical, cruel. The Sarabande seemed to explain it far better than she could.
‘I ask a question!’ cried Chesterfield. ‘I demand an answer.’
‘If I do not wish to answer you, I shall not,’ she said.
‘So he comes to hear the Sarabande! What an excuse! He comes to see you.’
‘Doubtless both,’ she said lightly.
‘And that brother of yours has arranged this! He is in this plot against me! Do you think I’ll stand aside and allow you to deceive me thus?’
‘I told you I do not think of you at all. And I do not care whether you stand aside or remain here. Your actions are of the utmost indifference to me.’
She was very beautiful, he thought, insolent and cold, sitting there with her pretty feet and a green stocking just visible below her gown. He often wondered how he could have been such a fool as not to have recognized her incomparable qualities; he had been mad to prefer the tantrums of Barbara to the innocence of the young girl whom he had married. He remembered with anguish her jealousy of his first wife. If he could only arouse that jealousy again he would be happy. Yet he knew that he would never arouse anything within her but cold contempt.
There was no time to say more, for at that moment the arrival of the Duke of York with Arran was announced. The Duke was flatteringly attentive to Lady Chesterfield and it was clear that he was far more interested in her than in her guitar.
Chesterfield refused to leave the little party to themselves, and stood glowering while Arran instructed the Duke in the playing of the famous Sarabande.
But, before the lesson had progressed very far, a messenger arrived to say that Chesterfield’s services as Lord Chamberlain to the Queen were required in the royal apartments, as the Muscovite ambassadors were ready to be conducted to her.
Furious at being called away at such a time, Chesterfield had no choice but to comply with instructions and leave Arran as chaperon for Lady Chesterfield and the Duke. When he arrived in the Queen’s presence chamber, to his complete horror, he found that Arran was there. The Duke and Lady Chesterfield must be alone together, in her apartments!
A mad fury possessed Chesterfield. He could scarcely wait for the audience to end. He was convinced that a trick had been played on him and that he had been cunningly removed that the Duke might be alone with his wife.
So great was his jealous rage that he went straight to his apartments. Neither the Duke nor Lady Chesterfield were there; and the first thing his eyes alighted on was the guitar; he threw it to the floor and jumped on it again and again till it was broken into many pieces. Then he set about searching for his wife, and the first person he found was George Hamilton, his wife’s cousin and admirer; and to him Chesterfield poured out the story of his miserable jealousy.
Hamilton, believing with Chesterfield that the Duke must certainly have succeeded with Lady Chesterfield where he had failed, nursed his own secret jealousy. He could not bear the thought of anyone’s enjoying those favours for which he had long sought; he would prefer to lose sight of the lady rather than allow h
er to enjoy another lover.
‘You are her husband,’ he said. ‘Why not take her to the country? Keep her where you will know that she is safe and entirely yours.’
This seemed good sense to Chesterfield. He made immediate arrangements and, by the time he saw his wife again, he was ready to leave with her for the country; and she had no alternative but to fall in with his wishes.
So they disappeared from the Court and, in accordance with the lighthearted custom of the time, witty verses were written about the incident, and what more natural than that they should be set to the tune of the Sarabande and sung throughout the Court?
The Duke of York began pushing notes into another lady’s muff. But Barbara could not forget that yet another lover had deserted her.
*
Catherine was happier during those months than she had been since the days of her honeymoon. At last she was to bear a child; she saw in this child a new and wonderful happiness, a being who would compensate her for all she had suffered through her love for the King. She pictured him; for, of course, he would be a boy; he would have the manners of his father; yes, and the looks of his father; the kindliness, the affability and the good nature; but he would be more serious – in that alone should he resemble his mother.
She saw him clearly – the enchanting little boy – the heir to the throne of England. She built him as firmly in her imagination as, in the days when she was awaiting her marriage, she had pictured Charles. She found great happiness in daydreams.
And indeed the King was charming to her. He seemed to have forgotten all their differences. He declared she must take the utmost care of herself; he was solicitous that she should not catch a chill; he insisted on her resting from arduous state duties. It was pleasant to believe that he cared, for her sake as well as for that of the child.
They rode hand in hand in the Park, and the people stood in groups to watch and cheer them. She was quite pretty in her happiness, and she heard the people confirm this to one another – for they were not a people to mince their words – as she rode forth in her white-laced waistcoat and her crimson short petticoat which was so becoming, with her hair flowing about her shoulders. Behind her and the King, rode the ladies, and of course Lady Castlemaine was there, haughty and handsome as ever, but just a little out of humour because she had not been invited to ride by the side of the King; and surely a little subdued, for previously she would have pushed her horse forward and made sure that she was seen riding near the King and Queen.
Her face under her great hat with its yellow plume was sullen; and, when she was ready to alight, she was very angry because no gentleman hurried forward to her aid but left her own servants to look after her.
Barbara’s day is done, thought Catherine. Had this something to do with her own condition? Or was it because of the meek little beauty who rode with them and was even more lovely than haughty Castlemaine, determined that the people should not see her riding side by side with the King when his wife was present, and looking so charming, in her little cocked hat with the red feather, that everyone gasped at such beauty.
Good news came from Portugal of the defeat of the Spaniards at Amexial. The battle had been fierce, for the Spaniards were led by Don John of Austria, but the English and the Portuguese Allies had won this decisive battle on which hung the fate of Portugal. The English had fought with such bravery and resource that the Portuguese had cried out that their allies were better to them than all the saints for whose aid they had prayed.
Catherine, hearing the news, wept with joy. She owed the security of her country to the English; it was true that she had been born to be of great significance to Portugal. She looked upon Charles as the saviour of her country; and when she thought of that, and all he had been to her since their marriage, she wondered afresh how she could have been so blind in the first days as to have refused him the one thing he asked of her. He had given her the greatest happiness she had ever known; he had saved her country from an ignoble fate, and when he had asked her to help him out of a delicate situation, she had not considered his feelings; she had thought only of her own pride, her own wounded love. She could weep for her folly now; but it was too late for tears; all she could do was wait for opportunities to prove her love, to pray that one day she might be able to win back his affection which her stupidity had made her throw away.
Her simple-minded brother had given the English soldiers a pinch of snuff apiece as a token of his gratitude, and she blushed for her brother. Pinches of snuff for a kingdom! The English soldiers had been outraged and had thrown the snuff on the ground; but Charles had saved the situation by ordering that 40,000 crowns should be distributed among them as a reward for their services to his Queen.
She knew how hard pressed he was for money, how often he paid the country’s expenses out of his own personal income; she knew the constant demands made on him by women like Barbara Castlemaine, and how his generosity made it impossible for him to refuse what they asked.
She prayed earnestly that her child might be big and strong, a boy of whom he would be proud.
She looked into the future and saw a period of happiness ahead, for she was mellowed; she was no longer a hysterical girl who could not adjust herself to the exigencies of a cynical world.
*
Barbara was thinking seriously.
It might, she supposed, be necessary to have a husband again. If she was to lose the King’s favour, she would need the protection of Roger.
As the Queen grew larger, so did she; and was the King going to admit paternity of her child? It was true he came to her nurseries now and then, but that was to see the children who would clamber over him and search his pockets for gifts.
‘I see,’ he had said on one occasion, ‘that you have your mother’s fingers.’
He would always look after the children – she need have no fear of that – but he was certainly growing cooler to their mother.
She could, of course, threaten him; she could print his letters. But what of that? All knew of their relationship; there was little fresh to expose.
Moreover, there was a possibility that he might banish her from Court. She knew him well. Like most easy-going people, there came to him now and then a desire to be firm, and then nothing could shake him. Barbara knew that although his great good humour could be relied upon, when he decided to stand firm none could be firmer.
She began to plan ahead and called a priest to her that she might make good study, she said, of the Catholic Faith, for there was something within her which told her that she ought to do this in preparation for a reconciliation with Roger.
The whole Court laughed at the thought of Barbara closeted with her priest; she declared he was teaching her the tenets of the Catholic Faith, but they ribaldly asked each other what she was teaching him.
Buckingham approached the King concerning his cousin. ‘Your Majesty, could you not forbid the Lady Castlemaine from this new religion?’
Charles laughed lightly. ‘You forget, my lord,’ he said, ‘I have never interfered with the souls of ladies.’
Barbara heard this and was more alarmed than ever. She was becoming more and more aware that she was losing some of her power over the King.
*
Buckingham had been sent from the presence of Frances Stuart. He was no longer her very good friend. He had dared make improper suggestions to her. She, who had professed to be so innocent, had been by no means at a loss as to how to deal with the profligate Duke.
He returned to the Cockpit and consulted with Barbara. ‘It would seem the lady is determined to be virtuous,’ he said.
Bennet tried his luck but, when he stood before Frances and made that declaration in the pompous tones which Buckingham had imitated so well, Frances was unable to contain her mirth, for, as she said afterwards, it was well nigh impossible to know whether she was listening to Bennet in person or Buckingham impersonating Bennet.
The King also made his proposals to the beautiful young gi
rl. She was sad and remote. She did not think His Majesty was in a position to say such things to her, she declared; and even though she might incur his displeasure, she could only beg him not to do so.
The King, in exasperation, went to sup at Barbara’s house.
She was delighted to see him and received him with warmth; she was determined to remind him of all that they had enjoyed together.
She succeeded in doing this so certainly that he was back the next night and the next.
Barbara’s hopes began to rise; she forgot her priest and the need to accept the Catholic religion. She ordered a great chine of beef to be roasted for the King; but the tide rose unusually high and her kitchens were flooded, so that Mrs Sarah declared she could not roast the beef. Barbara cried aloud: ‘Zounds! Set the house afire but roast that beef.’
And Mrs Sarah, far bolder with Lady Castlemaine than any other servant dared be, told her mistress to talk good sense, and she would carry the beef to be roasted at her husband’s house; and as her husband was cook to my Lord Sandwich she doubted not that she could get the beef roasted to a turn.
This was done; and the King and Lady Castlemaine supped merrily, but all London knew of the chine of beef which had to be roasted in the kitchens of Lord Sandwich. It was known too that the King stayed with my Lady Castlemaine until the early hours of the morning.
*
Catherine, resting in the Palace of Whitehall and shut away from rumour, was waiting for her baby to be born. She had allowed herself to believe that when the child came she and Charles would be content with one another. It was true that he was enamoured of the beautiful Mrs Stuart, but Frances was a good girl, who conducted herself with decorum and had made it quite clear that the King must give up all hope of seducing her.
When the child came he would forget his schemes concerning Frances Stuart, Catherine persuaded herself; he would give himself up to the joys of family life. He was meant to be a father; he was tolerant, full of gaiety and a lover of children. There would be many children; and they would be as happy a family as that in which she had been brought up – nay, happier, for they would not have to suffer the terrible anxiety which had beset the Duke of Braganza’s.