Devil Water (7 page)

“Were this my house,” said James gravely, “I would not receive His Grace of Richmond. Cousin Betty, I suggest that you stay closer under your lady mother’s kindly eye, she may be worried at your absence.” He softened the dismissal with his gentle smile, and Betty immediately took the hint and disappeared.

“Is
she
a cousin
too!”
Charles cried looking after the girl “Where does she come in, my lord?”

“She is a grandchild of King Charles, as we are,” said James. “Though a Protestant, of course. I’ve been amazed myself at meeting so many new relatives since my arrival. But ‘tis not of that I wish to speak. Sit down, Charles.”

The boy obeyed, and his brother sat opposite him and spoke earnestly. “I’m sorry you should find me singing a French song when you came in. There’ll be no more of that, nor of harking to the melancholy past at Saint Germain. I am an Englishman, and will so live in every way. How is it in the North, Charles? How is it at Dilston, which will be my dear home -- as it was my forefathers’?”

Charles felt the wistfulness in the questions, and he tried to answer them, though he made a lame job of it, and ran down completely when it came to describing Sir Marmaduke and Cousin Maud.

James nodded a little and said, “I see. We’ve none of us had happy boyhoods.” He stood up and, walking again to the garden window, gazed out into the darkness. He looked back at the years in France. There had been gaiety at times, picnics and hunting parties, the companionship of other young Jacobite exiles. There had been glittering ceremonies at Versailles where Louis XIV,
le roi soleil,
and Madame de Maintenon shed their benevolent but patronizing rays over the rightful King of England and his sorrowing, anxious mother. Yet now as James looked back at those years he saw them all bordered in black, the black of disappointment, of humiliations, and of homesickness. Not all the exiles felt that way; certainly Francis did not. Francis had not wanted to come home. Yet wherever Francis might find a gaming table or a horse to wager on he would be as content as his sardonic nature would allow.

To James, it seemed now that every night of those years he had dreamed of home. Of London sometimes, more often of the surrounding English countryside where he had once snared rabbits, and ridden his pony, or played by the flowering hedge rows, or collected robins’ eggs in the happy years before his father died. Lately he had dreamed much of the North which he had never seen, and yet the moors and the wild mountains up there were in his blood, as they were his inheritance.

Last year all the exiles had thought they would be going home. King James -- so wickedly called the “Pretender” by his enemies -- had at last persuaded King Louis to give him French ships for the invasion of England. The attempt had failed miserably. There had been bungling of orders, and stupidities, and then the young King had got the measles in Dunkirk and been too ill for action. More heartsickness then, at St. Germain, more anguish for the widowed Queen, who retired as usual to her frenzied prayers at the Convent of Chaillot.

The whispers had begun again, whispers that there was a curse on all those of Stuart blood. That moaning ghosts were seen in the shadowy couloirs of St. Germain, that Satan was heard to laugh from under the shabby gilt chair which served as “throne” to the exiled King. Superstitions these were, of course. James had refused to listen to them; yet in the sickly atmosphere of that pathetic sham court he had himself suffered forebodings, and once thought to have seen the ghost of the old deposed King James.

These ghosts had now been left behind, James thought, staring with relief into Dr. Radcliffe’s neat new garden, where the shrubs were as yet so small they could scarcely have hidden a cat.

James sighed and, turning, said to Charles, “I shall be grateful as long as I live to Dr. Radcliffe. It was he, you know, through his great friend, the Duke of Ormond, who prevailed upon Queen Anne to give us permission to come home.”

“I didn’t know,” said Charles. He added tentatively after a moment, “Did the Pretender -- that is, the king-over-the-water -- mind your leaving?”

The Earl shook his head. “No. He is content to wait until Queen Anne dies, when he will certainly be called back here to reign peacefully. ‘Tis the wisest course and in God’s hands. We’ll say Masses of Intention for it. Charles, I trust you pray for our most wronged and Catholic majesty daily?”

Charles looked blank. “I -- I haven’t, my lord.”

“Ah well,” said James with his quick, warm smile. “You will. And don’t look so gloomy! I hope we’ll all be merrier than we have been -- now that I’m home again.”

For Charles the next fortnight was indeed merry. There were festivities of many kinds. Musicals and balls, supper parties and theaters; there was a masquerade at the Duchess of Cleveland’s. Through Dr. Radcliffe’s hospitable drawing rooms there flowed a stream of the illustrious, mostly Tories and frequently Jacobites, for such were the wealthy old Doctor’s own convictions. Since the arrival of the young Earl and his family, Roman Catholics were also invited. Dr. Radcliffe was a dedicated Anglican, but he was also a man of the world, and willing to abey his prejudices to please Lord Derwentwater, for he was very proud of the kinship. Besides, he was rapidly growing fond of James.

So was Charles. In all his anxious, resentful imaginings about his-elder brother, he had never suspected that he might find James admirable, that he might feel love for him. Yet so it proved. James; was kind; despite his small stature he had a strong, composed dignity,-And James was exceedingly generous.

A fashionable green velvet suit and brocaded waistcoat were made for Charles. He was given a small flaxen tie wig -- not, naturally, a long full-bottomed one like James’s, which would have been suitable neither to his age nor rank. Charles was given a sword with gilt scabbard and hilt. He was given fine linen shirts with lace ruffles, and he even took to washing himself occasionally, so delighted was he with the young gallant he now saw in the mirror.

Two women also contributed to Charles’s new interest in his appearance. One was the beautiful Duchess of Bolton and the other was Lady Betty Lee, who became a frequent companion at balls or in a theater box, or at Dr. Radcliffe’s gatherings.

Betty Lee was nearly as unused to fashionable life as Charles. She was also sixteen, and this was her first winter in London, for she had been raised quietly in the country at Ditchley Park, Oxfordshire, where her father, the Earl of Lichfield, had retired from public life after refusing to take the oaths of allegiance to William III.

“As for Mama,” said Betty one day to Charles in the Radcliffe drawing room, “she had a baby every year or so for eighteen years -- and no time for gadding. But now all the older ones are settled, so Mama’s come here to see what the London marriage mart’ll offer
me!”

“How perplexing,” said Charles laughing at her. She always rattled on and it was hard to take her seriously.

This was on a snowy twilight two days before Christmas, and Dr. Radcliffe had asked several friends to drop in for a collation -- coffee or chocolate, cakes and madeira. Lady Lichfield had arrived early with Betty. She bestowed an absent-minded frown on Charles but allowed him to lead the girl to a sofa by the windows. The Countess herself drifted towards another matron, Lady Stamford. The middle-aged ladies each accepted a cup of chocolate from a footman, then settled near the fire to gossip.

Francis Radcliffe was at the gaming table in the alcove playing ombre with two Catholic barons. The elder, Lord Widdrington, was a Northumbrian, a spindling paunchy man of thirty with chronic indigestion and a touch of gout in his left foot. He played irritably, slapping down the cards and cursing when they were trumped. The other baron was little Lord Petre, who was only nineteen, undersized, and somewhat like a whippet. His round eyes darted anxious looks at Francis, who played languidly, never seemed to glance at his cards but always won.

Dr. Radcliffe had not yet returned, having been called out to treat the Duke of Beaufort, a friend so close and influential that the Doctor had for once accepted an inconvenient summons. The old physician was famous for his brusque treatment of patients, and for the offense he had once given Queen Anne, though his reputation was not thereby affected, and he commanded immense fees.

Nor was James present in the drawing room. He was closeted in the library with the Northumbrian lawyer Roger Fenwick and with Thomas Errington who had dropped by to pay his respects. The Earl was eager to understand all he could about his Northern estates before he went to Dilston.

Charles was unused to sitting in warm scented rooms, he longed to be out walking in the snow, sampling the giddy life of the great city, but it would be rude to leave Betty and, besides, Henrietta, Duchess of Bolton, would soon be arriving. Charles was fascinated by that practiced and seductive lady. That the Duchess was over thirty, and that Dr. Radcliffe was infatuated with her too, did not decrease Charles’s interest. She aroused in him a voluptuous excitement, and he had dreamed of lying in her arms.

“Charlie!” said Betty giggling, and pinching his knee. “Say something, you great booby. I dislike being ignored.”

Charles jumped and said gaily, “Oh, I was trying to picture you married, my pet, and I can’t -- no more than me. Has your lady mother found some likely takers?”

“Not yet. I’ve a fair dowry, but I haven’t the looks my mother and grandmother had. ‘Tis a pity,” she added flatly. Lady Lichfield, still a handsome woman, had been Lady Charlotte Fitzroy, King Charles’s favorite daughter, and a great beauty, while
her
mother had been the Duchess of Cleveland, best known to the world as the “incomparable Barbara Castlemaine.”

“But I think you comely,” said Charles awkwardly. He had not yet learned the easy bandying of compliments, nor did Betty invite them. Still she
was
comely -- despite red hair, big mouth, and freckles. Charles liked her, he was comfortable with her, and he found her smooth plumpness appealing enough, though he had no wish to fondle her as did various elderly noblemen, who were always stroking Betty’s round arms or chucking her under the chin as if she were a dairymaid. “And I hope,” he said grinning, “her ladyship finds you a rich titled husband who’ll dote on you and let you romp at every masquerade!”

Betty laughed, showing all her strong white teeth. “She had her eye on Derwentwater, and I wouldn’t mind much though he’s shorter than me.”

“James?”
cried Charles, startled.  “Has he offered for you?”

“Oh no. I said
Mama
had her eye on him, but she’s giving up hope. She didn’t realize how devout a Papist he is. He’s such a grand match that my father’d overlook that, but my Lord Derwentwater wouldn’t.”

“No,” said Charles. He could not imagine James marrying out of the Church, nor imagine him marrying at all, for that matter. James was agreeable to everyone, he made graceful speeches to the pretty ladies who fluttered around him, yet there was something untouchable and solitary about him. Still, marry he would, of course. The name, the title, the estates must all be carried on, and already Charles knew that his brother would never let selfish inclination stand in the way of family duty.

The drawing room door opened, the supercilious footman stalked in and announced, “Her Grace the Duchess of Bolton” to the ceiling, then stalked out again.

“Oh gemini!” cried Betty with a flounce. “Here’s her high and mightiness and you’ll have no eyes for
me
-- what you can see in that painted old doxy --”

“She isn’t!” said Charles indignantly. “Sh-h.” He stood up, preparing to bow. Betty stood up and sank into a curtsey. At the gaming table Francis quietly pulled towards him the ten guineas he had just won from the others, then stood up, his narrow face expressionless. Little Lord Petre rose eagerly, craning to see the Beauty. Lord Widdrington muttered something, belched, and hauled himself up onto his good leg. By the fireplace the Ladies Lichfield and Stamford rose in a sedate, reluctant manner and exchanged a look of exasperation. The Duchess was no favorite with her own sex, and though by marriage she far outranked these ladies they considered that, in view of her dubious parentage, her superior airs were ridiculous. To be sure, Henrietta Crofts was an acknowledged Stuart, but a tarnished one since she was only the natural daughter of the illegitimate Duke of Monmouth, who had been beheaded after his rebellion.

The Duchess entered, pausing a moment in the doorway, a vision in a new French gown of flowing violet taffeta garnished with brilliants. Two long blank curls hung forward over naked white shoulders and down to her slender tight-corseted waist. She waited regally for the customary tribute of the indrawn breath, which duly came from Charles and Lord Petre, then she undulated into the drawing room on a wave of musk and sweet tinkling laughter. She was followed by two admirers, for Henrietta never moved without an entourage. Today these were a red-faced country baronet, Sir Coplestone Bamfylde, and a cadet of her husband’s house, a simpering coxcombe called Mr. Paulet who made himself generally useful in return for lodging and an allowance. There was also a small turbaned blackamoor page who carried the Duchess’ fan and pomander ball.

The Duchess inclined her graceful head in recognition of the various bows and curtsies which greeted her, and her sapphire eyes roamed lightly over the assembled faces. “The worthy Doctor is not present?” she asked with a delicious pout of her rouged lips. Her blue gaze rested on Francis because she had found him bafflingly unresponsive to her charms.

Francis bowed again. “
Il
est sorti, madame,”
he replied.
“Il
va revenir tout a l’heure.”
Francis spoke French because he preferred it to English, and also because he knew it embarrassed the Duchess, who understood little of the language. His squint gave the effect of his looking past her, and she turned away with a petulant shrug.

“Well,” she said, “then someone must amuse me until my dear Doctor appears -- not you gentlemen who have put yourselves to such endless trouble in my behalf already.” She gave Sir Coplestone and Paulet an enchanting smile and a dismissing wave of her white beringed hand, “But
you,
sir!” She turned the smile full upon Charles, who crimsoned to his eartips. “If,” went on the Duchess smoothly, “Lady Elizabeth will be so good as to yield her place on the sofa?”