The Devlin Diary (16 page)

18 November 1672

H
ANNAH 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 Edward 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.

But ever since His Majesty returned from Hampton a week ago and came at once to see Louise, sitting by her bedside for more than an hour, Lord Arlington’s spirits, along with those of the mademoiselle’s household, have brightened considerably. And as the king has returned to his daily routine of visiting the mademoiselle for an hour or two after his morning exercise—a hotly competitive game of tennis, a bracing swim in the river (while his servants wait, shivering, on the bank), or a walk in St. James’s Park, so brisk that the courtiers pant to keep up—Louise has brightened, too.

Hannah doesn’t much like the transformation. Her own sensitivities have been worn slightly raw by the mademoiselle’s treatment. She has been in attendance on Mademoiselle de Keroualle every day for
nearly a fortnight now, remaining by her bedside for hours, spooning syrup (under the watchful eye of Madame Severin) into her mouth, providing her with physick and guiding her slow return to health. She has washed the mademoiselle’s feverish body and arranged for soaking tubs to be brought to her room, has applied plasters to her loins and helped her to the close-stool. Even though she has little in common with the mademoiselle besides being French-born, Hannah felt sympathy for her and believed that she might even feel a sort of kinship—a belief that vanished as soon as Louise opened her mouth and began speaking. The mademoiselle’s conversation lacks warmth, wit, discernment, or interest, as Louise is capable of discoursing on one subject only, and that is herself.

“Why isn’t the Countess of Castlemaine or that impudent whore Nell Gwyn suffering instead of me?” she complains in her thickly accented English. “Why not Queen Catherine herself?” She utters this blasphemy without shame. “She already has one foot in the grave.” Louise believes that when Queen Catherine dies, the king will marry her and make her queen: a belief no doubt encouraged by Arlington but shared by no one.

The mademoiselle spends the morning choosing the perfect dressing gown and arranging herself in a studied dishabille, so that she can appear to be caught charmingly off-guard, still in bed with her lustrous hair being brushed by two maidservants, when the king and the courtiers arrive. Otherwise she talks only of the gifts the king has given her, and the ones she hopes he will give her. She also speaks of her desire to return to France and sit on a tabouret in the presence of the French queen, the highest honor to which a French noblewoman can aspire. It seems that Mademoiselle de Keroualle is intent on having her revenge on everyone in Paris who once snubbed her. Apparently their numbers are legion. Although Louise is twenty-two and the mother of three-month-old Charles Fitzroy, old enough to act like a woman, she behaves like a child. She resents Hannah’s presence and refuses to take her medicines (unless the king is watching), makes a fuss over her baths and plasters, dissolves in tears and tantrums at least once an hour, and tries the patience of everyone except Madame Severin.

Hannah knows that at least some of Louise’s vexatious behavior is due to her fear and unhappiness at being so unfairly afflicted (for which she has some sympathy), but it is difficult to face day after day. Hannah eagerly looks forward to the time when she will not be tending to the king’s mistress, but recently she has come to suspect that Louise, in spite of her dislike of medicinal baths, will draw out this drama for as long as possible. Her indisposition has captured the king’s interest. Hannah knows that the mademoiselle will do anything, even pretend to remain ill when she is not, in order to keep it.

“Mrs. Devlin, it is already half past ten,” Madame Severin reminds her. “Is it not time for my lady’s morning medicine?”

“Yes, of course.” Hannah requests to be excused from the king’s presence and goes to the sitting room adjacent to the bedchamber. On a trestle table she has set out her syrups and powders. Though Louise makes a pretty show of taking her medicine in front of the king, she refuses to have the vials and jars on the table next to her bed, “like a sickly old lady.”

Hannah uncorks an empty vial. As her father taught her, she fills it half-full with a dark, thick medicine from one bottle, sprinkles in a few grains of a foul-smelling powder, then mixes them together with a lighter, honey-colored syrup. Not mixing the solution until the last moment, just before its administration, contributes to its more potent constitution and is one of the secrets of his remedy. Although everything Hannah does for Louise bespeaks her profession, at court she is never referred to as a doctor or a physician. Every courtier Hannah meets regards her and refers to her as the mademoiselle’s childhood friend who just by coincidence happens to have some knowledge of healing.

What matters most at court, she has learnt, is what is unsaid, what everyone knows but is never acknowledged. The courtiers refer to Louise’s “ague” without irony even though Hannah is certain that each of them (with the possible exception of Sir Granville Haines) is fully aware of the malady from which Louise suffers. But not in word, gesture, or expression would any one of them ever reveal what they know to be true. They are actors of a most sophisticated type, more convincing than any she has ever seen on a stage, perhaps because the
consequences of making a mistake are so great. To acknowledge openly an unspoken truth is to risk banishment from court; to be unaware of the tacit realities, the secrets and lies that are the court’s most valuable currency, is to be labeled a fool and never truly allowed to enter.

“How is my favorite doctor?”

“Mr. Montagu!”

Ralph Montagu offers her a proper bow and not-so-proper grin, clearly as pleased to see her as she is to see him. Indeed, Hannah cannot imagine being at court without him, as she would be very lonely without his company. Montagu’s friendship and good humor have made her time here much more enjoyable than she thought it would be.

“Have you heard the latest?” he asks confidentially, standing shoulder to shoulder with her at the table. “Thomas Killigrew, director of the Theatre Royal and the king’s appointed fool, told His Majesty that his matters were coming into a very ill state, but yet there was a way to help all. And then he did say, ‘There is a good honest able man that I could name, that if Your Majesty would employ and command to see all things well executed, all things would soon be mended; and this is one Charles Stuart—who now spends his time in employing his lips and prick about the court, and hath no other employment. But if you would give him this employment, he were the fittest man in the world to perform it.’”

Hannah gasps. “He said that directly to the king?”

Montagu nods. “The king’s leniency is such that he laughed instead of sending Killigrew to the Tower. Unfortunately the king profits none by Killigrew’s criticism but turns his attention only to his pleasures.”

“Mr. Montagu,” Hannah warns, “His Majesty is in the other room.”

“Not to worry, my dear.” Montagu peers through the doorway. “He’s well out of hearing range. But I have to say that everyone understands Killigrew’s frustration, myself included. I spent the earlier part of this morning with the king at the park, where he and the Duke of York made sport of watching the geese mate in the pond, taking bets on which two would pair up. It is sadly true—the king is a fool and the duke a governable fool.”

“Mr. Montagu! It is dangerous for you to speak so.”

“Don’t worry, I know how to look out for myself in this den of iniquity. And in fact I am already bored by the subject. Tell me, Mrs. Devlin, if I were a gander and you were a goose, would you take a turn around the pond with me?”

Hannah smiles in spite of herself. “I believe you take great pleasure in trying to shock me, Mr. Montagu, and so I refuse to be astonished by your very wicked remarks. I will also say that I suspect that underneath your scandalous exterior there’s a better man waiting to get out.”

“What tells you this?”

“My woman’s intuition, I suppose.”

“That can scarcely be argued with.”

“I daresay not.”

“You haven’t answered my question, however.”

“Which question?”

“About the goose and the gander.”

Hannah smiles slyly and turns away from him. “That is because it’s time to give medicine to a certain young lady.”

Montagu follows Hannah into the bedchamber, where the Duke of York is holding forth about the play he saw the day before. James is a fair-haired, less swarthy version of his older brother, by conventional standards more handsome than Charles, but in Hannah’s view, his good looks are negated by his haughty manner. The younger Stuart is proud, vain, and from all accounts less clever than the king. This has not dimmed his attractiveness to women, however; being successor to the throne is a powerful aphrodisiac. He has cut a swath through the court nearly as wide and deep as the king’s.

Popular opinion is against James, Duke of York being next in line for the crown, for he is an avowed Catholic, but Charles will have no one but his brother as his successor. As long as the king has no legitimate offspring, no one can gainsay him. As time goes on, an heir is looking less and less likely, and James more and more possible. It occurs to Hannah that the king avoids a great deal of trouble and court intrigue by not having a legitimate heir and by having a successor that few people want to see on the throne. Perhaps he is not quite as foolish as he appears.