The French Mistress (42 page)

He laughed. “You’re being exceptionally polite, Louise.”

“I always am, sir.” I swung my hat lightly in my hand. “My father sent me to Paris to find a husband, and he is not happy that I’ve yet to acquire one. Can you figure the rest, sir?”

“I can,” he said softly, and from the thoughtful way he glanced at me, he’d likely filled in the details of my tale for himself, including his own awkward place in it. He took my hand and drew off my yellow glove, and kissed my fingers, watching me over my hand.

“I’d like to hear more, you know,” he said. “Of your family, your home, your past. Of you.”

“It’s very ordinary, sir,” I protested, and compared to his life, it was. “My family has lived in the same château for a hundred years, and my parents are content with that. My sister, Henriette-Mauricette, is eight years younger than I, and my brother, Sebastien, was three years older. He died two years ago, in the service of France.”

“May your brother rest in God’s arms,” he said gravely, and with a sincerity that touched me. “I know what it is to lose a brother and a sister.”

I tried to smile, and knew if I’d tried any harder, I’d cry. “I told you, sir,” I said instead. “It’s all ordinary enough.”

“No, it’s not,” he said, “because it’s your family, Louise, and to me there is nothing ordinary about you.”

He pulled me tenderly against his chest, and I dropped my hat to the grass, slipping my arms around his waist to hold him close. He held me, lightly stroking my hair in a way that comforted us both.

“I’ve a notion, sweet,” he said at last. “What if we keep riding now, and forget entirely about London tomorrow?”

“I’d like that, sir,” I said, and I would. “I’d like that very much.”

“So would I,” he said, his voice tinged with melancholy. “I love London, but I do not love all that will be waiting for me to tend to at Whitehall. We’ve had our merry time here, but alas, now it’s back to my share of the world’s woes.”

I understood. All the troubles, large and small, that Charles had left behind in London would still be there when he returned, and by now likely doubled and joined with fresh cares as well. The coming war with the Dutch, England’s lack of funds to pay for the preparations, his relations with Louis and France, and his brother’s remarriage would each clamor for his attention, as would all the other more routine demands of ruling the country.

It pained me mightily to know I’d only added to his challenges. He’d already been criticized for having me, a Catholic Frenchwoman, among the queen’s ladies, and faulted more for his open attentions to me. But once it became known (as it likely already was) that I was now his mistress, the attacks on us both would only grow.

“I am sorry, sir,” I said, meaning everything. “I’m sorry.”

He drew me close and smiled. “I am, too. But I’m sorriest that my time here with you is nearly done.”

I felt a small catch in my heart at that. “But I’ll return with you to Whitehall, sir,” I said, pushing away far enough to gaze up into his face. “My lodgings will still be only a few steps from your rooms. Nothing need change for us.”

“But it will, Louise,” he said, his voice heavy with regret. “No matter how you or I might wish otherwise, it won’t be the same. It can’t be. Nothing in this life ever stays the same.”

He kissed me then, a kiss more melancholy than passionate, while the dry leaves of last summer swirled around our feet.

 

 

The following day, Charles left Newmarket for London with his brother, his friends, and his attendants, doubtless a riotous group as they always were. My departure from Euston Hall was more sober, traveling as I did with Lady Arlington and her little daughter, Isabella, in their coach. For most of the journey to London, the two of them prattled on together in high-pitched singsong voices and dressed and undressed Isabella’s three lady dolls. I was in no humor for child’s play. Instead I drew the hood of my cloak up to shield my face and retreated to my corner of the seat, and there stared morosely from the window. The threatening gray skies of yesterday had yielded a chill and drizzling rain today, a perfect match for my dismal mood.

I had recently learned a new word of English, one that had caught my ear and my fancy. This word was “honeymoon,” a pretty country expression for the halcyon days that followed a wedding, and the time when the first raptures of love between a new husband and wife will wax their fullest and most tender.

My mock wedding to Charles had been false from beginning to end, a cruel amusement that had pleased everyone, it seemed, but me. But the short weeks that had followed had been a true honeymoon for us, and I grieved to see them end.

I blew my breath against the window to make a tiny cloud upon the glass, and with my fingertip I traced a heart upon it.

Only hours before, Charles had warned me that nothing stayed the same in this life. To my sorrow, I’d learn soon enough how terribly true his words would be.

 

 

“You have done very well, mademoiselle.” The Marquis de Croissy sat across from me, perched on the very edge of his chair like a crow ready poised for flight. He’d wasted no time calling on me once I’d returned to my Whitehall lodgings; I’d barely unpacked my trunks before he appeared.

“I reported all the affairs at Euston Hall to His Most Christian Majesty,” he continued, “and he was exceptionally pleased by how you have attached yourself to the English king. He wishes me to commend you, mademoiselle, and congratulate you on your sacrifice for him, and for France.”

I flushed, shamed to imagine Louis reading the ambassador’s letter telling of how I had finally become Charles’s mistress. Of course Louis would have been amused, even titillated—everyone else certainly was, whether they’d been among the party at Euston or simply heard of the events—and I cringed to think of my deflowering being discussed not only in London, but in Paris as well.

“Please tell His Most Christian Majesty that I am honored,” I said, pouring myself more tea to mask my discomfort. “How many other Frenchwomen are offered royal congratulations for similar accomplishments?”

“Don’t make light of this, mademoiselle,” Lord de Croissy said sharply. “I assure you the king does not. Now that you have finally taken this first step, he is eager for you to proceed with your next responsibilities.”

I looked up at him swiftly, the teapot still in my hand. “There is more, my lord?”

“Of course.” He frowned, displeased with my surprise. “The seduction was only the beginning. Now that you have secured the king’s confidence, we expect you to use it for the betterment of France. You are to encourage the king in his country’s preparations for the war against the Dutch. You are to remind him of his promised conversion to our faith, and to urge him forward. Finally, you are to suggest that his brother, His Grace the Duke of York, wed a princess whose country is sympathetic to France. There will be letters coming to you shortly with more instruction in these matters, but the sooner you begin, the greater our profit.”

“That is all, my lord?” With a righteous clatter, I set the teapot down on the table between us. “Why not ask me to sail a ship of war to conquer the Dutch myself ? Would that satisfy His Most Christian Majesty? Or why not ask me to grow wings so that I might fly to the top of every English flagstaff in London and replace their colors with the French?”

He leaned forward over the table, his hands on the edge as if ready to leap across at me. “I speak in perfect seriousness, mademoiselle, and I would appreciate it if you would as well.”

“But, my lord—”

“We all know the weaknesses of the English king,” he said, “just as we now see how well you have exploited them. In the last month, you must surely have learned much of the king’s habits and secrets, more than any of us could ever hope to know. We expect you to use this knowledge to the advantage of your country.”

I looked down at my tea, unable to meet his eye. Yes, I’d learned much of Charles while at Euston, but I’d learned it because he’d trusted me not only as a partner in his bed, but as his friend. Now the ambassador expected me to twist that trust about and betray it for the sake of France. To be sure, it was no more than I’d promised Louis I’d do, but when I’d made that promise, I’d not realized what it would cost me to keep it. How could I, when I’d not loved Charles as I did now?

He sighed impatiently at my silence, and launched upon another course of persuasion. “You are a beautiful woman, mademoiselle. I need not advise you on the best ways to withhold or reward the king with the favors he most desires. These are skills that come naturally to a lady like yourself, and we’ll trust you to use your advantages as you see fit.”

“Thank you, my lord,” I said softly, my head still bowed to hide my unease.

He tapped his fingers on the table from restlessness, or perhaps to draw my attention. “But I must urge haste, mademoiselle. The king is not known for his faithfulness. There is no knowing how long he will be infatuated with you.”

I looked up at him with a small catch in my breath, Charles’s own words echoing in my ears.

“What have you heard, my lord?” I demanded. “What has happened?”

The marquis smiled, clearly pleased he’d discovered the weakness in my own armor. “Nothing in that particular arena, mademoiselle,” he said easily. “It would have taken a bold lady indeed to pry the king from your side this last month. But his friends have not been idle. There are many who already resent your power over him, and are doing their best to poison him against you.”

“You mean Lord Buckingham.”

He nodded. “His Grace is one such, yes. But there is another you would do wise to fear more, and that is Lord Rochester.”

“Lord Rochester?” The earl wasn’t like Lord Buckingham; there was only the slightest history between us. I tried to recall any offense I’d given him or reason for his disliking me, and could think of none. “He has no cause.”

“He has two,” Colbert said. “First, he is of the Anglican faith, and you are not. Second, he is a close acquaintance of Mrs. Gwyn, and you—you assuredly are not. He is also apparently a skilled satirist, and has made you a prime character in a scurrilous piece, a play of his composition entitled
Sodom
.”

“Sodom!”
I exclaimed with dismay. I’d heard enough of the wit popular among Charles’s gentlemen to guess the nature of this satire. Scurrilous was likely too gentle a criticism. “Have you a copy in your possession, my lord? Does he dare use my given name in its pages?”

The marquis’s expression was so grim, even for him, that I feared the worst.

“Thus far it exists only as a manuscript, surreptitiously passed among his lordship’s friends,” he said. “May it never be published more widely! But no, mademoiselle, your name is not sullied directly, though to those who have read it, the most sinful character, a maid of honor by design, is in fact and circumstance clearly drawn from your life.”

“What name did he give her, then?” I asked, my voice trembling with anger. “I must know, my lord, so that if I am called this name by someone who wishes to insult me, I won’t be trapped unknowingly.”

“Oh, mademoiselle,” he said, grimacing. “His Lordship has named the character Lady Clytoris.”

I gasped, and shot to my feet. “That is not to be borne, my lord! I do not care if Lord Rochester is His Majesty’s dear friend, or that his father saved His Majesty’s life, or whatever other shabby defense he may offer. How dare His Majesty permit—”

“Mademoiselle, please, please, calm yourself!” the ambassador exclaimed, taking me by the shoulders and forcibly sitting me back down in my chair. “Please. His Majesty knows nothing of this satire, nothing at all, and if you are wise, you will not be the one who tells him of it.”

For a long moment I wavered, then realized that, for once, the ambassador was right. I took a deep breath to calm myself, and steeled my determination.

“That is true, my lord,” I admitted. “If I were to show it to him, I would be doing exactly as Lord Rochester desires. Far better for me to pretend as if the vile thing does not exist.”

“Far better,” he agreed. “For you it does not.”

“No, it does not,” I repeated firmly. So long as I had Charles by my side, I could ignore a legion of Rochesters and Gwyns. “His Majesty treats me with the regard of a lady, and no true lady would acknowledge the existence of such venomous slander.”

“Not only a lady, mademoiselle, but a French lady.” The ambassador smiled with approval, and finally rose to leave. “You’ll do well with this matter, I am certain. This is the first time I have seen you willing to fight for what is yours by rights and talent, and that, too, is to be commended. I am pleased, mademoiselle.
We
are pleased. Only take care to measure your passions before you act, and you will succeed.”

He paused as Bette gave him his cloak, and bowed his farewell to me. Yet at the door, he stopped again and came back, recalling one more bit of advice.

“Mademoiselle,” he said, tapping his finger to his cheek, “one more question, I beg of you. I do not know how I forgot it until now. His Most Christian Majesty asked this specifically of me, and thus I must ask you.”

“Yes, my lord?” I waited warily; after all the other indignities that had spilled out during his visit, his question could be anything.

He nodded, his thin lips pressed together as he chose his words with caution. “While we rejoice in your new position with the English king and the attraction he shows for you, your place could be even more secure if you could give him a child. You haven’t employed any means to prohibit a possible conception while you have been with him, have you? Are you taking every opportunity for him to plant his seed vigorously within your womb so it may find fair purchase?”

I should have been shocked by the frankness of that question, and earlier this same year, I might well have fainted clear away. But now—now I was not. It was Charles’s seed that he spoke of, Charles’s seed within my own womb, and because I loved him, it seemed not shocking, but expected.