The French Mistress (47 page)

“Oh, sir, I am sorry,” I said, understanding now his black mood when he’d entered. “Is there no help for it, then?”

“No help that I can see,” he said bitterly. “I need money for my fleet, and the only way I can come by it is if Parliament votes it to me. And the only way they’ll do that is if I recall them to Westminster.”

“Do you truly believe they’ll be so obliging?” I asked, recalling the furious disputes Charles had had with his Parliament in the past. “Will they vote you the funds for a fresh campaign?”

“They will,” he said with ominous certainty, “because I’ve no other way to keep my obligations to my navy and my sailors, or to Louis, too. But they’ll vote it to me. They will. They must.”

 

 

The session of Parliament that met in February of 1673 could not have been less agreeable to Charles’s demands. At once he presented his requests for funds to continue the war against the Dutch, and Parliament in turn demanded that he withdraw his much-hated Act of Intolerance from the previous year. Charles tried every possible way to convince them, but the feelings of his people ran far too strongly against the act, and in the end he’d no choice but to admit defeat and withdraw it. The decision left him humiliated and betrayed, and especially sorrowful that he’d been forced to disappoint the people he’d tried so hard to benefit. But in return, Parliament voted him £70,000 a month for the next three years to continue his war. There were many despairing evenings spent in my lodgings, where I did my best to calm him after this dreadful debacle, but worse was to come.

Feeling bold and fat with victory over the Act of Intolerance, Parliament decided to take matters even further, and passed the Test Act in the summer of 1673. This odious act required everyone who held office to take Holy Communion within the Anglican Church, and also framed a series of oaths and obligations that would effectively bar all Catholics from positions of importance. Catholic officers were forced to resign from the army and the navy, and Whitehall, too, was purged. Her Majesty was permitted to keep a certain number of her most trusted attendants; Lady Cleveland was asked to give up her place, but I, as Lady of the Bedchamber, was not, for the simple reason that I had always remained civil and respectful to the queen.

Charles made a sour jest that was often repeated: he’d insist on keeping his barber, a Catholic, claiming that he’d keep the man despite Parliament, for he was so well accustomed to his hand with a razor. His meaning was perfectly understood: if he bared his throat each morning to a Catholic hand, then why should the others around him who followed the True Church be considered any more dangerous?

But others who lost their posts were of far more consequence than his barber or we ladies. Before his hand was forced, the Duke of York reluctantly resigned his place as Lord High Admiral in June 1673, effectively announcing what the rest of the country had only feared: that he had in fact converted to Catholicism, and that now the heir to the English throne was as good as a puppet to Rome and the Pope. Lord Clifford, too, refused to take Anglican Communion or the oaths, and in September was ordered to resign as Lord Treasurer. He left the Court and retreated to the country, full of bitterness and rancor, and within the month, he’d looped his cravat over the rod of his bedstead and hanged himself.

The clamor for me to be sent away grew louder, but Charles ignored it, as did I. No matter what was said of me, I loved him too well not to remain at his side. Early that summer, he rewarded my loyalty, too, making me Baroness Petersfield, Countess of Fareham, and duchess of Portsmouth. I was, as can be imagined, both honored and delighted. How could I not be? I was only the second duchess in my own right in the country, and in England, as in France, duchies are generally held only by those of royal blood. Further, I’d gained in two years what it had taken Lady Cleveland ten to achieve, and the irksome Mrs. Gwyn, despite her constant lobbying and posturing, remained no more than that: Mrs. Gwyn.

I knew her disappointment and her bitterness, too, and I’d heard from Charles of how she nagged him incessantly for a title she didn’t deserve. Therefore one September evening at Whitehall, when the ladies were gathered around tables playing cards and other games, I spotted Mrs. Gwyn prancing through the room with her usual outlandish freedom. She was dressed at gaudy expense, more fit for one of her roles on the stage than for a lady of the Court, and as she came near me, I couldn’t help but comment.

“Why, Mrs. Gwyn, look at you,” I said, languidly doing exactly that over the ivory blades of my fan. “From your dress, I’d wager you’ve grown rich.”

The other ladies at my table tittered appreciatively. It was enough to make Mrs. Gwyn stop before me, her little feet spread wide and her hands at her waist, like some sort of diminutive mussels-monger or other fishwife ready for battle.

“Aye, I have grown rich, Y’Grace,” she said, barely able to force my honorific from her mouth from jealousy, a most pleasing spectacle to me. “And I vow from the same pockets as you.”

I smiled archly, and looked her up and down, taking in every last bit of her tawdry finery.

“Dressed as you are, Mrs. Gwyn,” I said, “you’re as fine as a queen.”

“Quite right, Y’Grace,” she replied tartly. “And you are whore enough to be a duchess.”

As she flounced away, she might have believed she’d bettered me, and doubtless her creatures would tell her so. But to everyone about me who’d witnessed this little scene, it had been but one more sad example of her challenging her superiors, and wishing to be more than she’d been born to be.

My little Charles might still have no surname of his own, but he now had a duchess for a mother, and that was a fine and useful thing indeed. For now my title was limited to my life, and could not be passed to him, but in time I hoped Charles would correct that to favor our son. To celebrate, I held a huge ball for the Court beneath the autumn sky at Barn Elms, an open field near Richmond Hill. I laughed and danced with Charles, and by the winking light of the stars and moon, it was easy for us to forget all thoughts of war and prejudice.

Forget, yes, but not for long. The year was nearly done, and campaigns of 1673 were no more successful against the Dutch than those of the previous year, with all the news full of gloomy defeats and William’s arrogance. Further, the Dutch had become more sly in their attacks, no longer relying only upon guns and ships. Instead Dutch gold began to find its way into the eager hands of the English Parliament and, worse still, into the pockets of Charles’s privy council. Even as he remained in Holland as Charles’s representative, Lord Arlington was said to embrace the Dutch cause and to be following William’s bidding.

Another new form of attack came from Dutch printing presses. Though no one knew exactly how it was done, England was flooded with crudely printed pamphlets and ballads, pieces that slandered Charles and accused him of selling England to the Pope. My name and face were often mentioned, too, in the form of “Madame Carwell,” and the vile taunts of Mrs. Gwyn and Lord Rochester were nothing compared to what was said of me now.

Yet as false as all this was, it fell into the same eager ears of those who’d supported the Test Act. Emboldened yet again, Parliament now claimed it was up to them to decide whom the Duke of York should marry, and they demanded the right to refuse any Catholic princess that the duke might suggest.

Unable to tolerate so much conflict at Westminster, Charles finally took the only course open to him, and prorogued Parliament again. The odious members dispersed to their homes, but the meanness of their spirits remained to hover over Charles and his Court.

 

 

I stood on the roof of the palace with Charles, bundled in furs against the cold bite of the November night. On balmier days, this was a favorite place of the Court, for from this lofty perch the entire city was spread before us, and the queen in particular enjoyed spending time here with her ladies. But on this night, Charles and I had the roof to ourselves, and as I pulled my fur tippet higher over my face, I could understand why.

“Mark the city, Fubs,” he said, leaning over the stone rail. He’d insisted on coming up here from my rooms on impulse, and though I was warmly dressed, he hadn’t even bothered to bring a hat. His long hair blew back over his shoulders, and the light of the lanterns at the windows below shone softly on his down-turned face. The Thames lay like a snake of silver, curling through the city in the dark, and the ragged clouds overhead hid the stars and most of the moon.

“No fireworks tonight, sir,” I said, naming the most frequent reason for coming to the roof. “Though it would make for a pretty show against the clouds.”

“There’re fireworks of another kind,” he said, pointing to the streets. “Bonfires.”

I’d been so busily looking upward that I’d not noticed the fires in the streets below. Small patches of fire flickered here and there in the streets, usually at a crossing. At the nearer fires, it was possible to see the black silhouettes of figures dancing and sporting before them.

“You know what the fires are for, don’t you?” he said. “That’s how my people are displaying their displeasure over my brother’s choice of a bride.”

In the end, the duke had hastily pushed for Mary of Modena as his new wife, and though he had married her by proxy some weeks earlier, word of the marriage and her imminent arrival had only this day reached London. The princess was reputed to be very beautiful, which had favorably colored the duke’s opinion of her, and very young, only fifteen, which had tickled his lubricious nature. She was also bringing a sizable dowry to the treasury, which had finally made her acceptable to Charles. I knew that much of that dower had been contributed by Louis, who wanted very much for the heir to the English throne to wed a Catholic. I knew, but I hadn’t confided that knowledge to Charles, deciding in the end it would be better for all if I pretended ignorance. The money was welcome, no matter whence it had come.

“When I wed the queen,” he said sadly, “there were bonfires, too, but those were more cheery. These are of a different type entirely.”

I tucked my hand into the crook of his arm. “How do you know, sir?”

“I don’t, not from here,” he admitted. “But I’ve been told that most of these fires tonight will include straw effigies either of the Pope or my brother. There may even be a few of me before the night is done, if there’s enough drink to conceive a likeness.”

“Oh, sir,” I said, now looking down at the fires with a far different impression. “I am sorry, sir.”

“ ’ Tis not your doing, sweet,” he said heavily, “nor need you apologize for it. I only hope that by the time the lady arrives in London, their interest will have gone off in some other direction, and she’ll not be plagued with sights such as these. The sight of my brother rampant on his wedding night will be horrifying enough, eh?”

I laughed, as he’d expected me to, but we both knew the jest fell flat. How could it not? Charles could claim they were burning him or the Pope in effigy, but the straw figures could just as well be representing me. How much longer could he afford to keep me? How much longer should I stay, with my presence risking harm to him and his reign?

I’d no answers. Instead I rested my head against Charles’s shoulder, and whispered a silent prayer, for peace, for tolerance, and for us.

Chapter Twenty-one

WHITEHALL PALACE, LONDON
February 1674

 

 

 

“ I
’m impressed, Your Grace,” Lord Danby said, walking slowly through my rooms as if to appraise the value of every last tapestry and candlestick within. “I’d heard much of the magnificence of your lodgings, but none of that comes near to their true glory.”

“Thank you, Lord Danby,” I said, my smile as warm as I could make it for this chilly man. The Earl of Danby’s face was white as new snow, his lips thin and tight, his cheeks pinched: clearly a visage made for parsimony, and fit, too, to belong to Charles’s new Lord Treasurer. Though he’d promised Charles to guide him toward a more stable treasury, Lord Danby also seemed determined to use his influence to lead England away from France. I’d soon enough recognized his ambition, just as he had doubtless recognized my own. In the past, I would have done my best to avoid such a man. Now, more secure in my place and more confident in myself, I believed it better to confront him before he became troublesome.

“I am glad you came to me, my lord,” I said, gracefully offering him an armchair before the fire. “I’m honored that you found the time.”

“Only a fool refuses a summons from you, Your Grace,” he said. “How many rooms do you have in these lodgings?”

I widened my eyes disingenuously. The answer was forty, after my last expansion, not that I’d tell him. “Why, I’ve not counted, my lord. I rely on His Majesty’s generosity in such things.”

He grunted. “Then I must inform you that His Majesty’s generosity is about to become less so. For the sake of the country’s welfare, it is imperative that he retrench and cut his expenses. If he follows my advice, he should soon see an increase in revenues that will benefit us all.”

“So he has told me, my lord,” I said. “Yet if I dare to be honest, we both know that the king’s treasury has many parts, and while most contain funds voted to him by Parliament, there are other, more private sources that should remain unaffected by this ‘retrenchment.’”

“The subsidies,” he said, fair spitting the word from his obvious loathing of those sums. “Of course you would know of Louis’s little offerings, Your Grace. You’re French.”

“I am,” I agreed. “And you do not like the French.”

“No, Your Grace, I do not,” he said bluntly. “I would as soon have England as it was meant to be: an Anglican country without Papists or Frenchmen.”

“But His Majesty doesn’t quite agree with you, does he?” I said, keeping my voice purposefully soft to counter his own vehemence. “While he is willing for the stability your retrenchment promises—even eager for it!—he will not give up all things French in return to please you.”