The Loves of Charles II (56 page)

She would ignore him. She shut herself into her own room; but she could not drive him from her thoughts. She saw the change in herself. She was like a bud which was opening to the warmth of the sun; but she was not a bud—she was a woman responding to the warmth of his glances.

He came upon her once on the staircase which led to her room. He said: “Barbara, why do you always avoid me?”

“Avoid you!” she said. “I was not aware of you.”

“You lie,” he answered.

Then she turned and tossed her long hair so that it brushed across his face, and would have darted up the stairs; but the contact seemed to arouse a determination within him, for he caught the hair and pulled her back by it; then he laid a hand on her breast and kissed her.

She twisted free and, as she did so, slapped his face so hard that he
reeled backwards. She was free and she darted up the stairs to her room; when she reached it, she ran in and bolted the door.

She leaned against it; she could hear him on the other side of it as he beat on it with his fists.

“Open it,” he said. “Open it, you vixen!”

“Never to you,” she cried. “Take care you are not thrown out of this house, my lord earl.”

He went away after a while, and she ran to her mirror and looked at herself; her hair was wild, her eyes shining, and there was a red mark on her cheek where he had kissed her. There was no anger in her face at all; there was only delight.

She was happier than she had ever been, but she was haughty to him when they next met, and scarcely spoke to him; her mother reprimanded her for her ill manners to their guest; but when had she taken any notice of her mother?

After that she began to study herself in the mirror; she loosened her curls; she unlaced her bodice that more of her rounded throat might be shown. She was tall, and her figure seemed to have matured since that first encounter. When she was near him she was aware of a tingling excitement such as she had never known before in the whole of her life. Feigning to avoid him she yet sought him. She was never happier than when she was near him, flashing scornful glances at him from under her heavy lids; it amused her in the presence of her mother and stepfather to ask artless questions concerning the beauty and talents of his betrothed.

She saw a responsive gleam in his eyes; she was wise enough to know that she was but a novice in the game she was playing; she knew that he stayed at her stepfather’s house for only one reason, and that he would not leave it until he had captured her. This made her laugh. Not that she would avoid the capture; she had determined to be captured. She believed that she was on the point of making an important discovery. She was beautiful, and beauty meant power. She could take this man—the betrothed of Mary Fairfax—and drive everything from his mind but the desire for herself. That was power such as she longed to wield; and she had learned from those moments when he had touched her or kissed her, that surrender would be made without the slightest reluctance.

Barbara was beginning to know herself.

So one day she allowed him to discover her stretched out on the grass in the lonely part of the nuttery.

There was a struggle; she was strong, but so was he; she was overpowered and, when she was seduced, she knew that she would never find life dull while there were men to make love to her.

From that moment Barbara was aware that her first and most impelling need would always be the satisfaction of her now fully aroused sexual desires; but there was one other thing she wanted almost equally: Power. She wanted no opposition to any desire of hers, however trivial. She wanted to ride in her carriage through London and be admired and known as the most important person in the city. She wanted fine clothes and jewels—a chance to set this beauty of hers against a background which would enhance rather than minimize it. In the clothes she was obliged to wear, her fine already maturing figure was not displayed to advantage; the color of her gown subdued the dazzling blue of her eyes and it did not suit the rich auburn of her hair. Clothes were meant to adorn beauty, yet she was so much more beautiful without hers; it would seem therefore that she wore the wrong clothes.

Clearly she must be free. She was sixteen and would be no longer treated as a child.

She thought of Chesterfield and wondered whether through him lay a means of escape. There had been more amorous encounters between them. Although there was little of tenderness in their relationship, both recognized in each other a passion which matched their own. Barbara at sixteen was wise enough to realize that her feelings for this man were based on appetite rather than emotion, and Barbara’s appetite was beginning to be voracious.

Chesterfield was a rake and a reckless man. From an early age he had been obliged to fend for himself; he was not the man to sacrifice his life to an ideal. He was as ambitious as Barbara, and almost as sensual. His father had died before he was two years old and he had received most of his education in Holland. He was some eight years older than Barbara and already a widower, for Anne Percy, his wife, had died three years ago and the seduction of females was no unusual sport of his.

Barbara often wondered what sort of husband he had been to Anne Percy. A disturbing one, she fancied, and of course an unfaithful one. He did not speak of Anne, though he found a malicious enjoyment in discussing his betrothed Mary Fairfax with Barbara.

He dallied at the house, delaying his departure; and it was all on account of Barbara.

That was why she began to contemplate marriage with him as a means of escape. They were of a kind, and therefore suited. She would not ask him to be faithful to her, for she was sure she would not wish to be so to him. Already she found herself watching others with eager speculation; so she and Philip would not be ill matched.

He was betrothed to Mary Fairfax, but who was Mary Fairfax to marry
with an Earl? Whereas Barbara, on the other hand, was a member of the noble family of Villiers.

She hinted that her family might not be averse to a match between them. He had visited her in her room—a daring procedure; but Barbara could be sure that none of the servants who might discover her escapade would dare mention it for fear of what might happen to them if their tattling reached their mistress’s ears. Moreover she was growing careless.

So as they lay on her bed she talked of her family and his, and the possibility of a marriage between them.

Chesterfield rolled onto his back and burst out laughing.

“Barbara, my love,” he said, “this is not the time to talk of marriage. It is not the custom, for marriages are not planned in bedchambers.”

“I care not for custom,” she retorted.

“That much is clear. It is a happy quality … in a mistress. In a wife, not so … ah, not so.”

Barbara sprang up and soundly slapped his face. But he was no frightened servant. His desire temporarily satiated, he laughed at her fury.

He went on: “Had you intended to barter your virginity for marriage it should have been before our little adventure in the nuttery, not afterwards. Oh, Barbara, Barbara, you have much to learn.”

“You too, my lord,” she cried, “if you think to treat me as you would treat a tavern girl.”

“You … a tavern girl! By God, you spit like one … you bite and scratch like one … and you are as ready to surrender….”

“Listen to me,” said Barbara. “I am a Villiers. My father was …”

“It is precisely because you are a Villiers, my dear Barbara, that you are a less attractive match than the one I am about to make.”

“You insult my family!”

That made him laugh more heartily. “My dear girl, are you ignorant of the state of this country? There has been a turnabout; did you not know? Who are the great families today? The Villiers? The Stanhopes? The Percys? The Stuarts? Not The Cromwells! The Fairfaxes…. Yet these newly made nobles have a certain respect for old families, providing we do not work against them. I’ll tell you a secret. Oliver himself once offered me the command of his Army; and what do you think went with it?—the hand of one of his daughters.”

“And you would consider that, would you? You would take up arms against the King?”

“Who said I would consider it? I merely state the facts. No! I have declined the command of the Army, and with it the hand of either Mary or Frances Cromwell.”

“I see,” said Barbara, “that you are telling me you are greatly desired in marriage by families which could be of greater use to you than mine.””

How clearly you state the case, dear Barbara.”

Barbara leaped off the bed and, putting on her wrap, said with great disdain: “That may be so at this time, but one day, my lord you will see that the man who marries me will come to consider he has not made so bad a match. Now I pray you get out of my room.”

He dressed leisurely and left; it seemed that the talk of marriage had alarmed him; for the next day he left the house of Charles Villiers.

Buckingham came to London at this time; he was depressed, and on his arrival had shut himself up in his lodgings and had his servants explain that he was too low in health to receive visitors.

Barbara’s imperious insistence fought a way through the carrier he had set about him. When she saw him she was surprised at the change in him. It was a matter of astonishment to her that a Villiers, a member of her noble family, could give way so easily to despair.

Buckingham was amused with his vehement young relative, and found no small pleasure in listening to her conversation.

“You forget, my cousin,” he said to her on one occasion when he had broken his seclusion by calling at her stepfather’s house, “that we live in a changing world. At your age you can have known no other, yet you cling to old Royalist traditions more fiercely than any.”

“Of course I cling. Are we not a noble family? What advantages can such as ourselves hope for in a country where upstarts rule us?”

“None, dear cousin. None. That is why I lie abed and turn my face to the wall.”

“Then you’re a lily-livered spineless fool!”

“Barbara! Your language is not only vehement, it is offensive.”

“Then I am glad it rouses you to protest, for it is as well that you should be aroused to something. What of the King? He is your friend. He may be an exile, but he is still the King.”

“Barbara, the King and I have quarreled. He no longer trusts me. He will have nothing to do with me, and in this he follows the advice of that Chancellor of his, Edward Hyde.”

“Edward Hyde! And what right has he to speak against a noble Villiers?”

“There you go again! It is all noble family with you. Cannot you see that nobility serves a man ill in a Commonwealth such as ours?”

“There are some who would attempt to find the best of both worlds.”

“And who are these?”

“My Lord Chesterfield, for one. He seeks to marry into the Fairfax family. He says that Oliver Cromwell offered him one of his daughters as well as a command in the Army. He refused the Protector’s offer. He did not, I suspect, wish to set himself so blatantly on the side of the King’s enemies. But a marriage with Fairfax’s daughter is less conspicuous and brings him, he thinks, many advantages.”

“A marriage with Fairfax’s daughter,” mused the Duke. “H’m! Chesterfield is a wily one.”

“Why should not Buckingham be as wily?”

“Why not indeed!”

“George, you are the handsomest man in England, and could be the most attractive if you would but seek to make yourself so.””

There speaks your family pride.”

“I’ll wager Mary Fairfax would turn from Chesterfield if she thought there was a chance of marrying with one who is not only the handsomest man in England but a noble Villiers.”

“Barbara, you seem interested in this match. What is Chesterfield to you?”

Her eyes narrowed and she flushed faintly. Buckingham nodded his head sagely.

“By God, Barbara,” he said, “you’re growing up … you’re growing up fast. So Chesterfield preferred Fairfax’s girl to Barbara Villiers!”

“He’s welcome to her,” said Barbara. “If he begged me on his knees to marry him I’d kick him in the face.”