Winsor, Kathleen (108 page)

As
she entered the room he turned, instantly recovering his poise. Now he smiled
and started toward her. "My dear; if you took all morning to dress I'd not
mind if you could look half so charming as you do now."

Catherine
blushed slightly. The pinkness was very becoming to her sallow complexion; her
lashes moved like hesitant black butterflies, and then she looked him full in
the eyes. For all her sheltered and stiff upbringing she was learning some of
the tricks of a coquette herself, and they became her very well.

"It's
kind of you to flatter me," she murmured, "when I'm condemned to this
unbecoming black."

The
ladies were trooping into the room after her, most of them chattering and
unconcerned—though one or two quick pairs of eyes had caught the wistful look
on Frances's face as she watched their Majesties together. Then with a little
toss of her head Frances came toward the Queen and one hand reached out
impulsively to touch hers.

"It
isn't flattery, madame. You've truly never looked handsomer in your life."

Her
voice and eyes were almost passionately sincere. Behind them Boynton whispered
to Wells that something must be a-brewing between Stewart and the King—they
were both so uncommonly kind to her Majesty. Winifred retorted that she was a
prattling gossip and that his Majesty was always kind to his wife.

The
weather was cold and the roads even worse than usual, but the Court was going
to a play. Charles offered his arm to Catherine and she took it, giving him one
of her quick shy smiles, grateful for the attention. They started off and for
one swift passing instant Frances's eyes met the King's. She knew then, without
a doubt, that while Catherine lived she, Frances Stewart, would never be Queen
of England.

It
was late in the afternoon, nearly six o'clock, and the overcast sky had long
since made it necessary to light candles. Charles, in his private closet, the
one room to which he could retire for some measure of seclusion, sat at his
writing-table scrawling off a rapid letter to Minette. Her own most recent one
was opened before him and from time to time he glanced at it. Beside him on the
floor two long-eared little spaniels sat and chewed at each other's fleas, and
farther away there were others at play, romping and growling.

From
the next room came the murmuring voices of men— Buckhurst and Sedley, James
Hamilton, half a dozen others— waiting for him to come out and change his
clothes before they went to supper. They were discussing the afternoon's play—
finding fault with the author's wit, the scenery and costumes and actors—and
comparing the prostitutes who had been in the pit. From time to time someone
laughed loudly, all their voices went up at once, and then they grew quieter
again. But Charles, absorbed in his letter, scarcely heard them at all.

All
of
a sudden a commotion rose outside and he heard a familiar feminine voice cry
out, breathlessly. "Where's his Majesty! I've got important news for
him!" It was Barbara.

Charles
scowled and flung down his pen, then got to his feet. Ods-fish! Did the woman's
impertinence know no bounds at all? Coming to his chamber at this hour of the
day, when she knew there would be a roomful of men!

He
heard Buckhurst answering her. "His Majesty is in his closet, madame,
writing a letter."

"Well,"
said Barbara briskly, "the letter can keep. What I have to say
can't." And promptly she began rapping at the door.

Charles
opened it and there was obvious displeasure and annoyance on his face as he
leaned against the door-jamb, looking down at her. "Well, madame?"

"Your
Majesty! I must speak with you in private!" Her eyes glanced suggestively
into the room behind him. "It's a matter of the greatest importance!"

Charles
gave a slight shrug and stepped back, admitting her, while the gentlemen
exchanged amused glances. Ye gods, what next? Even when she had been most in
favour she had not dared be so bold. The door swung shut.

"Now—what
is this great business that can't keep?" His voice was frankly skeptical,
and impatient—for he thought it only another scheme of hers to create an
impression of being in high favour.

"I
understand that your Majesty has just paid a visit to Mrs. Stewart."

"I
have."

"And
that she sent you away with the plea her head was aching furiously."

"Your
information seems indisputable."

Charles's
tone was sarcastic and his whole expression betrayed cynicism and the unbelief
in his fellow-beings which had characterized him almost since boyhood, growing
steadily stronger as the years passed. He was wondering what sort of trick she
was trying to play on him, waiting to discover the inevitable flaw in her
scheme.

But
all at once Barbara's face took on a look of mock coquetry and her voice
dropped to a soft low pitch. "Well, Sire, I've come to console you for her
coldness."

He
lifted his eyebrows in frank surprise and then scowled quickly. "Madame,
you have become insufferable."

Barbara
flung back her head and began to laugh, a wild high abandoned laugh that was
peculiarly her own, full of contempt and mocking cruelty. When she spoke her
voice was low again, but intense, and excitement showed in the straining cords
of her throat, the bright glitter of her eyes, the poise of her muscles as she
leaned slightly toward him, like a cat set to spring.

"You're
a fool, Charles Stuart! You're a stupid ridiculous credulous fool and everyone
in your Court is laughing at you! And do you know why? Because Frances Stewart
has been carrying on an intrigue with Richmond right under your nose? He's with
her at this moment—while you think she's in bed with a headache—" She
paused breathless, triumph shining from her face and showing in every line of
her body, triumph and satisfied vengeance.

Charles
answered her swiftly, without thinking, his habitual easy self-possession
deserting him. "You're lying!"

"Lying,
am I? You
are
a fool! Come with me then and see
if I'm
lying!" And while he hesitated, as though half afraid of finding that she
was telling the truth, she seized hold of his wrist. "Come with me and see
for yourself how chaste she is— your precious Frances Stewart!"

With
sudden resolution Charles jerked his hand free and started from the room,
Barbara—grinning broadly now—hurrying at his heels. He wore only his white
linen shirt and breeches. He had left his periwig in his closet hanging on a
chair-back. Two courtiers leaped abruptly back from the door and all faces
looked solemn and guilty, trying to pretend they had not listened. Charles
ignored them and rushed on, half running along the maze of rooms and hall-ways
that led to Frances's apartments, leaving a trail of staring eyes and open
mouths behind him. Barbara's heels pounded at his side.

But
outside Stewart's rooms he stopped, his hand on the knob. "You've come far
enough," he said curtly. "Go back to your apartments." And then
as she stared with disappointment
he
flung open the door.

Frances's
pretty little serving-girl was in the entrance room and at the King's
appearance she gave a horrified gasp, leaped to her feet and ran toward him.
"Oh, your Majesty! How did you— Don't go in—
please!
She's been so
sick since you left —but now she's sleeping!"

Charles
did not even glance at her, but he reached out one arm to ward her off.
"That remains to be seen." He went on, striding through the
ante-chamber and the drawing-room, and without hesitating an instant he flung
open the door of the bedroom.

Frances
was sitting in bed wearing a white-satin jacket with her hair tumbled over her
shoulders, and beside her was a young man who held her hand in his. Both of
them looked around in astonishment to find the King looming there in the
doorway like a great and angry avenging god. Frances gave a nervous little
scream and Richmond gaped, horror-struck, unable even to take off his hat or
get to his feet.

Charles
walked slowly toward them, his lips drawn tight against his teeth. "I
didn't believe her," he said softly. "I thought she was lying."

"Thought
who was lying!" cried Frances defensively. She understood his anger and
knew what he was thinking and it made her suddenly furious.

"My
Lady Castlemaine. It seems she's known some things about my affairs of which I
was ignorant." His black eyes shifted from Frances to Richmond, who had
now got to his feet and stood twisting his hat round and round in his hands,
while he looked like a whipped pup. "What are you doing here?"
demanded Charles suddenly, his voice strained and harsh.

Richmond
gave an unhappy apologetic little laugh. "Heh! I'm paying Mrs. Stewart a
visit."

"So
I see! And by what right, pray, do you visit her when she's too sick to see her
other friends?"

Richmond
suddenly aware that he was being made to appear a helpless fool before the
woman he loved, answered stoutly: "At least, Sire, I am prepared to marry
her. Which is more than your Majesty can do."

Charles's
eyes blazed in sudden rage and he started toward the Duke with clenched fists.
One hand went to Frances's mouth and she gave a piercing scream as Richmond,
who did not want a beating at the competent hands of his sovereign, turned
suddenly and leaped out the window. Charles, who had already reached it, saw
him land awkwardly not far below in the low-tide river mud, and then scramble
to his feet, give one terrified backward glance and rush off into the fog. For
a long moment he stood there and stared after him, contempt and hatred on his
face; then he turned to Frances.

"I
never expected anything like this from you."

Frances
stared at him defiantly. "I'm sure I don't understand you, Sire! If I
can't receive visits from a man whose intentions toward me are wholly
honourable—then I am indeed a slave in a free country!" She passed one
tired nervous hand quickly across her throbbing forehead, and without waiting
for him to speak again she cried passionately: "If you don't want me to
marry, Sire, it's your privilege to refuse me permission! But at least you
can't prevent me from crossing to France and entering a nunnery!"

Charles
stared at her with sick incredulity. What had happened to the Frances Stewart
he had known and loved for four years? What had happened to turn her into this
cold brazen woman who flaunted her faithlessness, daring him to object to it,
as though pleased to have made him a fool in the eyes of his friends? He found
himself learning again at thirty-six what he thought he had learned well enough
twenty years ago.

Now
he spoke to her slowly, with sadness coming through his anger. "I wouldn't
have believed this of you, Frances, no matter who had told me."

Frances
stared at him defiantly, enraged at his cynicism which drew conclusions out of
a refuse heap of past experience. "Your Majesty is very quick to suspect
the worst!"

"But
not quick enough, it seems! I think I've known since the day I was born that
only a fool would trust a woman—and yet I've trusted you against
everything!" He paused a moment, his dark face sardonic. "I'd rather
have found out any way but this—"

Frances
was close to hysteria, and now she cried in a high trembling voice: "Your
Majesty had best go before the person who brought you here begins to suspect
the worst of your stay!"

He
gave her a long incredulous look and then, without another word, spun about on
his heel and left the room. In the hall-way outside her door he met Lawrence
Hyde, Clarendon's son, and shouted at him: "So you were in the plot too!
By God, I
won't forget it!" Hyde stared after him, bewildered, but the King rounded
the next corner and was gone. Charles the urbane, the easy-humoured, the
self-possessed and amiable, was in such a rage as no one had imagined him
capable of.

The
next day Frances returned to him by messenger every gift she had ever
received—the strand of pearls he had given her on St. Valentine's day three
years before, the wonderful bracelets and ear-rings and necklaces which had
marked her birthdays and the Christmases or New Years. All of them came back,
without even a note. Charles flung them into the fireplace.