Winsor, Kathleen (17 page)

By
nature she was domineering and since all her children were stubborn and
self-willed there had been continual conflict in the family. Several years
before she had quarrelled with Gloucester over his refusal to enter the
Catholic Church and had warned him never to see her more; when he died they
were still unreconciled. But in spite of her deep hurt over that situation she
now accosted James, determined to rule him or to break off their relationship.
The Duke and his mother had always been most friendly when apart and he had
been dreading this encounter with her, for her tongue could be acid and
spiteful when she was angry.

"Well,
James," she said at last, when they were alone in her bedchamber to which
she had summoned him. Her voice was quiet, and she had her hands clasped
lightly before her, but her black eyes sparkled with excitement. "There's
talk about you in France—talk of which I was, needless to say, deeply
ashamed."

He
stood across the room near the door and stared down at his feet, unhappy and
ill-at-ease. He said nothing and would not look at her. For a long moment they
remained perfectly silent and then he ventured to steal a glance, but instantly
dropped his eyes.

"James!"
Her voice was sharp and maternal. "Have you nothing to reply?"

With
a sudden impulsiveness he crossed the room and dropped to one knee at her feet.
"Madame, I beg your pardon if I have offended you. I've played the fool,
but thank God now I've come to my senses. Mrs. Hyde and I are not married and I
intend to think of her no more—I've had proof enough of her unworthiness."

The
Queen Mother bent and kissed him lightly on the forehead. She was relieved and
very pleased at the unexpected good sense he was showing—for knowing James she
had anticipated a stubborn and bitter struggle. And so a part, at least, of
what she had come for was accomplished.

She
had two other purposes.

One
was to secure a pension which would enable her to live out the rest of her life
in comfort and security. She had begged too often from the tight-fisted
Cardinal Mazarin, had lived too long in privation and want—sometimes without so
much as firewood to heat her rooms. It would mean a great deal to her to have
money again. Her other purpose was to get a suitable dowry for Henrietta Anne,
who had suffered perhaps more than any of them during the years of exile. For
with her father dead, her brother hunted out of his country, she had grown up
as the poor relation of the grand Bourbons, a mere neglected little waif lost
in the glitter of the French Court.

Now,
however, King Louis's brother wanted to marry her.

Henrietta
Anne, whom Charles called Minette, was just sixteen. Her features were not
perfect, her figure was too slender and one shoulder was slightly higher than
the other—but almost everyone who met her was immediately struck by her beauty.
For they attributed to facial prettiness what was really the glow of a warm and
tender charm; it was impossible to resist her. And Charles had for her a deep
and sincere devotion which he had never felt for any of his numerous
mistresses.

His
sister's marriage to Philippe, Duc d'Orl
éans, would give him a valuable ally in
the French Court, because Minette had already shown that she possessed a
diplomatic talent which won admiration and respect from the most cynical
statesmen. And she loved her brother with a passionate loyalty which would
always place his interests first, those of Louis XIV second. Nevertheless
Charles hesitated.

"Are
you sure," he asked her, "that you
want
to marry
Philippe?"

They
had left the Banqueting Hall to stroll in the Privy Gardens, along the gravel
paths which separated the lawns and hedges into formal squares. Though
mid-November it was very warm, and the rose-bushes were still covered with
leaves; Minette had not even troubled to throw a cloak over her gold-spangled
ball-gown.

"Oh,
yes, Sire! I do!" She answered him with an eager smile.

He
glanced down at her. "Do you love him?" Charles was
so eager for
his sister's happiness that it troubled him to think of her marrying, as other
princesses must, without love.

"Love
him?" Minette laughed. "Mon Dieu! Since when did love have anything
to do with marriage? You marry whom you must and if you can tolerate each
other—why, so much the better. If not—" She shrugged. But there was no air
of precocious cynicism about what she said—merely good common Parisian sense,
and a willingness to accept the world for what it was.

"Perhaps,"
he said. "But nevertheless you're my sister, and I want to know. Do you
love him?"

"Why—to
tell you the truth, I don't know whether I do or not. I've played with him
since we were children, and he's my cousin. I think he's pretty—and I feel a
little sorry for him. Yes, I suppose you might say I love him." She put up
one hand as a quick little breeze ruffled her hair. "And of course he's mad
in love with me. Oh, he swears he can't
live
till we're married!"

"Oh,
Minette, Minette—how innocent you are. Philippe's not in love with you—he's not
in love with anyone but himself. If he thinks he loves you now it's because he
sees that others do and imagines that if he marries you he'll get some of that
affection himself. When he doesn't he'll grow jealous and resentful. He's a
mean petty man, that Philippe—he'll never make you happy."

"Oh,
you judge him too severely!" she protested. "He's so harmless. Why,
all his concern is to find a new way of dressing his hair or tying his ribbons.
The most serious thought in his life is who takes precedence over whom in a
parade or at the banqueting-table."

"Or
finding a new young man."

"Oh,
well,
that!"
said Minette, dismissing so minor a fault with a
graceful little gesture of one hand. "That's common enough—and no doubt
he'll change when we're married."

"And
suppose he doesn't?"

She
stopped directly before him, looking up into his face.

"But,
my dear!" Her voice was teasingly reproachful. "You're so serious
about it. What if he doesn't? That's no great matter, is it—so long as we have
children?"

He
scowled. "You don't know what you're talking about, Minette."

"Yes,
I do, my dear. I assure you I do, and I think the world overestimates
love-making. It's only a small part of life—there are so many other things to
do." She spoke now with a great air of confidence and worldly wisdom.

"My
little sister—how much you have to learn." He smiled at her but his face
was tender and sad. "Tell me, has a man ever made love to you?"

"No.
That is, not very much. Oh, I've been kissed a time or two—but nothing
more," she added, blushing a little and dropping her eyes.

"That's
what I thought—or you wouldn't talk like that." Charles's first son had
been born when Charles was Minette's age. "Half the joys and half the
sorrows of this world are discovered in bed. And I'm afraid you'd find nothing
but sorrow there if you married Philippe."

Minette
frowned a little and gave a brief sigh; they started to walk again. "That
may be all very true for men, but I'm sure it isn't for women. Oh,
please
let
me marry him! You know how much Mam wants me to. And I want
to too. I want
to live in France, Sire—that's the only place I could ever be at home. I know
Philippe isn't perfect, but I don't care—if I have France, I'll be happy."

Christmas
was England's most beloved holiday, and nowhere was it celebrated with more
enthusiasm than at Whitehall.

Every
room and every gallery was decorated with holly, cypress and laurel. There were
enormous beaten-silver wassail-bowls garlanded with ivy. Branches of mistletoe
hung from chandeliers and in doorways, and a berry was pulled off for each
kiss. Gay music sounded throughout the Palace, the staircases were crowded with
merry young men and women, and both day and night there was a festival of
dancing and games and cards.

The
immense kitchens were busy preparing mince-pies, pickled boar's heads
to be served on
immense golden platters, peacocks with their tails spread, and every other
traditional Yule-tide delicacy. In the Banqueting Hall the King's Christmas
presents were on display and this year every courtier with a farthing to his
name had sent one—instead of retiring into the country to avoid the obligation,
as had once been common practice.

And
then suddenly the laughter was hushed, the music ceased to play, gentlemen and
ladies walked softly, spoke in whispers: Princess Mary was sick of the
small-pox. She died the day before Christmas.

The
royal family passed Christmas day quietly and sadly, and Henrietta Maria began
to make preparations for returning to France. She was afraid to leave Minette
longer in England for fear she too would contract the disease. And there was no
real reason to stay longer, for though she had Minette's dowry and a generous
pension for herself, she knew at last that she had failed with James.

Berkeley
had finally admitted that his story had been a lie, Killigrew and Jermyn had
done the same, and James had recognized Anne as his wife. But he made
no mention of
his decision to his mother and she was furious when she heard of it, refused to
speak to him either in public or in private and declared that if that woman
entered Whitehall by one door she herself would go out by another.

And
then all at once her attitude changed completely and
she told James
that since Anne was his choice in a wife she was ready to accept her, and she
asked that he bring the Duchess to her. James was relieved, though he knew what
had prompted her sudden softening of heart. Cardinal Mazarin had written to
tell her frankly that if she left England while still on bad terms with her two
sons she would find no welcome in France. He was afraid that Charles would
revoke her pension and that he, Mazarin, would have to support her.

The
day before she left London Henrietta Maria received her daughter-in-law in her
bedchamber at Whitehall. This was still the custom among great persons for that
room was the most opulently furnished of all and differed from a drawing-room
only because it contained the immense four-poster tester-covered bed-of-state.
The reception was a large one, for Henrietta Maria was popular at Court if
nowhere else, and in spite of widespread sickness they had been drawn there by
curiosity to
see
how Queen and Duchess would greet each other. All wore sombre black and most
jewels had been reluctantly left at home. The room smelt of unwashed bodies and
a nostril-searing stench of burnt brimstone and saltpetre which had been used
to disinfect the air. In spite of that precaution Henrietta Maria had not been
willing for Minette to run the risk, and she was not there.

The
Queen Mother sat in a great black velvet chair, a little mantle of ermine about
her shoulders, talking pleasantly with a group of gentlemen. The King stood
just beside her, tall and handsome in his royal-purple velvet mourning. But
everyone was growing impatient. The prologue had been too long—they were eager
for the play to begin.

And
then there was a sudden commotion in the doorway. The Duke and Duchess of York
were announced.

A
hushed expectant murmur ran through the room and many pairs of eyes glanced
quickly to Henrietta Maria. She sat perfectly still, watching her son and his
wife approach, a faint smile on her mouth; no one could have told what
she was
thinking. But Charles, glancing down at her, saw that she trembled ever so
slightly and that one veined taut-skinned hand had a tight hold on the arm of
her chair.

Poor
Mam, he thought. How much that pension means to her!

Anne
Hyde was twenty-three years old, dark and ugly with a large mouth and bulging
eyes. But she walked into the room —stared at by dozens of pairs of curious
jealous critical eyes and facing a mother-in-law she knew hated her—with her
head held high and a kind of courageous grandeur that commanded admiration.
With perfect respect but no slightest hint of servility she knelt at the Queen
's feet, bowing
her head, while James mumbled a speech of presentation.

Henrietta
Maria smiled graciously and kissed Anne lightly on the forehead, apparently as
well-pleased as though she had made the choice for James herself. Behind her
the face of
the King was impassive—but as Anne gave him a quick look of gratitude his black
eyes sparkled at her with something that was very like a reassuring and congratulatory
smile.