Winsor, Kathleen (25 page)

For
a while Roger obediently appeared and pretended to be host. But at last he
balked at the ridiculous role he was expected to play.

He
came one January evening and knocked, as he had been told to do, at the door of
his wife's bedroom. He was a medium-sized man of no pretentious appearance or
manner but there was a look of good-breeding on his face and intelligence in
his eyes. Barbara called out to him to enter and then, as he did so, merely
glanced around carelessly over her shoulder.

"Oh.
Good-evening, sir."

She
was sitting before a table above which hung a mirror with candles affixed, and
a maid was brushing her long mahogany-coloured hair while she tried several
different pairs ol dangling ear-rings to see which effect she liked best. Her
elaborate gown was made of stiff black satin so that by contrast the skin of
her arms and shoulders and breasts looked chalk-white, and there were diamonds
at her throat and about her wrists. She was in the eighth month of her first
pregnancy but seemed scarcely conscious of her unusual bulk, and she looked
robustly healthy.

Now,
as he entered and crossed the room the maid curtsied and went on with her
brushing while Barbara turned her head from one side to the other, making the
diamond pendants dance and catch the candle-light. At his appearance a subtle
boredom, a kind of polite contempt, had come upon her face. And as he stood
looking down at her in obvious perplexity she paid him no further attention,
though she knew that he was trying to speak and wanted her help.

"Madame,"
he began at last, after taking a deep swallow into his dry throat. "I find
that it will be impossible for me to have supper with you this evening."

"Ridiculous,
Roger! His Majesty will be here. He'll expect you."

She
had finally satisfied herself as to the ear-rings and now began to stick on
several small black patches, hearts and diamonds and half-moons; one went
beside her right eye, another on the left side of her mouth, a third high on
her left temple. She had not glanced at him again after the first careless
greeting.

"I
think his Majesty will understand well enough, if I'm not
present."

Barbara
rolled her eyes, heaving a pained but patient sigh. "Heigh ho! Are we to
go through this again?" He bowed. "We are not, madame.
Good-night." As he turned and went to the door Barbara sat drumming
her nails on
the edge of the table, her eyes taking on a dangerous sparkle, and then all at
once she pulled away from the maid and got to her feet, raising her arm to
secure the last bodkin herself.

"Roger!
I want to speak to you!"

His
hand on the knob, he turned and faced her. "Madame?"

"Get
out of here, Wharton." She gave a wave of her hand at the maid but started
to talk before the girl had had time to leave. "I think you'd better come
tonight, Roger. If you don't his Majesty will think it damned peculiar."

"I
don't agree, madame. I think his Majesty must find it more peculiar that a man
should be content to go tamely and parade his wife's whoredom before half the
Court."

Barbara
gave an unpleasant laugh. "The mistress of a King is not a whore,
Roger!" Her eyes suddenly narrowed and hardened and her voice rose.
"How often must I tell you that!" Then it fell again to become soft,
purring, sarcastic. "Or can it be you haven't noticed I'm treated with
twice as much respect now as I got when I was only the wife of an honourable
gentleman?" The inflection she gave the last two words showed her contempt
of him and of her own insignificant station as his wife.

He
looked at her coldly. "I think there's a better word for it than
respect."

"Oh?
And what's that pray?"

"Self-interest."

"Oh,
a pox on you and your damned jealousy! I'm sick of your bellow-weathering! But
you'll come to the supper tonight and act as host or by Jesus you'll smoke for
it!"

Suddenly
he crossed to her, his pose of indifference gone, his face flushed and
contorted with anger. He caught hold of her fore-arm. "Be quiet, madame!
You sound like a fish-wife! I was a fool not to have taken you to the country
when I first married you—my father warned me you'd disgrace us all! But I've
learned since then, and I've discovered that to some women freedom means
license. It seems that you're one of those women."

Her
eyes, almost on a level with his, stared at him tauntingly. "And if I
am," she said slowly, "what of it?"

All
the uncertainty he had shown before her at first had now vanished completely,
leaving him poised and determined. "Tomorrow we shall leave for Cornwall.
I don't doubt that two or three years of country quiet will do much to restore
your perspective."

With
a sudden swift wrench she jerked away from him. "You damned noddy! Just
you try spiriting me away to the country and we'll make a trial of what good it
does me to have the King's favour!" They were standing silently, both
breathing hard, staring fiercely into each other's eyes, when there was a knock
on the door and a voice called:

"His
Majesty, King Charles II!"

Barbara
looked around. "He's here!" Automatically her hands went to her head
to make sure that every hair was in place, her eyes moving swiftly and
excitedly, and though her face still showed traces of anger it had cleared
considerably. She went to pick up her black-spangled fan and then returned.
"Now! Are you coming down to act as host, or no!"

"I
am not."

"Oh,
you fool!"

Her
hand lashed out and slapped him stingingly across the face and then she picked
up her skirts and hurried across the room, pausing a moment to compose her
features before she opened the door. Then she went out and down the broad
portrait-lined hallway to the staircase.

Below
her stood the King in conversation with her cousin, Buckingham, but as she
appeared both men stopped talking and turned to give her their attention. She
came down slowly, partly because the precarious unbalance of pregnancy made her
cautious, partly to let them admire her. And then as she reached the bottom she
curtsied while both men bowed and the King, who alone might remain covered in
his own presence, swept off his hat.

Barbara
and Charles exchanged lingering smiles, deep intimate looks charged with
memories and anticipation. And then she turned to the Duke who had been
watching them with cynical amusement on his face.

"Well,
George. I didn't expect you back so soon from France."

"I
didn't expect to be back so soon. But—" He gave a shrug of his heavy
shoulders, glancing at the King.

Charles
laughed. "But Philippe flew into a jealous rage. I think he was afraid his
Grace intended to follow in his father's footsteps."

It
was notorious gossip in both kingdoms that the first Buckingham had been the
lover of beautiful Anne of Austria, who was now Louis XIV's fat and old and
ill-tempered mother. And his son had made no secret of his violent admiration
for Minette.

"It
would have been a pleasure," said Buckingham, and made the King a
half-mocking bow.

"Shall
we go into the drawing-room?" asked Barbara then, and as they walked
toward it she looked up at Charles, her face appealing, soft and almost
childish. "Your Majesty, I'm in a most embarrassing position. There's no
host for the supper tonight."

"No
host? Where's— You mean he didn't care to come?"

Barbara
nodded and dropped her black lashes, as though deeply ashamed of her husband's
bad manners. But Charles had another view of the matter.

"Well,
I can't say that I blame him, poor devil. Ods-fish, it seems a man with a
beautiful wife is more to be pitied than envied."

"If
he lives in England, he is," said the Duke.

Charles
laughed good-humouredly. He could not be offended on the subject of his own
habits for he did not try to fool himself about them.

"Still,
every party needs a host. If you'll permit me, ma-dame—"

Barbara's
purple eyes gleamed with triumph. "Oh, your Majesty! If you would!"

Now,
as they entered the doorway and paused for a moment, the roomful of people
swung to face them as though magnetized. The hat of every man came off in a
sweeping bow and the ladies bent gracefully to the ground, like full-blown
flowers grown too heavy for their stems. Barbara had already become so
successful and important a hostess that she did not find it necessary to
welcome her guests as they arrived. Everyone of any ambition, whether social or
political, was delighted to receive an invitation from Mrs. Palmer and would
not have complained whatever her manners might be. For many were convinced she
would one day, perhaps soon, be Queen of England.

A
year ago Barbara would have thought it incredible that she would ever have in
her home all at one time these men and women she now used so carelessly.

There
was Anthony Ashley Cooper, small, emaciated and sick, related to many of the
most powerful families in the nation. By some sleight-of-hand performance he
had contrived to transmute himself into a loyal Cavalier at just about the time
of the Restoration. The feat however, was no very unusual one. Sympathizers
with or active workers in the old regime had by no means all been hanged and
quartered or harried into exile— many of them now supported the Monarchy and,
in fact, formed the basis of the new Government. Charles was too practical and
too well-versed in politics to have imagined that his Restoration could mean a
complete overthrow of everything that had been done these past twenty years;
the recent change had been mostly superficial. Cooper, like many another, had
adopted a new set of manners which matched better with Charles's Court, but he
had relinquished neither principles nor fundamental intentions.

There
was Cooper's good friend, the Earl of Lauderdale, a huge red-faced red-haired
Scotsman whose brogue was thick even though most of his forty-five years had
been spent in England. He was ugly and coarse and boisterous, but he had an
amazing education in Latin, Hebrew, French, and Italian which he had laboriously
acquired during his years of imprisonment under the Commonwealth. Charles found
him amusing and the Earl had a deep affection for his King.

George
Digby, Earl of Bristol, was a good-looking man of almost fifty, vain and
unreliable, but he had in common with Cooper and Lauderdale a violent hatred of
the Chancellor. That hatred, founded on envy and jealousy, served to unite
most of the
ambitious men at Court. To put Chancellor Hyde out of the way was their highest
aim, their greatest hope. Barbara's house gave them a rallying-ground, for here
they might meet the King when he was at his leisure and most accessible.

But
many of them were merely gay young people interested in nothing more serious
than their love-affairs and gambling, in learning the latest dance or keeping
apace with the French fashions.

Lord
Buckhurst, only twenty-three, lived at Court but had no use for it, and refused
to exert himself to become a man of power. Henry Jermyn was a big-headed
spindle-shanked fop who was enjoying a considerable amatory success because
many persons believed he had been married to the dead Princess Mary. Among the
ladies was the voluptuous cat-like Countess of Shrewsbury; Anne, Lady Carnegie,
flagrantly over-painted, now famous because she had shared Barbara's first
lover with her; Elizabeth Hamilton, a tall gracious cool young woman, newly
arrived at Court, whom it was the fashion to admire. They were all about
Barbara's age, twenty or younger, for the men were outspoken in their opinion
that a woman had begun to decay at twenty-two.

The
immense drawing-room was furnished well, hung with heavy draperies of
gold-green, lighted by dozens of candles burning in wall-sconces and in brass
chandeliers overhead. The floor was uncovered and the high heels made a melodious
tapping upon it. Laughter seemed to fill the air to the very ceiling; a band of
musicians played in one corner; silverware and dishes rattled together.

An
adjoining room was set with a buffet-table, in the French style which Charles
preferred, and footmen swarmed everywhere. The dishes piled upon it might have
done justice to a cathedral builder: pompous confections decorated with candied
roses and violets; little dolls in full Court dress spinning about on cake
tops; great silver porringers containing steaming ragouts of mushrooms,
sweetbreads, and oysters. Bottles of the new drink, champagne, crowded the
tables. No more was an Englishman to be satisfied with boiled-mutton and pease
and ale. He had learnt better in France and would never be reconciled to the
old fare again.

The
King's role as host created a sensation, for many of them were sure that it was
a subtle way of showing his future intentions. Barbara was sure too and she
moved about the room like a flame, charming, amazingly beautiful, full of the
confidence of her power. Their eyes followed her and their whispers discussed
her. But Barbara was not fooled, for she knew well enough that obsequious
though they all were now it would take no more than a hint that the King was
losing interest and out would come the sheathed claws, every honeyed word would
turn to acid, and she would find herself more alone than she had ever been in
the days before her dangerous glory.