Winsor, Kathleen (42 page)

"Tell
my Lady Suffolk that I shall return the list to her in the morning."

Half
an hour later Charles arrived to find her alone and, as usual, on her knees before
the little shrine which had been set up next to the great scarlet-velvet
bed-of-state. He waited quietly, but already his eye had caught sight of the
paper on the writing-table and the black bar which marked out Lady Castlemaine.
However, he said nothing, and when she turned and smiled at him he crossed over
to help her to her feet; but as he stooped to kiss her he could feel her tiny
body stiffen defensively.

For
a few moments they talked, discussing the play they had seen that night—a
performance of "Bartholomew Fair" done by the King's Company—but all
the while Catherine was wondering nervously how she should broach the subject
and wishing that he would mention it first. At last, in desperation, just as he
excused himself to go into the dressing-room, she spoke quickly.

"Oh—and
Sire—before I forget. My Lady Suffolk gave me the list tonight—it's over
there—" She swallowed and took a deep breath. "I crossed out one
name. I'm sure you know which one," she added hastily, a little note of
defiance coming into her voice, for Penalva had warned her that she must let
him know once and for all she was not to be treated like that again.

Charles
stopped, glancing carelessly across his shoulder, for he was just passing the
writing-table. He turned slowly to face
her. "Have you an objection to a
lady you've never seen?"

"I've
heard of her."

Charles
gave a shrug and one finger stroked his mustache, but he smiled.
"Gossip," he said. "How people love to gossip."

"Gossip!"
she cried, shocked now to see how crassly unconcerned he was at having been
taken in this bold attempt. "It can't be just gossip! Why, my mother told
me—"

"I'm
sorry, my dear, that my personal affairs are known so far afield. And yet since
you seem so well advised of my shortcomings, I hope you'll believe me when I
tell you that that episode is past. I have not seen the lady since we were
married, and I intend having nothing more to do with her. I only ask you to
accept her so that she may not have to suffer the indignities sure to be
otherwise imposed upon her by ladies and gentlemen who were her friends only a
short while since."

"I
don't understand you, Sire. What else does a woman of that kind deserve? Why,
she was nothing but your—your concubine!"

"It's
always been my opinion, madame, that the mistresses of kings are as honourable
as the wives of other men. I don't ask you to make her your friend, Catherine,
or even to have her about you—but only that she be allowed the title. It would
make her life much easier—and could scarcely hurt you, my dear." He
smiled, trying to convince her, but nevertheless he was surprised at her
stubbornness, for he had never suspected that this quiet adoring little woman
had so much spirit.

"I'm
sorry, your Majesty, but I must refuse. I would gladly do anything else you
ask—but I can't do this. Please, Sire—try to understand what it would mean to
me, too."

A
week later Charles, on the pretext of going hunting, went to see Barbara at her
uncle's nearby estate. She had just arrived and had sent him a desperate,
humble imploring letter which, however, touched him less than did the fragrance
it carried— that heavy musky compelling odour with which she always surrounded
herself.

Breathless
from running, she met him just as he stepped into the great hallway where
stag-horns decorated the walls and ancient armour and firearms hung in every
corner. He looked at her and saw a woman more beautiful than the one he
remembered—his memory was short for such things—with brilliant violet eyes, her
hair in a lavish cluster of curls about her face, dressed in a becoming gown of
deep-red silk.

"Your
Majesty!"

She
made him a sweeping curtsy and her head dropped gracefully. Her eyes closed and
she gave a little sigh as he bent casually to kiss her upon the cheek. Then she
took his arm and they walked on into the house and up the flight of stairs
which led to the main apartments.

"You're
looking very well," he said, determinedly ignoring
her obvious
efforts to enchant. "I hope your confinement was not difficult."

She
laughed gaily and pressed his arm, as sweet and merry as she had ever been in
the early weeks of their acquaintance before the Restoration. "Difficult!
Heavens, Your Majesty,— you know how it is with me! I'd rather have a baby than
a quartan ague! Oh, but wait till you see him! He's ever so handsome—and
everyone says he's the image of you!" That was not what they had said
about her first child.

In
the chapel the bishop was waiting with Lord Oxford and Lady Suffolk and the
baby. When the ceremony of baptism was over Charles admired his son, took it up
into his arms with an air of knowing exactly what he was about. But presently
it began to cry and was sent off back to the nursery. The others went into a
small private room to have wine and cakes, and here Barbara maneuvered him off to
one side, under the pretext of showing him a section of the garden.

But
she soon turned from the roses and flowering lime.

"And
now you're married," she breathed softly, looking up at him with her eyes
sad and tender. "And I've heard you're deep in love."

He
stood and stared at her moodily, his eyes flickering over her face and hair and
down to her breasts and small-laced waist. He caught the faint lascivious odour
of her perfume, and his eyes darkened. Practiced voluptuary as he was, Charles
had begun to long for a woman whose senses he could arouse, and who could
arouse his. Catherine loved him, but he was finding her innocence and
instinctive reticence a bore.

He
sucked a quick breath through his teeth and his jaw set, "I'm very happy,
thank you."

A
faint mocking smile crossed her face. "For your sake, Sire, I'm
glad." Then she sighed again and looked wistfully out the window.
"Oh, you can't think what a wretched time I had in London after you'd
left! The very porters and 'prentices in the streets insulted me! If you hadn't
promised to make me a Lady of the Bedchamber— Lord, I don't know how I'd
shift!"

A
scowl crossed his face, for this was what he had been expecting and dreading.
Of course her aunt had told her the whole story. "I'm sure you exaggerate,
Barbara. I think you'll get along very well, in spite of everything."

Her
head turned swiftly, the black centers of her eyes enlarging. "What do you
mean—in spite of everything?"

"Well—it's
unfortunate, but my wife crossed out your name. She says she doesn't want you
for an attendant."

"Doesn't
want me! Why, that's ridiculous! Why doesn't she want me? My family's good
enough, I hope! And what harm can I do her now?"

"None,"
he said, very definitely. "But all the same she doesn't want you. She
doesn't understand the way we live here in England. I told her that I
would—"

Barbara
stared at him aghast. "You told her she needn't
have me!"
she repeated in a horrified whisper. "Why, how could you do such a
thing!" Tears had swum into her eyes and already, in spite of Lady
Suffolk's frantic signalling, her voice was rising and a quaver of hysteria had
come into it. "How can you do such a thing to a woman who has sacrificed
her reputation, been deserted by her husband, and left to the scorn of all the
world—to give you happiness! Oh,—!" She turned and leaned her forehead
against the window, one closed fist pressed to her mouth. She took a deep
sobbing gasp. "Oh, I wish I'd died when the baby was born! I'd never have
wanted to live if I'd known you'd do a thing like this to me!"

Charles
looked more annoyed than sympathetic or conscience-smitten. All he wanted was
to have the matter settled one way or another—and whether Barbara won or
Catherine did made little difference to him. There was something to be said for
both sides of the question, he thought, but a woman could never see more than
one.

"Very
well," he said. "I'll speak to her again."

But
instead he sent the Chancellor to do the delicate business for him, though the
old man protested vehemently, for he thought that Castlemaine would be well
served if she were sent into exile overseas. Clarendon came out of his
interview wiping his red face and shaking his head, limping slightly to favour
his gout-stricken right foot. Charles was waiting for him in his laboratory and
that was where he went—but as the short, round, pompous little man passed
through the galleries he was followed by a trail of smirks and whispers. The
contest between their Majesties was giving amusement to the entire Court.

"Well?"
said the King, getting up from where he had sat writing a letter to Minette—she
was now Madame, Duchess of Orleans and third lady at the Court of France.

"She
refuses, your Majesty." He sat down, ignoring ceremony, because he was
tired and discouraged and his foot ached. "For a little woman who looks
meek and obliging—" He mopped his wet face again.

"What
did you tell her? Did you tell her that—"

"I
told her
everything.
I told her that your Majesty no longer had commerce
with the Lady—nor ever intends to. I told her that your Majesty has the
greatest affection for her and will make her a very good husband if she would
but agree to this one thing. Oh, I beg of your Majesty, don't send me again! I
have no maw for this business—you know what my opinion is—"

"I
don't care what your opinion is!" said Charles sharply, though usually he
listened with a lazy patient smile to whatever criticism of his manners, morals
or intellect the Chancellor cared to make. "What was her attitude when you
left?"

"She
was in such a passion of tears, I think she may be wholly dissolved by
now."

Charles
went to his wife's room that night in a mood defiant
and determined.
He had had a domineering mother; he had unwittingly chosen a domineering
mistress; but he did not intend to be hen-pecked at home. He was less
interested now in the fate of Barbara Palmer than he was in convincing his wife
that he and not she would make the decisions. Catherine met him with an equally
defiant air—though only an hour before they had been smiling politely at each
other and listening to a choir of Italian eunuchs.

He
bowed to her. "Madame, I hope that you are prepared to be
reasonable."

"I
am, Sire—if you are."

"I
ask this one favour of you, Catherine. If you'll grant it, I promise it shall
be the last hard thing I'll ever expect of you."

"But
the one thing you ask is the hardest thing a man
could
ask of his wife!
I can't do it! I won't do it!" Suddenly she stamped her tiny foot and
cried in a flare of angry passion that astonished him, "And if you speak
of it again I'll go home to Portugal!" She stared at him for a moment, and
then bursting into tears turned her back and covered her face with her hands.

For
a long moment both of them were silent, Catherine struggling to control her
sobs but wondering miserably why he did not come to her, take her into his
arms, and tell her that he realized how impossible it would be for her to
accept his cast-off whore as an attendant. He had seemed so kind and gentle and
tender, she could not understand what had happened to change him. Surely if he
cared so much about the woman's having that place he must still love her.

But
Charles, his stubbornness now thoroughly aroused, had a vision of himself going
through life the meek, uxorious husband of a tyrannizing little despot. She
could never learn earlier that he would rule his own household.

"Very
well, madame," he said at last. "But before you go I think it would
be wise to determine first if your mother will have you—and to find out, I'll
send your attendants before you."

Catherine
whirled around and stared at him with unbelieving astonishment. Those men and
women of her own country were all she had to cling to in this strange
terrifying land. Now, more than ever, when he was against her too, she needed
them.

"Oh,
please, Sire!" Her hands went out imploringly.

He
bowed. "Good-night, madame."