Winsor, Kathleen (85 page)

Writing
was the fashion. All the courtiers wrote something, plays, satires, lampoons on
their friends and acquaintances, and the Earl had already shown that he had not
only a quick talent but a flair for malice. Now he had a rolled-up sheet of
paper stuck beneath his arm and the other three glanced at it expectantly.

"I
protest, Sedley." Rochester's smile and manner were deceptively mild, and
he bowed to Stewart and Wells so courteously that it was impossible to believe
he had not the most charitable opinion of all women. "You'll convince the
ladies I'm an ill-natured sot. No—it's no libel
I have here. Just a silly thing I
scratched out while I was waiting for my periwig to be curled."

"Read
it to us!" cried both women at once.

"Yes,
for God's sake, Wilmot. Let's hear it. The silly things you scratch out while
you sit at stool are better than anything Dryden can do though he eat a peck of
prunes and put himself into a course of physic."

"Thanks,
Sedley. I'll be in the front row to cry up your play if you ever bring yourself
to finish it. Well, here's what I've writ—"

Rochester
began to read his poem, a long half-idyllic, pseudo-serious rambling tale of a
shepherd and his love. The virgin was reluctant, the swain over-ardent, and
when at last he brought her to consent he found himself powerless to satisfy
either of them—and so it pointed a moral to laggard young maidens, like
Frances, perhaps. Winifred Wells and Sedley were much amused, but though
Frances could follow the trend of thought the subtleties escaped her. When at
last he had finished he suddenly crumpled the paper and flung it into the
fireplace. None of the gentlemen would let it be thought they had any regard
for their scribbling.

"You
write well on that subject, my lord," said Sedley. "Can it be you've
had the misfortune yourself?"

Rochester
was not offended. "You always seem to know my secrets, Sedley. Is it
possible you're lying with my whore?"

"And
will you be angry if I am?"

"By
no means. I say a man who won't share his whore with his friends is damned
ill-natured and deserves the pox."

"Well,"
said Sedley, "I wish you'd treat your ladies with more kindness. She
complains to me constantly that you're unfaithful and use her barbarously. She
swears she hates you and never wants to see your face again."

Rochester
gave a sudden laugh. "Ye gods, Sedley! You're out of the fashion! That's
my last whore!"

At
that moment a quick change came over Rochester's face; his blue eyes darkened
and an odd smile touched his mouth. The others turned curiously to see that
Barbara Palmer had just appeared in the doorway. For an instant she paused, and
then she swept in upon them, gorgeous, sultry, impressive as a tropical storm.
She was dressed in green satin and she glittered everywhere with the darting
shafts thrown from her jewels.

"By
God," said Rochester softly, "she's the handsomest woman in the
world!"

Frances
made a face and turned her back. The King's attention had accustomed her to the
flattering notion that she was the most beautiful creature alive and she did
not like to hear others praised; and Winifred and Castlemaine, rivals for the
same man, had never been more than superficially polite to each other. While
they watched, Barbara crossed the room and went to take her place at one of the
card-tables.

"Well,"
said Sedley, "if you have a mind to lie with her you must cure yourself of
your nervousness. She'd have no patience with a man who found himself in such a
predicament. Anyway, I don't think your Lordship is the type she admires."

They
gave a hearty burst of laughter at this, for no one would ever forget how
Barbara had given Rochester a blow that had sent him reeling when he had once tried
to snatch a kiss.

The
Earl joined in the laughter but his eyes had a malicious gleam. "No
matter," he shrugged. "Another five years and I warrant she'll be
willing to pay even me a round sum."

The
two women looked pleased, if a little surprised. Had Barbara actually begun to
pay her lovers? Sedley, however, was frankly skeptical.

"Come
now, John. You damned well know her Ladyship can have whatever man she sets her
mind to, with no more than the lift of an eyebrow. She's still the handsomest
woman at Whitehall—or in all London, for the matter of that—"

Frances,
now thoroughly hurt, gave a wave of her hand at someone across the room.
"Your servant, madame—gentlemen—I must speak a word with my Lady
Southesk—"

Rochester
and Sedley and Winifred exchanged smiles. "I still hope," said the
Earl, "that some day that little milksop Stewart will come to blows with
Castlemaine. Gad, I could write an epic on it!"

Several
hours later Frances and Charles stood beside an open casement window above the
garden, and the soft night breeze carried to them a faint smell of roses and
the waxen
sweet scent of potted orange-trees. It was almost midnight and many of the
ladies and gentlemen had left already. Others were counting up their losses,
arranging loans, grumbling about bad luck or exulting if it had been good.

Queen
Catherine was talking to the Duchess of Buckingham and pretending not to notice
how engrossed her husband was in Mrs. Stewart. She had learned her lesson well
three years before, and though she loved Charles sincerely and hopelessly, she
had never again objected to his interest in another woman. Now she played cards
and danced, wore English clothes and dressed her hair in the latest French
mode; she was as much an English-woman as her early training would allow.
Charles always showed her the most perfect courtesy and insisted that the
members of his Court do likewise. She was not happy, but she tried to seem so.

Frances
was saying, "What a beautiful beautiful night! It doesn't seem possible
that only twenty miles away there are thousands of men and women—sick, and
dying."

Charles
was quiet for a moment, and then he spoke very softly. "My poor people. I
wonder why this has happened to them. They can't deserve it— I can't make
myself believe in a malignant God who would punish a nation for the faults of
its ruler—"

"Oh,
Sire!" protested Frances. "How can you talk like that! They're not
being punished for
your
faults! If they're being punished for a fault
it's for their own!"

Charles
smiled. "You're loyal, Frances. I think
you
must be my loyal
subject— But of course you're not my subject at all. I'm yours—"

At
that moment the high flaunting voice of Lady Castlemaine interrupted them.
"Lord, what wretched cards I held tonight! I lost six thousand pound! Your
Majesty, I swear I'm stark in debt again!"

She
gave a gurgling laugh, staring up at him with her great purple eyes. Barbara
was not so docile as the Queen. Charles visited her in private; she was then
carrying his fourth child, and she did not intend that he should slight her in
public. Obviously resenting her intrusion, he looked at her coldly with
something of the forbidding hauteur he could so well assume when he had a use
for it.

"Are
you, madame?"

Frances
now took up her skirts, with a gesture which delicately conveyed her distaste.
"Excuse me, Sire. Your servant, madame." She scarcely looked at
Barbara, and then she started away.

Quickly
Charles touched her arm. "Here, Frances—I'll walk along with you, if I
may. You have an escort, madame?" His question to Barbara did not demand
or want an answer.

"No,
I haven't! Everyone's gone." Her lips pouted and she had an injured air
which was probably the beginning of a
crackling tantrum. "And I don't
see why I should shift for myself while you—"

Charles
interrupted. "With your leave, madame, I shall see Mrs. Stewart to her
chamber. Good-night." He bowed, very politely, offered Frances his arm,
and the two of them walked off together. They had gone only a few feet when
Frances turned her head and looked up at him; suddenly she burst into a gleeful
giggle.

They
walked back to her apartments and at the door he kissed her, asking if he might
come in while she made ready for bed—which he often did, sometimes with a herd
of his courtiers. But now she gave him a wan little smile and a look of
pleading.

"I'm
tired. And my head aches so."

He
was instantly alarmed, for though there had been no plague at Court the
slightest sign of an indisposition was enough to set up unpleasant fears.
"Your head aches? Do you feel well otherwise? Have you any nausea?"

"No,
Your Majesty. Just a headache. Just one of my headaches."

"You
have them often, Frances."

"All
my life. Ever since I can remember."

"You're
sure they're not just a convenience—for putting off unwelcome visitors?"

"No,
Sire. I really have them. Please—may I go now?"

Quickly
he kissed her hand. "Certainly, my dear. Forgive my thoughtlessness. But
promise me that if it gets worse or if you have any other symptoms you'll send
for Dr. Fraser—and let me know?"

"I
promise, Sire. Good-night."

She
backed into the room and closed the door gently. It was true that she had
always had violent headaches. Her gaiety and high spirits were part
nervousness, for she had none of Castlemaine's robust hearty vigour.

In
her bedroom the long-tailed green parrot which she had brought from France was
sleeping, his head tucked under his wing, but at her entrance he woke instantly
and began to dance up and down on his perch, squawking with delight. Mrs.
Barry, the middle-aged gentlewoman who had been with Frances since babyhood,
had also been dozing in her chair; now she too woke, and came hurrying forward
to help her mistress undress.

Alone
now and off her guard, with no need to impress anyone, she looked frankly
tired. Slowly she got out of her gown, unfastened the laces of her busk and
with a sigh of relief sat down while Barry began to unpin the jewels and
ribbons twisted in her hair.

"Another
headache, sweetheart?" Mrs. Barry's voice was worried, soft and maternal,
and her fingers worked with loving tenderness.

"Terrible."
Frances was close to tears.

Barry
took a cloth now and wrung it out in a bowl of vinegar which was kept on a
shelf nearby, convenient for frequent use. She laid it across Frances's
forehead and held it with her fingers at either temple, while Frances closed
her eyes and let her head rest gratefully against the cushion of Barry's bosom.
They continued silent for a few moments.

Suddenly
there was a sound of commotion from outside. A little page spoke, quietly, and
an angry feminine voice answered; the door of the bedroom burst open and there
stood Barbara Palmer. For an instant she glared at Frances and then she slammed
it closed, with such violence that the noise seemed to reverberate in Frances's
brain, making her wince.

"I
have a crow to pluck with you, Madame Stewart!" declared the Countess.

Frances's
pride rose, ready to do combat, and sweeping the weariness from her face she
stood up, lifting her chin. "Your servant, madame. And what can I do for
you, pray?"

"I'll
tell you what you can do for me!" replied Barbara, and she crossed the
room swiftly, until she stood just three or four feet from her. Barry was
glaring pugnaciously from over Frances's shoulder and the parrot had begun to
squawk his resentment, but Barbara ignored them both. "You can stop trying
to make me appear a fool in public, madame!
That's
what you can
do!"

Frances
looked at her with obvious distaste, wondering how she had ever been so stupid
as to consider this wild uncontrolled harpy her best friend. And then she sat
down again, motioning Barry to continue undressing her hair.

"I'm
sure I don't know how I can make you look a fool, madame—in public or anywhere
else. If you do, you have only yourself to thank."

Barbara
stood with her hands on her hips, eyes slightly narrowed. "You're a cunny
gypsy, Mrs. Stewart—but let me tell you this: I can be a mighty dangerous
enemy. You may find you've got the bear by the nose. If I set my mind to it, I
could have you out of Whitehall like that!" She gave a quick sharp snap of
her fingers.