The French Mistress (30 page)

The view beyond the bridge was far more sobering. Not long before, the city had suffered a malignant outbreak of the plague that had claimed nearly one hundred thousand lives, a quarter of the populace. Soon after that had come a horrific fire that had destroyed a quarter of its buildings and left thousands more Londoners homeless and many places of business ruined, a double measure of misfortune for any people to bear. Now, four years later, little had yet been done by way of rebuilding. I could still see the remnants of the fire, with weedy, rubble-filled plots where houses once had stood, the tilting remnants of brick chimneys, and blackened timbers that continued to loom o’er their neighbors like twisted skeletons of ebony.

After this grim sight, I could appreciate anew the melancholy I’d often seen on His Majesty’s face. What prince could witness such terrible destruction cast down upon his people without being affected by their suffering?

“What caused the fire?” I drew my cloak more closely around my body. It was cold so near to the water, or perhaps the sight of the burned ruins chilled me. “Was it lightning? An untended cook fire or hearth?”

The comte shrugged elaborately. “No one knows for certain. The king ordered an inquiry, of course, but their only conclusion was that it had been an act of God. Ha, an act of God! Would that his people had been as credulous!”

“Why?” I asked curiously. “What did they believe was the cause?”

“What they believe is the reason behind every misfortune,” he said. “The French. More specifically, the Romish French. Don’t look so startled, mademoiselle. It’s a fact of living in this place. We are blamed for everything, and nothing. The English are so jealous of us French, yes?”

He smiled archly, but his words did not seem a jest to me. I remembered instead what Lord Monmouth had once told me about the unreasonable suspicion and dislike the English bore toward Catholics, nor could I forget Ralph Montagu’s certainty that most Englishmen believed that their English princess, our Madame, had been poisoned by her French husband and his lover. There was no sense to it, this blind English hatred for the French, but their sentiments certainly made for an unsettling (and more than a little frightening) welcome for me. Truly, the task of serving my king and my country’s interests in so hostile a place was going to be challenging indeed.

“There’s Whitehall Palace, mademoiselle,” the comte said beside me. “That ramble of gray stone and red brick hanging over the river. Doubtless that is not what you expected either, is it?”

He was right, and he laughed to see the bewilderment that must have shown on my face. When I thought of the French royal residences—Versailles, the Louvre, Saint-Cloud, Fontainebleau, the Palais-Royal—I pictured well-ordered and proportioned grandeur that reflected not only the glory of the inhabitants, but of all France as well. I should never have dignified what I saw before me now as a palace, certainly not a palace for one of the greatest kings of the Christian world. Oh, it was sufficiently large and the situation beside the river was agreeable, but it
was
a ramble, more a long string of disparate towers and roofs, windows and porches, seemingly tossed together by a score of different builders to suit a score of different patrons, and with all the regard of a child’s play blocks, too.

How could Madame, who’d had the most exquisite taste, have pined for this unwieldy heap of stone and mortar? How, too, could so handsome and fine a gentleman as the King of England have this as a reflection of his grandeur? And how had such a dingy, piebald manor ever come to be called Whitehall, when there was nothing fair or white about it?

My wonder only increased as we disembarked at the palace’s private landing and made our way up the long flight of stone steps. We were greeted by several royal guards and footmen, all of whom recognized His Lordship, and soon we were being led to the lodgings of Lord and Lady Arlington. I was very willing to follow, for if the exterior of Whitehall had appeared disordered, within it seemed ten times worse, with so many halls and staircases and galleries, often crowded with gentlemen and ladies and servants, that I soon lost any sense of my direction.

Also distracting was the amount of attention His Lordship and I drew as we walked past the others. Though no one greeted me by name, it was clear from what I overheard that most already knew who I was. Clearly they believed I knew no English, for they made little effort to speak discreetly as they offered their judgments on my appearance and how I’d please His Majesty. I held my head high, my expression serene, as if in fact I could hear none of these comments, yet some were so crude and common that I couldn’t help but blush, and that, too, became grist for their vulgar wit. I tried as best I could to concentrate instead on my new surroundings, eager for any hints at His Majesty’s preferences.

Now I vow I will be honest. In some of these halls and rooms, I did spy an occasional Italian picture or ancient statue of merit, a tapestry or looking glass of genuine quality—mind you, my eye had been well trained by Madame—but for the most part the pictures and other furnishings were drab and woeful. Far worse, however, was how there seemed to be dogs everywhere, wandering about among the crowds and relieving themselves wherever they chose. No one took any notice, nor did any of the servants hurry to do away with the leavings. It was an altogether foul practice, and one that helped give the palace more the air of a kennel than a home for a king.

By the time we finally reached the Arlingtons’ lodgings, my head ached with all I’d seen and heard and (regretfully) smelled. Yet as soon as we were ushered inside, I felt as if I were once again in Paris. As a member of the privy council, Lord Arlington had been granted an entire suite of rooms overlooking a large green park, and surely everything within these apartments had come from France or Italy.

As soon as Lady Arlington was introduced, I understood, for it was instantly clear she was a lady of refinement, and a fitting match for His Lordship. Born Elisabeth van Beeverweerd in the Netherlands, she was the granddaughter of Maurice of Nassau, Prince of Orange, and I wondered how Lord Arlington, who had urged the English to make war on the Dutch, had come to choose a Dutch heiress as his wife: a love match, I supposed, being the only explanation for it. Yet perhaps because we were each of us foreigners among the English, I felt at once an affinity to this handsome, elegant lady. Perhaps, too, I sensed the slanders she’d survived, for later I heard terrible, malicious stories whispered of her, of how she and certain other wanton ladies would perform lewd naked dances for drunken gentlemen in the private rooms of taverns. What I saw then was only her generosity to me, and how, as we sat together, she fell into speaking French to me most naturally, with only the slightest Dutch accent coloring certain words. She seemed among the most welcoming and gracious ladies that I’d yet met, especially after the travails I’d endured these last weeks.

The Comte de Grammont soon left us, and Her Ladyship herself showed me to my bedchamber. We took tea together, talking of nothing and everything as women will, the late-afternoon sun slanting low through the windows until the curtains were drawn and the candles lit for evening. As we spoke, I learned among other things that these handsome rooms in the palace were only a minor pied-à-terre to them, to keep them close for the convenience of the king. The house they regarded as their true home was on the country side of the park near the Mulberry Garden, a large and extravagant establishment simultaneously called Goring House, after the lord who’d built it, and Arlington House, after the present owner, though it amused Her Ladyship to refer to it both ways. It also became clear that her husband had confided everything of my situation to her, and that she’d no false modesty or outrage over the possibility that I’d become the king’s mistress. To her it seemed no more than another place at Court, and that went far to put me at my ease in her company.

As we finished our refreshment, she had her baby daughter brought to present to me, a beautiful infant named Isabella. This tiny girl was the only child of the Arlingtons’ union and much doted upon by them. Surely this child was a rare blessing from God upon their marriage, considering how Her Ladyship must have been close to thirty-five years of age when she’d borne her and His Lordship at least fifty. I watched her hold her lovely daughter, laughing and kissing her sweet small face, and I thought wistfully of all that Lady Arlington possessed—rank, honors, fortune, an adoring husband and a love-some child—and how charmingly agreeable her life must be.

My trunks and other belongings arrived, and as Bette began to unpack them, Lady Arlington insisted on coming to my bedchamber to watch and see what I had brought. She exclaimed over my gowns, inspecting each with delight over the style, the cloth, the lace, and the workmanship, and praising the Parisian seamstresses as surpassing all others.

“You’ll draw His Majesty’s eye in any of these, that’s certain,” she said with approval as she ran her fingers lightly over the sleeve of a saffron-colored satin gown. “He does like to see a well-dressed lady, and with your beauty, he’ll be blind to all others. This would be an excellent choice for your first meeting.”

“Forgive me, my lady, but I’d already decided on this one as most appropriate.” I held out a plain gown of dull black wool, more mourning of the same I’d been wearing for Madame. I wished to honor my mistress—that was true—but this gown was not quite the sacrifice it might appear. Though somber, it was made of the softest wool imaginable, and cut to flatter my form with cunning perfection. Since Madame’s death, I’d learned as well that the sad colors of mourning were unexpectedly becoming to me, making my alabaster skin the more striking by way of contrast, and that the narrow white bands that were the only permissible trimming served to brighten my smile further, my perfect teeth already being one of my best attributes.

I suppose that this might be perceived as a shocking vanity, turning the banners of loss and grief into worldly display. In England, perhaps it would be viewed in this shameful light, but in France, looking one’s best was only another way to demonstrate respect and regard for the dead. Every French lady with the means kept at least one elegant mourning gown in her wardrobe in readiness against the vagaries of fate. I was no different. I’d come prepared with gowns for the three stages of mourning, from this unadorned black of the first three months to the less somber grays until by next spring I could once again wear the colorful gowns I’d also brought. At least that was the rule at the French Court; it could well be different here.

But Her Ladyship, I suppose, had no way of realizing this. “Lord Arlington told me you’d been given leave to lessen your mourning.”

“I have, my lady,” I said, for I’d been granted permission by Louis himself. The choice to continue in mourning, at least for now, was entirely mine, and one I instinctively believed was both respectful toward Madame and also best for my cause. It was a risk, of course. The king might prefer to be diverted from the memory of his sister, rather than reminded of it. But when I considered his devotion to Madame, I’d decided that the surest course to his affections would be to continue to link myself to her in his thoughts, and this seemed to be the easiest way to do so.

“There will be time enough for the bright gowns, my lady,” I said softly. “I believe His Majesty would appreciate seeing how I still honor the memory of Her Highness.”

She looked back at the gown, her pale eyes turning thoughtful.

“The king might indeed prefer that,” she said slowly. “He grieves deeply for the princess.”

“Then most likely he’ll prefer it if I wait a little longer before I come to him like a gaudy canary bird.” I smiled sadly, my thoughts returning to Madame as they so often did. “I don’t wish to seem too eager, my lady, but when will I be presented to His Majesty again so that I might offer my condolences to him myself ?”

Lady Arlington nodded, clearly pleased to look forward to my future at Court. “Later this week, once you have recovered yourself from your journey, you’ll be presented to Her Majesty. After that, we can discuss when you will begin your duties in her household, and move to more suitable quarters among her other ladies. But as for being presented to His Majesty—no, I don’t believe that will be necessary.”

“Not necessary!” I exclaimed. “But that is why I have come here, my lady. How can it not be necessary?”

“Hush, mademoiselle. Calm yourself, pray,” Her Ladyship said. “Of course you’ll see him, and soon, too. I only meant that you needn’t be presented to him again. He met you at Dover, and that is sufficient. He’s not forgotten you, that is certain.”

“Forgive me, my lady,” I murmured contritely, now feeling foolish. “I misspoke.”

“There’s no harm in your enthusiasm,” she said, patting my arm with gentle concern, her touch eerily like Madame’s. “We are not so formal here as they are at Versailles. The king will stand on ceremony when it is necessary for matters of state, but in his own affairs, he prefers a less confining manner. He knows you are here now with us. I expect he will come to welcome you tomorrow morning.”

“He’ll come to me?” I asked, shocked, but pleasantly so. What rare favor, to have the king come to me, rather than the other way about.

“I should think so,” she said, and smiled again. “You needn’t worry about the propriety of such a call, my dear. I’ll take care to attend you when he appears. You won’t be left alone with him, not in the beginning. His Lordship has told me how you are a lady and gently bred, and how you were a treasured favorite of the princess. We must treat you with the respect that is due a lady of your station.”

“Thank you, my lady,” I said, and quickly brushed away the tears of gratitude that filled my eyes. Although I’d resolved to follow my own course—as I would with the mourning gown—it would be useful to have friends like this lady, whom it seemed I could trust. I’d not had such a one since Madame’s death. I could only hope that now my lonely days might be done. “Thank you for your kindness.”