The Loves of Charles II (77 page)

He shrugged his shoulders and decided to let matters take their course.

It was the end of the year—Catherine’s first in England—and the King gave a grand ball in his Palace of Whitehall to mark the passing of the old year and the coming of the new.

Into the great ballroom the public crowded to watch the dancing. There was the King, the most graceful dancer of all, more merry than any, clad in black with flashing diamonds adorning his person, surrounded by his fine courtiers and beautiful ladies. A little apart sat the Queen with Edward Montague and a few of her friends; and although she smiled often, chatted in her quaint English and seemed to be enjoying the ball, it was noticed how her eyes wistfully went back and back again to the tall figure of her husband.

She watched him leading the Duchess of York out for the brantle. And how ungainly was the poor Duchess beside such an elegant partner! The Duke led the Duchess of Buckingham, poor Mary Fairfax, for whom Catherine had a feeling of deep sympathy, for Mary was plain, ungainly and so eager to please the brilliant handsome man she had married; Catherine noticed how all eyes were on that other pair which joined the brantle with the King’s group. Tall, dark James Crofts, the Duke of Monmouth, looking
amazingly like his father, had chosen for his partner the most strikingly handsome woman in the ballroom. There were gasps from the people who had come in from the streets to watch the royal party at their pleasure; there was a titter of grudging admiration for the auburn-haired beauty with the flashing blue eyes.

Her jewels were more brilliant than those of any woman in the room, and she held herself imperiously as though conscious of her power; and now she was amused because she knew that the King was aware of the warm looks of this very young boy who was her partner in the dance.

A murmur went through the crowd. “’Tis my Lady Castlemaine! Was there ever such a woman, such beauty, such jewels?”

The courtiers followed her with their eyes. None could refrain from looking at Barbara. Some of the jewels she was now wearing had been Christmas presents to the King, but already Barbara had grasped them with greedy hands. And as she danced in the brantle the King watched her, Mon-mouth watched her, and Lord Chesterfield watched her, but none watched her quite so closely nor so sadly as the Queen of England.

The brantle over, the King led the dancers in a coranto; and when that was ended and more stately dances followed, the King, with more energy than that possessed by most of his courtiers, signed to the fiddlers to play the dances of old England, with which country dances, he declared, none could compare.

“Let the first be ‘Cuckolds all awry!’ The old dance of old England.”

The Court grew very merry in the light of tall wax candles, and the crowds cheered and stamped with pleasure to see the old English dance; and they laughed and shouted to one another that Charles was indeed a King, with his merry life and his bland good humor, and the smiles he lavished freely on his subjects; they wanted no saint on the throne, who knew not how to laugh and found a virtue in forbidding pleasure to others.

They looked at the sad-faced Queen who did not seem to share in the fun; and from her they turned their gaze on dazzling Barbara.

The King was a man whom the English would never cease to love. And at the great Court ball in Whitehall Palace on the last night of the year 1662, all those present rejoiced once more that their King was a merry monarch and that he had come home to rule his kingdom.

n the great ballroom at Windsor Castle the most brilliant ball of the year was taking place. This was to celebrate not only St. George’s Day but the marriage of the young man whom the King delighted to honor, his son, the Duke of Monmouth.

Catherine watched the dancers, and beside her sat the little bride, Lady Anne Scott, the heiress of Buccleugh and one of the richest in the kingdom; but the bridegroom seemed more interested in Lady Castlemaine than in his bride, and the young girl gazed at the pair with apprehension.

How sad it was, thought the Queen, that so many seemed to love those who were not their lawful partners! No wonder the King with sly humor liked to summon them all to dance “Cuckolds all awry.” Was he the only man who knew that he could rely on the good faith of his wife? Yet he seemed not to love her the more for her fidelity, and to love Barbara none the less for the lack of it in her. It was said that Sir Charles Berkeley and George Hamilton were Barbara’s lovers now and it seemed as though, before many weeks were out, young Monmouth might be; for the youth of the latter would be no deterrent to Barbara. She would look upon that as piquant. Catherine heard that she took lovers on the spur of the moment merely because some novelty in them appealed to her. She did not care whether they were noble or not; a lusty groom, she had been heard to say, was a better bedfellow than an impotent noble lord. The King also would hear these rumors, yet they seemed to affect him little; he still visited her on several nights each week and was often seen coming back early in the morning and all alone through the privy gardens. How could one hope to please such a husband as Catherine’s by one’s chastity?

Chastity! Who at Court cared about that? Their King clearly did not, and the courtiers were only too ready to follow his lead.

The Court was growing extremely elegant; Charles was introducing more and more French customs; he wrote continually to his sister, the wife of the French King’s brother, asking her to send him any novelties which had appeared in the Court of her brother-in-law. Making love was the main pursuit, it seemed, of all; rarely did any drink to excess at the Court; there again the custom of the King was followed. There was less gambling now, although this was a sport much loved by Lady Castlemaine. The King would anxiously watch her at play; he had good reason, for she was a reckless gambler, and who would pay her debts but himself? He did not forbid her or any of the ladies whom he so admired, to gamble; he could not bring
himself to spoil their pleasure, he admitted; but he tried to lure them from the gaming tables with brilliant balls and masquerades. How indulgent he was to the women he loved!

Why could they not be content with the partners whom they had married? Catherine wondered. She looked at little Anne beside her and felt a wave of tenderness for her. Poor child! She was young yet, but Catherine felt that if she ever grew to love her handsome young husband she was going to suffer deeply.

Lady Chesterfield was standing beside the Queen’s chair and Catherine turned to her and smiled. A very charming lady—Elizabeth Butler now Lady Chesterfield—and married to that man who had seemed as much a slave of Barbara’s as the King himself.

Catherine had been sorry for Elizabeth Chesterfield; she had felt she understood her sadness for she had heard how innocent she had been when she had married the profligate Earl, and how she had tried to win his love only to be repulsed.

Catherine said in her faltering English: “I rejoice to see you look so well, Lady Chesterfield.”

Lady Chesterfield bowed her head and thanked Her Majesty.

Yes, she had changed, thought Catherine; she had lost her meek looks. Her dress of green and cloth of silver fell from beautifully rounded shoulders, and her thick hair was in ringlets falling about them; her eyes sparkled and she watched the dancers almost speculatively.

So she had come to terms with life, thought Catherine. She had decided not to grieve because her husband preferred the evil beauty of Lady Castlemaine.

The Earl of Chesterfield had come to his wife’s side, and would have taken her hand to lead her into the dance, but Elizabeth had withdrawn it and seemed not to see him standing there.

Catherine heard the whispered words.

“Come, Elizabeth. I would lead you to the dance.”

Elizabeth’s voice was lightly mocking. “Nay, my lord, your place is by the side of another. I would not deprive you of your pleasure in her company.”

“Elizabeth, this is folly.

“Nay, ’tis sound good sense. And I advise you to watch what is afoot, for your dear friend seems mightily taken with the young Duke. You endanger your chances with her by dallying with me. Ah, here comes my cousin George Hamilton to claim me in the dance. George, I am ready.”

And the graceful creature had laid her hand in that of George Hamilton, her cousin, who, it was said, had lately been the lover of my Lady
Castlemaine. Chesterfield stood watching them with a frown between his eyes. It was like a mad dance, thought Catherine, in which, after a clasping of hands and a merry jig, they changed partners. Was Chesterfield more interested in the wife who flouted him than in the one who had been ready to love him? Or was it merely his pride which was wounded?

She noticed, however, that as the evening progressed his eyes were more frequently on his wife than on Lady Castlemaine.

Nor was he the only one who had seemed to change the course of his affections.

Catherine, whose eyes never strayed far from the King, saw that he was giving much of his attention to one of her maids of honor.

Frances Theresa Stuart was a distant relative of the King’s; she was the daughter of Walter Stuart, the third son of Lord Blantyre, and Henrietta Maria had brought her to England when she came over, and had left the girl with Catherine to act as maid of honor.

Henrietta Maria had told Catherine that Louis Quatorze had been interested in her, and had suggested that she remain in his Court. “But,” said Henrietta Maria, “I thought it well not to leave her there; for her family lost much during the Civil War and I have a duty to them. I would not wish to see her become one of Louis’ mistresses. She has been brought up to live virtuously, so I pray you take her into your household and let her serve you.”

Catherine had not wondered then whether removing Mrs. Stuart from the lecherous orbit of Louis to that of Charles was not after all somewhat pointless, because at that time she had regarded the King’s attachment to Lady Castlemaine as largely the result of an evil spell which that woman had put upon him. Now she was beginning to understand her husband and to realize that if there had been no Lady Castlemaine there would have been others.

Previously Frances had been looked upon as little more than a child, but it seemed that in her dazzling gown and the few jewels she possessed, this night she had become a young woman; and Catherine realized that if Barbara’s beauty had a rival it was in this lovely girl.

Frances’s hair was thick, fair and hung in curls over her shoulders; her pink and white complexion was dazzling; her eyes were blue; and she was tall and very slender; Barbara had a rare beauty with which any woman would find it difficult to compete, but Frances, in addition to beauty, was possessed of an elegance which she had acquired during her education at the French Court; her manners were gentle and quite modest—a complete contrast to the vulgarity of Lady Castlemaine. Barbara was, of course, full of wiles, full of cunning and, compared with her, Frances Stuart seemed simple
as a child. It was perhaps these qualities, as much as her youth, which had made Catherine regard her as a little girl.