The Loves of Charles II (94 page)

She did not answer. She believed the hot, scalding smart on the face she loathed meant tears.

She felt his lips on her hands. He must be mad. Did he not know that there might still be danger of contagion?

“I came because I could not endure that we should be bad friends, Frances,” he said. “You were ill and alone, so I came to see you.”

She shook her head. “Now go, I beg of you. I implore you. I know you cannot bear to look at anything so ugly as I have become. You cannot have anything but loathing for me now.”

“One does not loathe friends—if the friendship be a true one—whatever befalls them.”

“You desired me for my beauty.” Her voice broke on a cracked note. “My beauty…. I am not only no longer beautiful, I am hideous. I know how you hate everything ugly. I can appeal only to your pity.”

“I loved you, Frances,” he said. “’Od’s Fish! I did not know how much until you ran away and left me. And now I find you sick and alone, deserted by your friends. I came hither to say this to you, Frances: Here is one friend who will not desert you.”

“Nay … nay …” she said. “You will never bear to look upon me after this.”

“I shall visit you every day until you are able to leave your bed. Then you must return to Court.”

“To be jeered at!”

“None would dare jeer at my friend. Moreover, you despair too soon. There are remedies for the effects of the pox. Many have tried them. I will ask my sister to tell me what the latest French remedies are for improving the skin. Your eye will recover its sight. Frances, do not despair.”

“If I had been less beautiful,” she murmured, “it would have been easier.”

He said: “Let us talk of other matters. I will tell you of the fashions of which I hear from my sister. The French are far in advance of us and I will ask her to send French dresses for you. How would you like to come to Court in a dress from Paris?”

“With a mask over my face, mayhap I might,” said Frances bitterly.

“Frances, this is not like you. You used to laugh so gaily when the card houses of others collapsed. Do you remember?”

She nodded. Then she said sadly: “Now my house has collapsed, and I see that cards were such flimsy things … so worthless with which to build a house.”

He pressed her hands; and she turned to look into his face, hoping for what she could not possibly expect to find; the tenderness of his voice deceived her.

How could he love her—hideous as she had become? She thought of the flaming beauty of Barbara Castlemaine; she thought of the dainty
gamin
charm of the player with whom she had heard he was spending much time. And how could he love Frances Stuart who had had nothing but her unsurpassed beauty, of which the hideous pox had now completely robbed her?

She had caught him off his guard.

She had allowed him to see her once beautiful face hideously distorted, and he knew and she knew that, whatever remedies there were, nothing could restore its beauty; and she also knew that what had prompted him to visit her was nothing but the kindness of heart he would have for any sick animal. Thus would he have behaved for any of his little dogs or the creatures he kept in his parks.

Of all those who had courted and flattered her in the days when she had enjoyed the power her beauty had brought, there was only one who came now to visit her—the King himself; and, because of this, when she was well and no longer a danger to them, others would come, not because they cared what became of her, but because it was the custom to follow the King.

He had come in her affliction; she would always remember that. He had risked grave sickness and possibly death by coming to her when she had felt prepared to take a quick way out of this world.

Now he sat there on the bed and was trying to act a part; he was trying to be gay, trying to pretend that soon she would be back at Court, and the old game—she evasive, he persuasive—would begin again.

But although he was a tolerably good actor, there had been one moment of revelation when she had seen clearly that he had no feeling for her but one, and that was pity.

t was springtime, and Catherine was filled with new hope. If all went well this time she might indeed present an heir to the nation. It was seven years since she had come to England, and she was more deeply in love with Charles than she had been during that ecstatic honeymoon. She no longer hoped to have his love exclusively; it would be enough for her if she might share it with all those who made demands upon it. He had so many mistresses that none was quite sure how many; he had taken a fancy to several actresses whom he saw at the theater; and, although his passion for these women was usually fleeting, he had remained constant to Eleanor Gwyn, who was affectionately known throughout the Court and country as Nelly. Barbara kept her place at the head of them, but that was largely due to Barbara herself; the King was too lazy to eject her from the position she had taken as a right; and until there came a mistress who would insist on his doing so, it seemed that there Barbara would remain.

As to Catherine, she allowed the King’s seraglio to affect her as little as possible. She had her own court of ladies—among them poor, plain Mary Fairfax, who had suffered through her husband as Catherine had through hers. Catherine had her private chapel in the Queen Mother’s residence of Somerset House; she had her own priests and loyal servants; the King was ever kind to her and she was not unduly unhappy.

Mary Fairfax, gentle, intelligent, and very patient, would sometimes talk of her childhood and the early days of her marriage which had been so happy, and how at that time she had believed she would continue to live in harmony with her husband all the days of her life. They had much comfort to bring each other.

They talked of pleasant things; they never mentioned Lady Castlemaine, whom Mary Fairfax regarded as her husband’s evil genius almost as much as Catherine regarded her as Charles’.

They talked of the coming of the child and the joy which would be felt throughout the country when it was born.

Lying back in her white
pinner
, the loose folds of which were wrapped about her thickening body, Catherine looked almost pretty. She was imagining Charles’ delight in the child; she saw him as a boy—a not very pretty boy because he would be so like his father; he would have bright, merry eyes, a gentle nature and a sharp wit.

They talked together and an hour passed merrily, but when Mary
Fairfax rose to call her ladies to help the Queen disrobe, Catherine suddenly felt ill.

Her women came hurrying in, and she saw the anxiety on their faces; she knew they were wondering: Is the Queen going to miscarry again?

Catherine said quickly: “Send for Mrs. Nun. She is at dinner in Chaffinch’s apartments. I may need her.”

There was consternation throughout Whitehall. Mrs. Nun had been brought away from a dinner party in great haste at the Queen’s command, and this could mean only one thing; the Queen’s time had again come too soon.

Within a few days the news was out.

Catherine came out of her sleep of exhaustion, and the tears fell slowly down her cheeks as she realized that, once more, she had failed.

The Duke of Buckingham called on Barbara.

When they were alone, he said: “So Her Majesty has failed again!”

“The King should have married a woman who could bear him children,” declared Barbara.

“Well, cousin,” said the Duke, “you have proved that you could do that. The only thing that would need to be proved in your case would be that the King had begotten them.”

“It is only necessary for Queens to
bear
them,” said Barbara.

“And does your rope-dancer still give you satisfaction?” asked the Duke.

“I’ll be thankful if you will address me civilly,” snapped Barbara.

“A friendly question, nothing more,” said Buckingham airily. “But let us not quarrel. I have come to talk business. The King is gravely disappointed. He had hoped for a son.”

“Well, he’ll get over the disappointment, as he has been obliged to do before.”

“It is a sad thing when a King, knowing himself to be capable of begetting strong healthy children, cannot get an heir.”

Barbara shrugged her magnificent shoulders, but the Duke went on: “You indicate it is a matter of indifference. Know you not that if the King gets no legitimate son, one day we shall have his brother on the throne?”

“That would seem so.”

“And what of us when James is King?”

“Charles’ death would be calamity to us in any case.”

“Well, he is full of health and vigor. Now listen to me, Barbara; we must rid him of the Queen.”

“What do you suggest? To tie her in a sack and throw her into the river one dark night?”

“Put aside your levity. This is a serious matter. I mean divorce.”

“Divorce!” cried Barbara shrilly. “That he might marry again! Another barren woman!”

“How do we know she would be barren?”

“Royal persons often are.”

“Don’t look alarmed, Barbara. It cannot be Frances Stuart now.”

“That pockmarked hag!” Barbara went into peals of laughter, which the very mention of Frances Stuart’s name never failed to provoke. She was serious suddenly: “Nay! Let the Queen stay where she is. She is quiet and does no harm.”

“She does no good while she does not give the country an heir.”

“The country has an heir in James.”

“I’ll not stand by and see the King disappointed of a son.”

“There is nothing else you can do about it, cousin.”

“Indeed there is! Ashley and others are with me in this. We will arrange a divorce for the King, and he shall marry a princess who will bring him sons.”

Barbara’s eyes narrowed. She was ready to support the Queen, because the Queen was docile. How did she know what a new Queen would do? Was her position with the King so strong that she could afford to have it shaken? And, horror of horrors, what if he looked about his Court and selected one of the beauties to be his Queen? It might so easily have been Frances Stuart. What if he should choose some fiery creature who would insist on making trouble for Lady Castlemaine?

She would have nothing to do with this plot. She was all for letting things stay as they were.

“The poor Queen!” said Barbara. “This is shameful. So you plot against her … you and your mischief-making Cabal. Keep your noses out of the King’s marriage; meddle with matters more fitting. I tell you I’ll do nothing to help you in this vile plot. I shall disclose it to the King. I shall …”

The Duke took her by the wrist, but she twisted her arm free and dealt him a stinging blow across the face.

“There, Master George Villiers, that will teach you to lay hands on me!”

It was nothing. There had been quarrels between them before; there had been physical violence and physical tenderness; they were of a kind, and they recognized that in each other.

Now they surveyed each other angrily, for their interests were divided.

Buckingham laughed in her face. “I see, Madam, that your standing with the King is in such bad case that you fear a new queen who might decide to banish you forever.”