Winsor, Kathleen (150 page)

Dover
was a fog-laden dirty little town of only one narrow ill-paved street about a
mile long, lined with ramshackle cottages and inns. The great old castle had
guarded the coast in feudal times, an impregnable barrier to invasion, but
after the invention of cannon it had fallen into disuse and was now merely a
prison. The English Court came into the village— the men first, for Charles
still hoped that Monsieur might be persuaded to let her go on to London—in gilt
coaches and on gorgeously caparisoned horses. Early the next morning the French
fleet was sighted, far out in the Channel.

Charles,
who had been up most of the night, restless and impatient, immediately got into
a small boat with York and Rupert and Monmouth and set out to meet her. He
stood up recklessly, constantly urging the men to row faster and faster, until
it seemed their arms would tear from the sockets. The French fleet bobbed
toward them over the waves, gilded hulls gleaming in the bright early sunlight,
coloured sails blown up like fat bellies by the wind. The clouds looked white
as suds where they lay piled on the horizon and sea and sky were sharp stinging
blue.

James
came to stand beside his brother, dropping one arm about his shoulders, and
Charles, with his own arm around the Duke's waist, grinned at him, his black
eyes shining with happiness and excitement. The ships were now coming so close
that it was possible to make out figures moving on deck, though they could not
yet be distinguished individually.

"Only
think of it, Jamie!" cried Charles. "After ten years— we're going to
see her again!"

And
then all at once it was possible to pick out Madame
who stood in
the fore-deck, her white satin gown whipping about her, eyes shaded with her
fan against the glare of the water; as she raised her arm and waved to them the
brothers gave an excited shout.

"Minette!"

"James,
it's Minette!"

Swiftly
the barge and the French sailing-vessel drew together. They had scarcely
touched when Charles made a leap and started up the rope ladder, hand over
hand, as swiftly and easily as though he had lived all his life at sea. Minette
ran forward to meet him and as he bounded onto the deck she rushed into his
arms.

He
held her close to him and his mouth touched the sleek-brushed crown of her
head; there were emotional happy tears in his eyes and Minette wept softly.
Instinctively he spoke to her in French, for it was her language, and the words
were like a tender caress.

"Minette,"
he murmured. "Ma ch
ère
petite Minette—"

All
at once she tipped back her head and looked up at him with a laugh, quickly
brushing the tears away with her fingertips. "Oh, my dear! I'm so happy
I'm crying! I was afraid I would never see you again!"

Charles
looked at her silently, adoration in his eyes, but also a dark anxiety—for he
had seen at once how greatly, how tragically she had changed in ten years. Then
she had been still half a child, buoyant, eager, unafraid—wholly delightful;
now she was completely a woman, poised, accomplished, worldly, with a kind of
heart-wringing charm. But she was too thin and even behind the joyous laughter
on her face was a seriousness that troubled him, for he knew what had caused
it. Pretending could not fool him; she was unhappy, and she was ill.

The
other men had come aboard and Charles released her while she embraced first
James, then Rupert and Monmouth. Finally Minette stood with Charles and James
on either side of her, her arms linked with theirs, her face radiant as she
looked from one to the other. "We're together again at last— all three of
us." The brothers were in deep-purple mourning for their mother, and
Minette too wore royal mourning—a simple white satin gown with a thin black
veil thrown over her hair.

None
of them dared say what each was thinking: There are only three of us left
now—how long shall
we
be together?

Behind
the royal family on the deck stood a splendid crowd of men and women, for
though Minette's suite was a small one of only about two hundred and fifty
persons, each had been selected with the utmost care: the women for beauty and
grace, the men for gallantry and a great name.

Among
them, her eyes fixed intently on the English King, was a pretty young woman
with the face of a little girl grown up and become sophisticated—Louise de
Kerouaille, whose
family, though ancient and honourable, was no longer rich. This trip was the
most exciting thing that had ever happened to her, her first real opportunity
to make a place for herself in the great world where she knew she belonged.
There was speculation in her eyes now as she watched Charles, admiring his dark
saturnine good looks, his height and broad shoulders and handsome physique. She
caught her breath with a quick little gasp as Minette and the two men turned,
and the King's eyes flickered briefly over her face.

Putting
up her fan she whispered to the woman beside her: "Ninon—do you suppose
that all the stories they tell about him are true?"

Ninon,
perhaps a little jealous, gave Louise a look of amused scorn. "You
are
naïve!"
At that moment Charles glanced at her again; faintly he smiled.

But
though he was never too much occupied to notice a pretty woman, Charles had no
real interest now in anything but his sister. "How long can you
stay?" was the first question he asked her when the greetings were over.

Minette
gave him a rueful little smile. "Just three days," she said softly.

Charles's
black eyes snapped and his brows drew swiftly together. "Monsieur says
so?"

"Yes."
Her voice had a guilty sound, as though she were ashamed for her husband.
"But he—"

"Don't
say it—I don't want to hear you making excuses for him. But I think," he
added, "that perhaps he will reconsider."

Monsieur
reconsidered.

A
messenger was back from across the Channel the next morning bringing word that
Madame might remain ten days longer, provided she did not leave Dover. Minette
and Charles were jubilant. Ten days! Why, it was almost an age. He was coldly
furious to think that the conceited foppish little Frenchman had dared tell his
sister where she might go on her holiday, but Louis sent a note asking him to
respect Philippe's wishes in this matter, for Monsieur had learned of the
treaty and might talk indiscreetly if angered too far.

Queen
Catherine and all the ladies of the Court came down from London, and with the
brief time he had Charles set about doing what he could to make the dismal
little sea-coast village into a place fit for the entertainment of the person
he loved best on earth. Dover Castle was cold and dark and damp, with scant
furnishings of feudal austerity; but it came alive again when the walls were
hung with lengths of gold cloth; and scarlet and sapphire and vivid green
banners streamed down from the windows. But even the Castle was not large
enough to house them all and lords and ladies of both Courts were quartered in
cottages or crammed into inns.

These
inconveniences did not trouble anyone, and through every hour ran the noisy
laughter and gay high spirits of a Court on holiday. Gilt coaches rattled
through the narrow
rocky little street. Handsomely gowned women and men in perukes and embroidered
coats were seen in the tight courtyards, in the public-rooms of taverns and
inns. Life was a continuous round of plays and banquets, balls at night and
magnificent collations. While they danced and gambled flirtations sprang up
like green shoots after rain between French ladies and English gentlemen,
French gentlemen and English ladies. The gossip was that Madame had come to
England for the very solemn purpose of laughing the English out of their own
styles and back into French ones—temporarily discarded during the War—and that
set the tone of the festivities.

Yet
the plots and intrigues went on. They could no more be suspended, even
temporarily, than could the force of gravity—for they were what held the Court
together.

It
took only a few days to get the treaty signed; it had been in preparation more
than two years and there was little left to do but put the signatures to it.
Arlington and three others signed for England, de Croissy for France.

For
Charles it marked the successful culmination of ten years of planning. French
money would free him, in part at least, from his Parliament; French men and
ships would help him to the defeat of his country's most dangerous enemy, the
Dutch. In return he gave nothing but a promise—a promise that one day, at his
own convenience, he would declare himself a Catholic. Charles was much amused
to see how eager the French envoy was to complete the business, how eager they
were to pay him for protection against a war he had never intended to wage.

"If
everything I've ever done," he said to Arlington, when it was signed and
complete, "dies when I die—at least I'll leave England this much. This
treaty is a promise that one day she'll be the greatest nation on earth. Let my
French cousin have the Continent if he wants it. The world is wide, and when
we've destroyed the Dutch all the seas on it will belong to England."

Arlington,
who sat with one weary hand pressed to his aching head, sighed a little.
"I hope she'll be grateful, Sire."

Charles
grinned, shrugged his shoulders, and reached down to give him a friendly pat.
"Grateful, Harry? When was a nation or a woman ever grateful for the
favours you do her? Well—I think my sister's abed now; I always pay her a call
last thing at night. You've been working too hard these past few days, Harry.
Better take a sleeping-potion and have a good night's rest." He went out
of the room.

He
found Minette sitting up waiting for him in the enormous canopied four-poster
bed. The last of her waiting-women were straggling out, and half-asleep on her
lap was her little tan-and-black spaniel, Mimi. He took a chair beside her and
for a moment they were silent, smiling, looking at each other. Charles reached
out one hand and covered both her own.

"Well,"
he said. "It's done."

"At
last. I can scarcely believe it. I've worked hard for this, my dear—because I
thought it was what you wanted. Louis has often accused me of minding your
interests more than his own." She laughed a little. "You know how
tender his pride is."

"I
think it's more than pride, Minette—don't you?" His smile teased her, for
rumours still persisted that Louis had been madly in love with her several
years before and had not yet quite recovered.

But
she did not want to talk about that. "I don't know. My brother—there's
something you must promise me."

"Anything,
my dear."

"Promise
me that you won't declare your Catholicism too soon."

A
look of surprise came into Charles's eyes, but was quickly gone. His face
seldom betrayed him. "Why do you say that?"

"Because
the King is troubled about it. He's afraid you may declare yourself and
alienate the German Protestant princes— he needs them when we fight Holland.
And he fears that the English people would not tolerate it—he thinks that the
best time would be in the midst of a victorious war."

An
almost irresistible smile came to Charles's mouth, but he forced it back.

So
Louis thought that the English people would not tolerate a Catholic king—and
was afraid that a revolution in England might spread to France. He regarded his
French cousin with a kind of amused contempt, but was glad it was always
possible to hoodwink him. Charles had never intended and did not now intend to
try to force Catholicism on his people—of course they would not tolerate it—and
he preferred to keep his throne. It was his expectation to die quietly in his
bed at Whitehall.

Nevertheless
he answered Minette seriously, for even she did not share all his secrets.
"I won't declare myself without consulting his interests. You may tell
him
so for me."

She
smiled, and her little hand pressed his affectionately. "I'm glad—for I
know how much it means to you."

Almost
ashamed, he quickly lowered his eyes.

I
know how much it means to you, he repeated to himself. How much it means —He
made a fervent wish that it would always mean as much to her as it did now. He
did not want her ever to know what it was to believe in nothing, to have faith
in nothing. He looked up again. His eyes brooded over her, his dark face
earnest and unsmiling.

"You're
thin, Minette."

She
seemed surprised. "Am I? Why—perhaps I am." She looked down at
herself and as she moved the spaniel gave a resentful little grunt, telling her
to be still. "But I've never been plump, you know. You've always called me
'Minette'."

"Are
you feeling well?"

"Why,
yes, of course." She spoke quickly, like one who hates
to tell a lie.
"Oh—perhaps a headache now and then. I may be a little tired from all the
excitement. But that will soon pass."

His
face hardened slowly. "Are you happy?"

Now
she looked as though he had trapped her. "Mon Dieu! What a question! What
would you say if someone asked you, 'Are you happy?' I suppose I'm as happy as
most people. No one is ever truly happy, do you think? If you get even half of
what you want from life—" She gave a little shrug and gestured with one
hand. "Why, that's all one can hope for, isn't it?"