Winsor, Kathleen (61 page)

About
a week later most of the Court went to the opening performance of John Dryden's
new play, "The Maiden Queen."

The
house was full when the Court party arrived and there was a great buzzing and
scraping as the fops in the pit climbed onto their benches to stare, while the
women hung over the balconies above. One of them impudently dropped her fan as
the King passed beneath and it landed squarely on top of his head. It began to
slide off and Charles caught it and presented it with a smile to the giggling
blushing girl above, as a spattering of handclaps ran over the theatre.

The
King, York, and the young Duke of Monmouth were all in royal mourning—long
purple cloaks—for the Duchess of Savoy.

Monmouth,
the King's fourteen-year-old bastard by an early love affair, had come to
England in the train of Queen Henrietta Maria a year and a half before. Some
said he was not really the King's son, but at least he looked like a Stuart and
there could be no doubt that Charles thought he was one. Almost since the day
of the boy's arrival he had shown him the most conspicuous affection and as a
result of the title conferred upon him by his father he took precedence over
all but York and Prince Rupert. The year before, his Majesty had married him to
Anne Scott, eleven years old and one of the richest heiresses in Britain. Now
the boy was appearing publicly in royal mourning—to the scandal of all who reverenced
the ancient
proprieties or who believed that blood was not royal unless it was also
legitimate.

Down
in Fop Corner one of the sparks commented: "By God, if his Majesty isn't
as fond of the boy as if he were of his own begetting."

"It
runs through the galleries he intends to declare him legitimate and make him
his heir now it's been proved the Queen's barren."

"Who
proved it?"

"Gad,
Tom, where d'ye keep yourself? My Lord Bristol sent a couple of priests to
Lisbon to prove that Clarendon had something given her to make her barren just
before she sailed for England."

"A
pox on that Clarendon's old mouldy chops! And will you have a look at his
mealy-mouthed daughter up there—as smug and formal as if she was
Queen
Anne!"

"And
so she may be one day—if it's true what they say about her Majesty."

Another
fop, catching the last phrase, perked up. "What's that? What about her
Majesty?"

All
over the theatre the gossip went on, hissing and murmuring, while the royal
party found its seats. Charles took the one in the center, with Catherine on
his right and York on his left. Anne Hyde was beside her husband, and
Castlemaine at the opposite end of the row next the Queen. Around and all about
them were the Maids of Honour, both her Highness's and the Queen's. They were a
group of pretty, eager, laughing girls, white-skinned, blue-eyed, with shining
golden curls, their satin and taffeta skirts making a rustle as they arranged
the folds and fluttered their fans, whispering and giggling together over the
men down in the pit. They had arrived at Court during the past year and almost
all of them were lovely—as though nature herself had sought to please the King
by creating a generation of beautiful women.

On
Barbara's right sat one of the Queen's Maids, Mrs. Boynton, a lively little
minx who liked to affect an air of great languor and grew faint three or four
times a day when there were gentlemen about. Now Barbara spoke to her in an
undertone which was nevertheless loud enough for Frances Stewart, just behind
them, to overhear.

"Mrs.
Stewart is looking wretchedly today, have you noticed? I would swear her
complexion has a greenish cast."

It
was a well-known fact that Frances had been suffering from jealousy over the
sensation created by the recent arrival at Court of Mrs. Jennings, a
fifteen-year-old blonde who was currently being admired by all gentlemen and
criticized by all ladies. Barbara was delighted that someone had come to catch
interest from Frances Stewart, since that was what had happened to her the year
before when Frances appeared.

Boynton
waved her fan lazily, lids half-closed, and drawled, "She
doesn't look
green to me. Perhaps it's something in your Ladyship's eye."

Barbara
gave her a look that once might have troubled her and turned to talk to
Monmouth who leant forward eagerly, obviously much smitten by his father's
flamboyant mistress. He was tall and well-developed for his age, physically
precocious as the King had been, and so extraordinarily handsome that grown
women were falling in love with him. He had not only the Stuart beauty but also
the Stuart charm—a merry gentle lovable disposition, and something in his
personality so dazzling that he arrested attention wherever he went.

Boynton
glanced around over her shoulder to exchange smiles with Frances, and Frances
leaned forward, whispering behind her fan: "I just saw his Highness slip
another note into Mrs. Jenning's hand. Wait a moment and I'll warrant you she
tears it up."

Jennings
had been amusing the Court for some weeks by refusing to become York's mistress,
an office which was generally included in the appointment of Maid of Honour to
his wife. She tore up his letters before everyone and scattered the pieces on
the floor of her Highness's Drawing-Room. And now, as Boynton and Frances
Stewart watched her, she tore his note into bits and tossed them high in the
air so that they drifted onto the Duke's head and shoulders.

Boynton
and Stewart burst into delighted laughter and York, glancing around, saw the
scraps on his shoulder. Scowling, he brushed them off, while Mrs. Jennings sat
very straight and prim-faced and looked down over his head at the stage, where
the play was beginning.

"What!"
said Charles, glancing at his brother as he brushed himself, and he laughed
outright. "Another rebuff, James? Odsfish; I should think you'd have taken
the hint by now."

"Your
Majesty doesn't always take hints, if I may say so," muttered the Duke,
but Charles merely smiled good-naturedly.

"We
Stuarts are a stubborn race, I think." He leaned closer to James and
murmured beneath his breath: "I'll wager my new Turkish pony against your
Barbary mare that I break in that skittish filly before you do."

York
raised a skeptical eyebrow. "It's a wager, Sire." The two brothers
shook hands and Charles settled down to watch the play.

For
two acts Barbara remained seated. She smiled at Buckingham and other gentlemen
down in the pit. She twisted her pearls and fiddled her fan and put her hands
to her hair. She took out a mirror to examine her face, stuck on another patch,
and then tossed the mirror back to Wilson. She was, very ostentatiously, bored.
And all the while Charles seemed unaware that she was nearby; he did not
trouble to glance at her even once.

At
last she thought she could bear this no longer, and fixing a determined smile
on her face she leaned across Catherine
and touched his arm. "It's a
wretched performance, don't you think, Sire?"

He
glanced at her coldly. "No, I don't think so. I'm enjoying it."

Barbara's
eyes glittered and the blood rushed to her face, but in a moment she had
recovered herself. All at once she stood up, smiling sweetly, and crossing
behind the Queen went to force a place for herself between Charles and York.
The two men gave her surprised and angry glances and turned instantly away
while Barbara sat, her face impassive and motionless as stone, though
humiliated rage was making her sweat. For a moment she thought that her heart
would explode, so bursting-full of blood it seemed.

And
then, out of the corners of her eyes, she looked at Charles and saw the ominous
flicker of his jaw-muscles. She stared at him, longing violently to reach over
and rake her nails across that dark smooth-shaven cheek until she drew blood—
but at last with a determined effort she dragged her eyes away and forced them
down to the stage once more. All she could see was a blur that shifted and
rocked; there were faces, faces, faces, turned up and grinning, smirking,
sneering at her—a whole sea of enemy faces. She felt that she hated each one of
them, with a murderous savage hatred that turned her sick and trembling.

It
seemed to her that the play went on for hours and that she would never be able
to endure the next minute of sitting there—but at last it was over. She waited
a moment, under the pretense of pulling on her gloves, still hoping that
Charles would invite her to ride in his coach. But instead he went off with
Harry Bennet to call on the Chancellor who was again sick in bed with his gout.

Barbara
lifted her hood up over her head, put on her mask and with an impatient gesture
to Wilson started out as fast as she could go—the people stepped back to make a
path, for her name still had magic to part the waves. Outside she got into her
coach, and though it blocked the traffic she kept it waiting while her coachman
yelled and swore at whoever complained, telling them to be silent—my lady would
go in her own good time. It was several minutes before Buckingham appeared.

But
finally he came strolling out of the theatre with Sedley and Buckhurst, and she
gestured her footman to open the door. Frantically she signalled to him, but he
was talking to an orange-girl, a merry laughing young wench who chattered with
the three great men, no more awed than if they had been porters and carmen. At
last, completely exasperated, Barbara shouted at him:

"Buckingham!"

He
glanced carelessly in her direction, waved, and turned back to continue his
conversation. Barbara ripped her fan across. "Lightning blast him! I'll
cut off his ears for this!" But finally he took an orange from the girl,
kissed her, and dropping
his coin into her low-necked bodice strolled toward the coach, tossing the
orange to a tattered little ragamuffin who begged him for it.

"Get
out and take a hackney," Barbara muttered hastily to Wilson, and as his
Grace got in on one side the waiting-woman got out on the other.

"That
little wench has the readiest wit in London," he said, sitting down beside
her and waving out the window at the girl, while Barbara glared at him with a
look so malignant he should have wilted. "She was put out into the streets
at six to sell herring and was a slavey in Mother Ross's brothel at twelve.
Hart keeps her now, but I say she belongs on the stage. Nell Gwynne's her name
and I'd be willing to bet—"

Barbara
had not listened to him but was yelling at her coachman to drive off, though
now the traffic was so snarled on every side of them that it was impossible to
move at all.

"A
pox on you and your damned orange-girls!" she cried furiously, turning
from the coachman back to her cousin. "A fine service you've done me! I've
never been so humiliated— and in plain view of all the world! What've you been
about this past week?"

Buckingham
stiffened, all his natural pride and arrogance rising in resentment at her
hectoring tone and manner. "D'you expect miracles? Pray remember, madame,
it's taken you some time to get so far out of his Majesty's favour. Even I
can't put you back in all at once. You should have stayed in your own seat—you
wouldn't have been humiliated there. And henceforward, madame, please don't
shout at me on street-corners as though I were your footboy."

"Why,
you impudent dog! I'll have you—"

"You'll
what, madame?"

"I'll
make you sorry for this!"

"I
beg your pardon, madame—but you'll never make me sorry for anything again. Or
have you forgotten already that I can undo you whenever I care to take the
trouble? Don't forget, madame, that only you and I know that you burned his
Majesty's letters."

Barbara's
mouth fell open and for several seconds she sat staring at him with horror
which turned slowly to writhing impotent rage. She was about to speak when he
flung open the door and got out, gave her a careless wave of his gloved hand
and climbed into the next coach. It was full of young women who sat in a
billowing sea of silk and satin skirts, and they welcomed him with screams of
delight and kisses as he sat down among them. While Barbara stared, her eyes
burning purple in a white face, the coach started slowly and rolled off, but
the Duke did not give her so much as a backward glance.