Loyal in Love: Henrietta Maria, Queen of Charles I

THE FRUSTRATED MOTHER

Life was not all sorrow. At the end of the year I had word that Cromwell had decided to allow my son Henry to join me. I suppose this was because even Roundheads had some feeling, and the death of my daughter Elizabeth had caused a certain amount of dismay throughout the land. She had always been such a good child—a near saint—and her death had been so pathetic. Whatever the reason, Henry was given permission to leave.

Minette was delighted at the prospect of having a new brother with us. She asked countless questions, which alas I was unable to answer as my little son had been kept away from me for so long.

He arrived in Holland where his sister Mary received him and was so delighted to have him that she wanted to keep him with her. I had no intention of allowing that because I knew that she would endeavor to bring him up as a Protestant, and it was a secret resolve of mine that he should be, like his sister Henriette, Catholic.

He arrived in Paris and was so delighted to be with his own family. He immediately conceived a great admiration for Charles—whose adventures he had followed whenever he was able to—and he and Henriette worshipped him together. There was something about Charles which inspired this fervent devotion. I often wondered whether it was partly due to his height or was it his easygoing manner and superficial charm? In any case these two children adored him.

It was as though when something good happened something bad had to follow quickly. We now heard that the countries of Europe were accepting the new government of England and that Cromwell was making treaties with various countries. France was on the point of making one too, which would mean that the English government would be having a representative in Paris.

Charles said to me: “That would be an intolerable situation as far as I am concerned. You know what would happen. I should be asked to leave.”

“You should tell them to do no such thing.”

He looked at me in exasperation. “Dear Mam,” he said, “if the King of France, the Regent or Mazarin ask me to leave, I have no alternative but to go. There is only one course open to me. I must leave before they ask me to.”

I suppose he was right and in any case he began making arrangements.

Henriette was beside herself with grief; so was Henry. I was sorry to see him go but I reminded myself that when he was not there I could carry out my intentions with regard to Henry’s religious training.

Henry had begged Charles to take him with him. “I am not a boy anymore,” he cried. “I am nearly fifteen. That is old enough to fight.”

Charles hesitated. He was very fond of Henry and he liked the boy’s spirit. But I was against it.

“He is but a child, Charles,” I said. “He needs to be educated and where better than in Paris? It would be a sin to take him away from his lessons at his age.”

Charles saw this in time and Henry suffered bitter disappointment.

Charles said: “I promise you, brother, that in a few years you shall be at my side.”

And Henry had to be satisfied with that.

Before Charles left for Cologne where he had decided to stay for a while, he spoke very seriously to me. “Henry is a Protestant,” he said. “He is a Prince of a Protestant country. He must remain so. You must not try to make him a Catholic, Mam.”

That had been exactly my intention and he knew it.

I hesitated and Charles went on: “If you do not give me your promise, I cannot leave him with you. I shall either take him with me or send him to my sister Mary who, as you know, was loath to part with him.”

So I promised and Charles left. But after he had gone I thought that although I had promised, to bring up my son in the true Faith would be such a good thing that it would outweigh anything that was wrong in breaking a promise.

Henry had brought with him Mr. Lovell, the tutor whom the Countess of Leicester had given him when he was at Penshurst. The two were devoted to each other and Mr. Lovell was a firm Protestant. Charles favored Mr. Lovell because he had been such a good tutor and had been in fact responsible in some measure for the release of Henry. The tutor had personally gone to London and seen several of the leading men in Cromwell’s government and because Mr. Lovell was a good Protestant they listened to him, and his advocacy and the death of Elizabeth had been factors in their decision to release Henry.

Charles said Mr. Lovell was a faithful servant, the sort wise men grapple to them with bands of steel.

Mr. Lovell would stand in my way, I knew, and I might have to get rid of him, but I must work carefully and not let him know what I planned.

I was feeling more alive now that I had my two youngest with me and I could plan for them both. Henriette, the best loved of them all, gave me cause for anxiety. She was rather thin and delicate. I wished that she were more of a conventional beauty; although she had great charm and a lovely skin, her back, like mine, was not quite straight. I watched over her anxiously. I had great plans for her, which must be kept secret. I did not see why she should not marry her cousin Louis, in spite of the Grande Mademoiselle’s pretensions. What a glorious prospect! My little one Queen of France. But why not? They both had the same grandfather; she was the daughter of the King of England, and although the French government was so cruel and misguided as to recognize Cromwell, Kings were still Kings.

I was beside myself with joy when she was invited to take part in a ballet in which the King and his brother, Anjou, would take part. Henriette danced to perfection and I doubted there was anyone at Court who was as light on her feet as my child. And when she danced all that dainty elusive charm was apparent.

What a delight it was when the curtain rose on that scene to reveal my nephew Louis XIV, who was then about fifteen, magnificently attired as Apollo on the throne with the Muses around him. The piece was the wedding of Peleus and Thetis and my little Henriette had her part to play in it. I sat watching her, with my eyes filled with tears, sighing and regretting that her father could not be beside me to applaud our most enchanting child.

My hopes were high. She was eminently suitable to be the bride of the young King.

I had turned my attention to Henry and was finding him rather a stubborn little boy. When I talked to him about the glories of the Catholic Church he replied: “That may be, Mam, but it is not for me. I promised my father that I would cling to the Faith in which I was baptized and which is the Faith of my country.”

I laughed. “Oh, you are such a dear little boy and it is good to remember your father, but if only he were here he would understand. Think what the men of that Faith did to him.”

“I promised him, Mam,” he said firmly.

Well, he was young and he would be pliable. I would achieve what I wanted in time and that would mean that two of my children were saved. In the meantime, to show his independence, Henry went off every Sunday to the Protestant service which the English residents in Paris had set up.

But if he was determined, so was I. He had a strong supporter in Mr. Lovell and I was wondering more and more how I could get rid of him. To have him dismissed openly—which was what I should have liked to do—would have caused an outcry. Charles would hear of it and Charles was the King, whose word had to be obeyed, even by his mother. My children were not so ready to indulge me as their father had been.

The idea struck me that if I could send Henry away to some renowned tutor, the services of Mr. Lovell would no longer be required. I thought of Walter Montague who was the Abbot of St. Martin’s near Pontoise and also my Grand Almoner. He was a great friend of mine and an ardent Catholic, having been converted nearly twenty years before when he had witnessed the exorcisms of the Ursuline nuns at Loudon. We had been friends ever since he had come to France at the time of my marriage, and after his conversion we had become much closer. He would understand at once what I wanted and would be as keen as I was to turn my son into a Catholic.

I sent word to Charles explaining that Henry was too fond of the society of idle boys and that I believed he should be sent to some quiet place to study. What better than to Pontoise where our good friend the Abbot could supervise his education.

I could not dismiss Mr. Lovell or Charles would have been very suspicious and he would not believe that Henry had gone to Pontoise without his good tutor merely to study quietly.

It must have been disconcerting for Mr. Lovell to be the only Protestant—with Henry—in a Catholic community and very soon he did not see how he could remain there. It was not difficult to suggest that he take a little trip to Italy as I believed he had always wanted to see that country.

I was relieved when he went without fuss, not knowing that he had talked to Henry, explained my motives and those of the Abbot and urged him to stand firm until he could let his brother, the King, know what was happening.

The Abbot wrote to me that he had high hopes that the conversion would be soon. He had talked to the boy of the possibilities which lay before him. As Duke of Gloucester, son of one King and brother to another, he would have special advantages. It was a great honor to wear the Cardinal’s hat.

But Henry did not see it that way. “The boy has a strong will,” wrote Montague. “He says he cannot attempt to defeat me in argument but he knows what is right and what his brother expects of him and nothing will shake him in his determination to do his duty. He insists that his father told him to adhere to the Faith in which he was baptized and his brother, the King, wishes him to do the same. He added: ‘You can do what you like to me. I will cling to my Faith as I promised my father before he died.’”

As the weeks passed the Abbot was growing more and more impatient and Henry more stubborn. The boy wrote to me asking for leave to return to Paris, and seeing that it was no use keeping him there, I gave my permission.

When he arrived I noticed the firm set of his lips. I could see his brother Charles in him and it was ironical to realize that they had inherited their determination to have their own way from me, not their father.

Henry was clever too and I was incensed when I heard that he had sent for Bishop Cosin to ask his advice as to how he should answer the Abbot when he was cross-examined by him. Cosin was a staunch Protestant and a real enemy of the Catholics. My husband had sent him to Paris to act as chaplain to those of my household who belonged to the Church of England and at first he had worked from a private house until that had proved to be inadequate, when a chapel had been fitted up to accommodate the expanding congregation. Cosin was a man highly respected by all. At first I had believed I could convert him. He would certainly not have been accepted in England now because he was almost as much opposed to the Puritans as he was to the Catholics. He loved the rituals and ceremonies of the Church just as Archbishop Laud had, though whereas that had been Laud’s undoing, Cosin, who had escaped to France, prospered. Nothing could have been further from the truth than to imagine he would turn to Catholicism. He was fundamentally against it, and because he was one of the greatest speakers of the day, he was feared while he was respected.

To think that my son Henry had gone to him made me anxious and determined that something must be done at once.

I sent Henry back to Pontoise; but this time he had papers which had been written for him by Cosin and naturally the support of such a man increased his obstinacy.

I determined to act drastically and to send him to the Jesuit College of Clermont. When Henry heard what was to happen he grew white with rage. Once in a Jesuit college he would be unable to escape. He stormed at me: “I would rather be the prisoner of the Roundheads at Carisbroke,” he cried. “At least I was not bullied then to go against my conscience.”

“You are a wicked boy,” I told him. “You will be grateful one day when you see the light.”

It was on the very morning when he was about to depart that messengers arrived in haste from the King. There were letters for me and for Henry. Charles reproached me for having forgotten my promises not only to him but to my husband. There were letters of rebuke for several of my friends and particularly Henry Jermyn who, said the King, could have restrained me from my irresponsible actions.

Worst of all was the letter to Henry.

I read it myself for Henry could not resist showing it to me. I was incensed because Charles began by saying he was in receipt of Henry’s letter. So the boy had actually dared write to him!

“…it is the Queen’s purpose to do all she can to change your religion in which if you do hearken to her, you might never see England or me again…. Consider well what it is to be…not only the cause of ruining a brother who loves you well but also your King and country….

“I am informed that there is a purpose to send you to a Jesuits’ College which I command you, in the same grounds, never to consent to….”

What could have been more devastating to my plans!

When I read the letter I let it drop to the floor and took Henry into my arms.

“Dear child,” I said, “my thoughts are all for you. I wanted you to push aside these temptations…nothing matters so much as the salvation of your soul.”

“I am determined to save it,” said the young rebel, “by doing my duty to my King, my country and my religion—and that is the religion into which I was baptized.”

His eyes were blazing. So were mine. How could a son be so disobedient to his mother! I asked angrily.

“I am obedient to my King and my conscience,” said Henry.

Where had he learned such things? From Cosin, I supposed.

“Go to your apartments,” I said. “I will send Abbé Montague to you. You must listen to him.”

“I am weary of listening to him. My mind is made up.”

All my calm deserted me. I saw only a disobedient son for whom I had worked and planned. Charles, James, Mary…they were all turning against me. And now Henry…aided by his brother.

I cried out in fury: “If you do not embrace the Catholic religion I never want to see you anymore.”

Henry looked at me in amazement.

“Yes,” I cried. “Go! Get out of my sight. You are a wicked, ungrateful boy.”

Henry went and I did not see him until a few days later. I was on my way to Chaillot. I needed the peace of the place where I could contemplate this breach in the family. I could not bear it—most of all to see Henriette weeping all over the place. She had been so happy when Henry came; they were always talking about Charles’s adventures and how wonderful it would be when he regained his throne. And now Henry was in disgrace. She could not understand it and I could not bear the sight of her little woebegone face. So I would go to my beloved Chaillot for a few days.

As I was about to leave the palace Henry ran out and came to me.

“Mam,” he said quietly, and I knew he was asking that we forget our grievances which I should have been so happy to do if he would only fall in with my wishes; but he was as firm as ever in that, so I turned my face away from him.

I was smiling grimly on the way to Chaillot. I would show the boy what it meant to defy me. I was the Queen of England whatever those Puritans said. I was also his mother.

I heard afterward that he left me and went straight to the Protestant service—for it was a Sunday—but when he returned to the Palais Royal it was to find that there was no food for him and that even the sheets had been taken from his bed to indicate that there was no longer a place for him there.

It was Henriette who told me what had happened because he had come to say goodbye to her before he left. She was heartbroken.

There were Protestants in Paris to rally to his help. Lord Hatton and Lord Ormonde both hastily came forward and that very day my son Henry left Paris for Cologne. It was what he had wanted in the first place. He had gone to join his brother Charles.

I was very upset by what I called Henry’s desertion. Queen Anne comforted me. She too had hoped that my son would cease to be a heretic. We were at Chaillot together where we often discussed the difficulties of life. I reminded her that she had little to complain of. She had two fine boys and Louis, now seventeen, seemed secure on the throne; he was growing more and more kingly every day.

She smiled with pleasure. She doted on her elder son and I could well understand it. He did not bring her the sorrow my children brought me.

“I worry a great deal,” I said. “The months pass and the years…and my son is still without his throne and every day the wicked rebels of England would seem to grow stronger and because of their strength are accepted by others in a manner which is difficult to understand.”

I could not resist reminding her of my resentment that members of my own family should be ready to make treaties with the roundheaded traitors.

It was not Anne’s fault, of course. She was not the true governor of France—merely the Regent—and with Louis growing up she would not be that much longer. She mentioned that Cromwell now called himself the Lord Protector and that the people appeared to be accepting him.

“I worry a great deal about my little Henriette. What will become of her? Here she is Princess…daughter of the King of England…living as she does!”

“We must give a ball for her.”

“Oh dear sister, you are so good, but we could not afford the gown…and all the necessities. It would be a travesty of what a ball for a Princess of England should be.”

Anne was thoughtful. Then she said: “I will give some little parties in my apartments. The King and his brother will be there and a few well chosen younger people. Henriette shall come and show us how well she dances.”

I was excited. We could fit her up in a dress which would be suitable for such an occasion; she was only eleven years old as yet and the small party would be ideal.

I was very anxious for her to become good friends with her cousin. Louis was by no means unkind. He loved to dance and Henriette was the best dancer at Court. I can say that quite honestly, setting aside all maternal pride. She was delicate and dainty and she had appeared to enchant people when she had appeared in the Nuptials of Peleus and Thetis.

I was thinking: She is only eleven; Louis is seventeen. There is time. Oh, if only Charles could regain his throne his sister would be a fitting mate for the King of France.

How I looked forward to that occasion. Little did I realize how mortified I was going to be; and my little Henriette too.

I went back to Henriette and told her that she was going to an assembly in the Queen’s apartments. “It will be your party really,” I said, “for I suspect the Queen is giving it for you. She will insist that the King is there. Have you practiced your steps? You must not disgrace us. You will be dancing with the King of France and that, my darling, shall be as great an honor for him as it is for you.”

Henriette said: “Mam, you say strange things at times. How could that be?”

“Never forget you are the daughter of a King of England.”

“How wonderful it would be if Charles could win his throne and we could all go back to England. I can think of nothing to wish for which would please me more than to live with Charles forever.”

Foolish child’s talk! When he regained the throne she should still be here. Queen of France. I wanted nothing less for my favorite child. She was the only one who had not disappointed me—except Elizabeth, who had in a way disappointed me by dying, poor darling.

The great day came. How charming my little Henriette looked! Her dress might not have been splendid—La Grande Mademoiselle would have smiled at its simplicity had she been present and I was thankful that she was not. How I should laugh if my Henriette carried off the prize which she—ridiculous old spinster—was hoping to catch. Louis would never agree to marry a woman older than himself. It was becoming clear that Louis would have his way. “He is young yet,” I had said to Anne. “But you wait. That one has a will of his own and knows what is due to him.”

“He always did have,” said Anne proudly; and she recalled the incident when he had been taken to see the Carmelite nuns—which I had heard at least twenty times—when he had turned his back on them and showed great interest in the latch of the door. Anne loved to relate it because of his words. She had ordered him to stop playing with the latch and pay attention to the nuns. “But it is a good latch,” he had said, “and the King likes it.” “I reproved him,” said Anne, “for his ill manners toward ladies and holy nuns at that. ‘Come, say a word of greeting to them,’ I pleaded. Louis replied. ‘I will say nothing. I wish to play with this latch. But one day I shall speak so loudly that I shall make myself heard.’” Whether he actually said that or whether Anne embellished it to make it sound prophetic I was not sure. She was really besotted with her little King.

Well, he was not so little now and he was going to dance with Henriette. He must. Etiquette would demand that he ask first the lady of highest rank and as neither I nor his mother would dance, it would have to be Henriette.

I was seated beside Anne on a small dais. Henriette was just below us; the musicians were there but no one could dance until the King did and he had not yet made his entrance. It would be such a pleasure to sit here beside Anne while we watched our beloved children together. She would have her eyes on Louis all the time but I would point out to her the grace of Henriette and what a charming couple they made…so graceful…so royal.

Louis had arrived. He really did look quite magnificent. He was growing up. He was very sure of himself, very much the King. I glanced at Anne whose eyes were glowing with pride.

Everyone stood up as he entered except Anne and myself and he came to the dais and took first his mother’s hand, which he kissed, and then mine.

Now that the King had arrived the musicians began to play. Louis looked round the company; he seemed just a little bored. Nobody of course could dance until he did and everyone was eager for him to select a partner—which must be Henriette—and open the dance.

Louis did not seem in any hurry. I was watching him closely and I saw his eyes alight on Henriette but instead of approaching her he selected some relation of Cardinal Mazarin—a good-looking woman several years his senior.

The Queen was not very easily aroused to anger but she had always been adamant that etiquette should be observed. Not to do so was one of the few things which could really upset her.

She could not allow this to pass although it would have been easier for us all if she had. She rose rather unsteadily; like myself she had got cramped through sitting too long. She was beside the King just as he was offering his arm to the woman.

“Dearest,” she whispered but so that all those around could hear, “you have forgotten that the Princess Henriette is here. Your first dance should be with her.”

“I shall dance with whom I wish,” retorted Louis.

I could bear no more. This was an insult to my daughter. It had to stop at once. I dashed out onto the floor and laid a hand on Anne’s arm. I said quickly and so that all could hear: “My daughter cannot dance tonight. She has hurt her foot.”

Anne, who rarely lost her temper, did so at that moment. She had, out of the kindness of her heart, arranged this gathering for Henriette. That there should have been a breach of etiquette on such an occasion was more than she could endure and that it should have been caused by her son, who was the very center of her life—with his brother, of course—was enough to make her anger break through her usual lethargy.

I had never seen her so angry. She said: “If the Princess is unable to dance tonight then the King cannot either.”

With that she called Henriette to her. My poor child, overcome with shame, must of course obey the summons. When she was close enough Queen Anne took her hand and rammed it into that of Louis.

“Dance!” she commanded.

Louis looked at the frightened little girl whose hand he held and I think he felt some contrition for he was not naturally unkind and he must suddenly have realized how he had slighted her in the presence of many people.

They danced—but there was no life in either of them. He gave my daughter a rather wintry smile and said: “It is not your fault, Henriette. It is just that I am in no mood for children tonight.”

He was in a somber frame of mind for the rest of the evening. What did that matter? It was spoilt in any case.

The incident had a deep effect on Henriette. More than ever she wanted to get away and join her brother Charles.

The months passed. There was no good news from Charles; he was living that unsatisfactory life of peregrinations to which his fate had driven him. Henry was with him and, said Charles, very happy to be there. He was going to make a fine soldier. I did not want to hear of Henry.

My children were a disappointment to me…except Henriette, and if I could get her married to Louis I would snap my fingers at everything else and say that all I had done was worthwhile.

Meanwhile we went on in this monotonous and most unsatisfactory manner.

Then my daughter Mary proposed to come to Paris.

I was not very pleased with Mary since she had defied me over naming her son. William! What a dreadful name! It could not compare with Charles. I knew that the House of Orange was spattered with Williams but how much more appropriate Charles would have been…in loving memory of her father and in hope for her brother. But Mary had to be obstinate, as her brothers were. She had to have her way and was more influenced by that overbearing mother-in-law of hers than by me. So naturally I was not feeling very pleased with my daughter.

She had written that she had not been well for some time and thought a trip to Paris would be beneficial to her. I wrote back and said that she would probably like to stay at Chaillot which was ideal for an invalid who needed to rest.

Mary very soon made it clear that she had not come to Paris to rest. She had brought with her a collection of clothes and jewels with which she hoped to impress the French Court. They must have cost a great deal, I commented; I did not add that it was money which might have gone to her brother’s cause, but I implied it. Of course I had to admit that Mary had done a great deal to help Charles and she had always made her Court a haven for him when he needed it. I was, naturally, a little angry with her still about being so insistent in getting her own way over the name of her son.

I had to admit that she was very pretty; she had lovely brown hair with a tinge of red in it and eyes like topaz. Not only did she not wish to stay at Chaillot but expressed only the mildest interest in my beautiful retreat. Her gaiety and good looks made her very popular and the Queen immediately liked her and made sure she was invited to meet all the most interesting people at the Court.

I was pleased that she was popular and then I noticed that in her retinue was Edward Hyde’s daughter and I thought it most inconsiderate of Mary to have brought the girl to Paris.

“I never liked Edward Hyde,” I said. “I cannot understand why your brother thinks so highly of him.”

“Because he is clever, Mam,” retorted Mary. “Charles needs men like Edward Hyde about him. All rulers should have such men to rely on.”

“I never liked him,” I said firmly. “You know this and yet you bring his daughter in your train.”

“I quite like the girl.”

“But you know I would rather not see any of the Hyde family.”

“I do not feel so and being mistress in my own household I choose those I like.”

I was hurt. I could not understand why my children were so inconsiderate toward me.

I was quite amused, however, when the Queen made it known that she thought it inappropriate for widows to dance, which meant that Mary had to sit beside the Queen and me to watch. She was not really very old and she did seem to forget that she was a widow. I wondered whether she would marry again and whether I should be looking round for a suitable husband for her. It would not surprise me if she told me that was no affair of mine.

One of the balls given for Mary was that of the Duc d’Anjou. The Duc was there looking what I can only describe as “pretty.” He had such a flair for clothes and the colors he chose were quite exquisite. His jewelry was lovely too. The Queen confided in me that young Philippe was not in the least like his brother. Louis was all for manly sports but Philippe liked better to discuss clothes, to design them and choose materials; and he had said that he liked women’s clothes better than men’s and oddly enough sometimes dressed in them. He was a graceful dancer and when he partnered Henriette they looked beautiful dancing together. I think they were acknowledged to be the best dancers in the Court and this made quite a bond between them. But what pleased me most about the ball was that the King was there, and this time, without hesitation, he chose Henriette to open it with him. It showed my little girl was growing up and could no longer be regarded as a child.

I prayed fervently that Charles would regain his throne and that Louis and Henriette would marry. Anne had hinted to me that she was very fond of Henriette and that she would welcome her as a daughter-in-law if it were possible for the pair of them to marry, of course.

But Louis was the King of France and Henriette…? Well she was the daughter of a king who had lost his throne with his head, and the sister of a king who had not yet regained that throne and showed little sign of doing so.

“Oh Lord,” I prayed. “Give Charles his throne…soon, and Henriette, Louis.”

All the festivities at that time were in honor of Mary. The King commanded that a ballet should be performed for her pleasure; and of course Henriette danced in it. The Queen gave a banquet for Mary, and the Grande Mademoiselle, not to be outdone although still in exile from the Court, invited her to the Château of Chilly where she put on a very grand entertainment. Mary and Mademoiselle got on remarkably well. I couldn’t help feeling that Mary was a little too talkative and that Mademoiselle led her on, and I was sure she was going to repeat everything Mary said so I hoped my daughter would not be too indiscreet. When I saw the lavish manner in which Mademoiselle entertained I thought again what a suitable wife she would make for Charles, and I deeply regretted that all that money which was being wasted on lavish clothes, jewels, food, wines and spectacle could not be used to raise an army for Charles.

I did get a chance to talk to her. I thought she was looking older and she had never been a beauty. No one would have thought of marrying her if it were not for her fortune; and after so many proposed marriages which had come to nothing she must be wondering whether she was going to get married at all.

I said: “You must be wondering how Charles is faring.”

“Oh? Must I?”

She was insolent. Foolish woman! If she was not careful she would remain a spinster all her days.

“He is in love with you, you know,” I said. “He does not think of any other woman.”

“I was under the impression that he thought a good deal about a number of them.”

“I am talking of marriage.”

“Oh, dear little aunt, I cannot believe it is I who am the cause of his single state rather than the fact that he is scarcely in a position to keep himself let alone a wife.”

“He has been so upset. When he was here he and I quarreled often. It is because he is unhappy that he is so quarrelsome. If he had a wife, I am sure we should be on far better terms.”

“Dear Majesty,” she said lightly, “if he cannot live happily with you, why should he do so with someone else?”

I could have slapped her simpering face. She was mocking me. She knew I only wanted her money for Charles. Indeed what else could I want from her?

She always contrived to spoil any occasion for me. Even the sight of my little Henriette stepping a measure with a handsome nobleman with such grace could not restore my good humor.

There was something else which disturbed me very deeply although I did not realize then how very significant it would prove to be. This was the growing attitude of my son James toward Anne Hyde. He was a few years older than she was and like his brother Charles had always had an eye for women. It was a trait in them which they did not get from their father or from me. But I often wonder whether it actually came through me as it would not surprise me in the least if Charles at any rate should become such another as my father had been as far as women were concerned.

I had seen James follow Anne Hyde surreptitiously. Once I went after them and my suspicions were confirmed. My son was embracing the young woman and she was making a great show of reluctance which was an absolute indication of her willingness.

At that time my irritation was simply because I disliked the Hydes. Then it occurred to me that although it was not disastrous for my sons to have passing love affairs with women like Lucy Walter, who could be cast aside when the matter had run itself out, it was not quite the same thing with the daughter of a man in Edward Hyde’s position.

I decided to tackle James.

I said: “It has come to my ears that you are indulging in an amour with Anne Hyde.”

“You mean it has come to your eyes, Mam,” retorted James. “I was aware of you…spying on us.”

I was amazed at the insolence of my children. First Henry, then Mary, now James. At least Charles was always respectful although he ignored my advice—and Charles was the King and might have been forgiven a little assertiveness.

“I consider it my duty….”

He dared to interrupt. “Oh, Mam, a little amusement is not a matter of state.”

“I would rather you gave up this woman.”

“I would rather not,” he replied.

“James!”

“Yes, Mam.”

“You are my son.”

“Dear Mam, I know that well, but I am of age, you know. I am no longer a child and I cannot brook interference with my personal affairs.”

There were dangerous lights in his eyes. He had a temper to match mine and was the easiest of my children to quarrel with. Out of sympathy with Mary as I was, I did not want trouble with James.

With great restraint I sighed and said: “I beg of you to take care. This is the daughter of Edward Hyde of whom your brother seems to think so highly. She is not a woman like that Lucy Walter who was at the center of that disgraceful affair with your brother, which I am sure did him a great deal of harm and no doubt held him back from his throne.”

“That’s ridiculous,” cried James. “Charles had a very pleasant time with Lucy. She’s a nice creature and you know how Charles dotes on young James…when he sees him.”

“I cannot bear to hear such talk. I wish you were like your father…both of you.”

James looked solemn then as mention of the late King could always make him. He was going to make some bitter retort, I think, but he did not do so. I felt more gentle toward him and said: “Take care, James.”

He softened too. The moment when his temper was about to flare up had passed.

“Don’t fret, Mam,” he said. “I can take care of my own affairs. You should not concern yourself with them.”

It was tantamount to what Mary had told me. Keep out of my business. It is no affair of yours. Oddly enough both incidents revolved about Anne Hyde. It was foolish to allow such a silly simpering creature to make trouble for me. She was not very bright, I gathered, though I had to admit she had a certain feminine appeal.

It would pass, I promised myself; and I did not want to quarrel any more with members of my family.

Soon after that came news from Holland. Little William had developed measles and very reluctantly Mary tore herself away from the delights of Paris to go to him.

The time was passing and nothing seemed to change much except that I was growing poorer. I found it so hard to exist on my pension for I felt I owed it to Charles to live as royally as possible. I did not want anyone to lose sight of the fact that I was the mother of the King of England.

I was growing tired of ceremonies—not that so many came my way, but I disliked sitting with Queen Anne watching some ballet or dance. She was not the most exciting of companions, although God forbid that I should criticize one who had shown me such kindness. I often wondered how I could go on without her help, and sometimes I thought longingly of the life of some noble lady who was not close to Court and did not have to worry constantly whether she was receiving the respect due to her, who did not have to provide certain clothes that she might not appear shabby, who did not have to keep a retinue of servants whose wages she could not afford.

Yes, it would indeed be pleasant to retire to the country, with Henry Jermyn, of course—that dear faithful man who was getting so fat now but still retained his healthy complexion and was quite handsome for his years. I should like to find little Geoffrey again. I often smiled to think how he had stepped out of the pie and come to me. What a happy and amusing introduction and what a sad parting it had been!

Yes, I should like to retire to the country, but I had a daughter for whom I must find a husband. Henriette was my main concern—the only one of my children to be a Catholic and to live close to me. I watched her all the time, worrying about her fragile looks—the child was so thin and looked so pale often—and marveling at her grace when she danced, delighting when she received invitations to assemblies at which the King would be present. But when she went to these entertainments I was always anxious as to whether she would receive her due respect and whether it would be remembered that she was a princess, a king’s daughter, next in precedence to the Queen and myself.

Nothing ever went smoothly and there were so many upsets. For one thing Louis was in love and because he was so inexperienced the whole Court knew it. Marie Mancini was one of the seven beautiful nieces whom Mazarin had brought to France from Italy and no sooner had they arrived than they had become prominent because of their outstanding good looks. Marie I thought the least beautiful; her sister Hortense was quite startlingly so. However it was Marie who caught Louis’s attention and he was quite obsessed by her. Anne told me that he had come to her and told her that he wished to marry Marie.

“Marry her!” I cried indignantly. “He must be mad.”

Anne was thoughtful and I was alarmed. “He says he cannot live without her,” she said.

“He is but a child!”

Anne was staring ahead of her and I was suddenly filled with horror. What of all those stories I had heard about Anne and Mazarin? Some said she had actually married him. Could she really be considering a marriage between the King of France and the niece of the Cardinal?

She looked at me helplessly. “He will clearly have to marry soon.”

“I have great hopes that Charles will recover his crown. I heard only yesterday that a wise man had prophesied that he would be back within the next few years.”

“I should like him to marry an Infanta of Spain from my own country,” said Anne frankly. “But if that failed my next choice would be Henriette, whom you know I love as a daughter. He has a will of his own.” Her eyes shone with pride. She admired this quality in her son which I deplored in my children. “I have spoken to him.”

“Of Henriette?”

She nodded.

“He loves her I believe,” I almost whispered.

“Yes he loves her…as a sister. He says he is sorry for her because she is so frail and poor and unwell…. His heart is set on Marie Mancini.”

“That is quite impossible.”

She hesitated and then said: “I have spoken to the Cardinal.”

I stared at her in horror. She had spoken to the Cardinal! She must be mad. Of course the Cardinal would do everything he could to bring about the marriage.

Her next words surprised me. “The Cardinal says it is impossible.”

“His own niece!”

“Yes. He is such a wise man. He said it would go against royal tradition. The people would never agree to it and would probably rise against it. And they would blame him. He says unthinking people always blame their rulers for anything that goes wrong even when it is in no way connected with them. He said a marriage between Louis and Marie Mancini would be disastrous for the country…and for the Cardinal himself.”

“He is a very wise man.”

“The wisest,” said Anne fondly. “But Louis is angry. Oh, sister, I shall have to find a bride for him soon.”

I thought: It must be Henriette. I have set my heart on Louis for Henriette. If I could see Henriette Queen of France I would go away, live quietly and leave the rest to fate.

There came another irritation and once more it concerned the Grande Mademoiselle. Wherever she was there was trouble. She was no longer banned from Court on account of activities in the Fronde and was now to be seen at functions as flamboyant as ever, though perhaps a little faded. Cardinal Mazarin had invited us to a supper party at which the King and the Duc d’Anjou would be present. I was always so delighted to take Henriette where the King was, and it was a pleasant evening apart from one incident. As we were leaving Mademoiselle walked out ahead of my daughter, which was tantamount to saying that she came before Henriette in precedence.

I had gone out just ahead of them and had expected Henriette to be immediately behind me and was very angry when I discovered what had happened and inwardly railed against Mademoiselle, wishing that she could be exiled forever.

That was not the end of the matter for what had happened came to the Cardinal’s ears. He was a stickler for etiquette and was most annoyed, first because one of the laws of protocol had been ignored and secondly because Henriette and I had been at the supper party as his guests.

A few days later there was a party at his apartments to which the King, the Duc d’Anjou and Mademoiselle had been invited. Fortunately neither I nor Henriette were present but there were plenty of people to report to me what had been said.

The Cardinal asked Mademoiselle if it was true that she had taken precedence over the Princess Henriette while the King and the Duc d’Anjou were listening.

It was the Duc d’Anjou who answered. He said very loudly so that all could hear: “And what if my cousin did? Why should people who rely on us for their food and lodging take precedence over us? If they do not like the treatment they get here, they should go somewhere else.”

I was terribly upset. So they regarded us as beggars! And this to come from the brother of the King—and Louis stood by and did nothing about it. It was more than I could endure.

The horrible realization came to me that they were getting tired of us.

I was so upset that I went to see the Cardinal and I told him that it was humiliating to accept a pension from the Queen. She was bountiful and had been a wonderful friend to me; I could never repay her for all she had done in my times of need; but I would like to be independent of her. I thought that as I was the Queen of England who had brought a dowry with her when I married the King, I should have some of that dowry back now. It was not the Queen of France who should be paying me a pension, but the English Parliament.

Mazarin shook his head. “Your Majesty cannot really believe that the English Parliament would give you a pension!”

“I don’t know. You have become friendly with this Oliver Cromwell. You say he is a man of integrity. Let us see something of that quality.”

“Such a request could only end in failure.”

“Will you make it?”

“If you insist.”

“I do,” I told him.

The result was more than failure. It was insulting. As I had never been crowned Queen of England the Parliament did not consider me as such.

When I heard those words I was so furious that I lost my temper with the Cardinal.

“Are they suggesting that I was the King’s concubine? Is the King of France going to stand aside and hear that said of his aunt, the daughter of his grandfather….”

Mazarin said quietly: “They have merely said that as you were not crowned you lack the rights of a queen. I believe the reason that you were not crowned was your own objection to the ceremony.”

“I can see,” I said, “that you are ready to accept the logic of your dear friend Oliver Cromwell.”

Anne asked me to see her. She was a good kind woman and I wished that she did not bore me so much for I should be truly grateful.

She said: “I know how you long for a place of your own…somewhere not too large…somewhere where you could get away from Court and live quietly when you are in the mood to do so.”

“I have Chaillot.”

“I did not mean a convent. I meant a little home. I do understand for I often feel I should like to do the same myself. It is impossible for me, of course, though perhaps later when Louis is married and has growing children…who knows? But I have been thinking of you, sister. Life is very hard for you.”

“You speak truth there. I am poor and dependent, and I and my daughter are the targets for insults.”

“Oh, that affair of the Grande Mademoiselle. I do not take her very seriously.”

“Her behavior touches me little. It was the remarks of the Duc d’Anjou….”

“Philippe sometimes speaks without thinking. I have reprimanded him strongly for his lack of courtesy. I think he was contrite. Let us look round for a suitable place. Do you remember the pleasure we had over Chaillot?”

“Oh, Anne, dear sister, you are so good and kind.”

“I understand your feelings so well,” she replied. “I should like to make life a little easier for you.”

“I could never afford to buy such a place if I found it.”

“Let us first look for the place and then consider that.”

The dear generous creature was comforting me again.

The outcome was that together we discovered the small château in the village of Colombes. It was only seven miles from Paris and yet in the heart of the country. The village was beautiful and peaceful as only such villages can be, brooded over by the church with its twelfth-century tower. The château was small, like a country house rather than a castle and I knew that I could be happy in it.

I was considerably cheered when Anne and I planned together what furniture would be put in it and when the place was completed it was indeed a haven.

Perhaps that was the beginning of better days. It was not long after—a beautiful September day in the year 1658—when the messenger came to Colombes where I was staying.

I knew he had some exciting news to tell me for he could scarcely wait.

“A message for the Queen,” he cried. “Oliver Cromwell is dead!”

So England had a new Lord Protector—Richard Cromwell, son of Oliver.

The Court was buzzing with the news and messages were coming all the time from England. Richard was not the man his father had been; he lacked authority; he had no desire to govern; he was too soft; some said he was more like the martyred King than Oliver’s son.

What now? everyone was asking.

After the first months the excitement died down and it seemed as though Charles was no nearer winning his rights from Richard than he had been from Oliver.

Still, the old ogre was dead and we continued to hear that the new Protector lacked those qualities which had brought victory to his father.

Anne was growing more and more eager to find a bride for Louis and my niece Marguerite, daughter of my sister Christine, was brought to Paris, on trial as it were. She was a very plain girl and older than Louis. He took an instant dislike to her and I was sorry for Marguerite but relieved all the same on account of Henriette.

It was quite clear that Louis had a mind of his own. He was both the delight and terror of his mother’s life. But she was beside herself with joy when the Cardinal was able to tell her that his clever diplomacy had not only brought about peace with Spain but the promise of the Infanta Marie Theresa as bride for Louis.

It was what she had always wanted and she could not hide her joy, although she tried to from me, knowing my aspirations for Henriette.

But I was accustomed to disappointments and I could not help feeling a twinge of relief that at least my sister Christine’s plain daughter had not been chosen. I now had to accept that Henriette would never be Queen of France.

The French Court had gone to the Spanish border to meet the Spanish Infanta, and Henriette and I remained in Paris. How glad I was that we did! I had taken Henriette to Colombes with me. She was rather sad. I do believe that she was a little in love with Louis and it must have been painful for her to have been rejected by him, even though she could console herself that the main reason was that she was a dependant on his Court and that had her brother regained his throne there might have been a match between them.

I was seated in my favorite room with some of my friends when a visitor was announced and a tall dark man came into the room.

“Charles!”

It was indeed. Changed after all the years. It must have been six since I had seen him and we had parted not such good friends on account of Henry. In spite of the change in him he had lost none of that charm which was going to smooth his path through life.

He said: “A fleeting visit, Mam. I do not think it will be long now. I verily believe they are going to ask me to go back.”

Then he turned and seizing one of my most handsome ladies picked her up in his arms and kissed her fervently. We were all astonished—until he called her his dear sister Henriette. Then I realized that he had mistaken the lady for the Princess. Or had he? I wondered. Or just pretended to? It gave him an opportunity of kissing the pretty girl. I could not be sure. But no matter. He was here and it was wonderful to see him.

I sent at once for Henriette. She ran to him and they embraced. The affection between those two had not diminished with his absence.

My little Henriette was almost in tears to see the brother whom she adored. There was complete devotion between those two. I envied it in a way. I should have liked to be on such terms with Charles but I really could not completely forgive him for taking Henry’s side and I knew he could not forgive me for my behavior toward the boy.

But it was too great an occasion for resentments.

He was excited. He was receiving letters from General Monck. The people were tired of Puritan rule. They looked for the color and gaiety of a Court. They yearned for the old days. In fact they wanted the King to come home.

I dismissed all my attendants and sent them to make as grand a meal as they could for this most honored arrival; and when I was alone with Charles and Henriette, Charles talked of the state of affairs.

“I do not wish to say too much about this just yet,” he said, “in case it fails as so many attempts have before. But this is different. This is not war. This is peace. It is not a challenge. It is an invitation. I have a very good friend in General Monck. He was a supporter of Cromwell at one time, but I don’t think he ever took to the way of life the Roundheads established. Oliver Cromwell did not trust him…and rightly so. Monck is a great character, a rough soldier perhaps, but with a love for royalty. He shall be rewarded when I am back. He married his washer-woman….” He gave me an odd look when he said that. “Ah, that shocks you, Mam, but I believe the lady had many desirable attributes and one of these was that she was always an ardent royalist.”

“Do you mean he will help you regain your kingdom…this General?” I asked.

“He is the General, the Head of the Army. He does not like the Roundheads’ rule since Oliver died. He endured it then he said because Oliver was a good ruler and a strong man. Now it is different. I will have to be asked to go back. I have no intention of making a false start. I promise myself that when I go home it will be to stay. I have no intention to go wandering again.”

We were too excited to eat. I was glad we were at Colombes so that we could be alone…just a family…to talk and talk…and wait.

And so, after all our abortive attempts, all the selling of precious possessions to raise money for arms, all the tragedies and defeats and disappointments, it had happened in a totally unexpected manner.

Charles was invited to go home and on that glorious May day of the year 1660 he landed at Dover where he was greeted by General Monck, and all the way to London the people assembled in their crowds to throw flowers at his feet, to cheer him, to welcome him home from his exile.

This was the happiest day I had known since our troubles began.

The Restoration was truly here and I knew that life would be different for us all from now on.