The Merry Monarch's Wife

JAMES’S CONVERSION

LATE THAT YEAR TWO EVENTS OF SIGNIFICANCE TOOK place. Neither of them attracted much notice. I suppose what was happening in Portugal would not; but they were important to me.

Donna Maria was the only one to whom I could speak of Portuguese affairs. In fact, it was the only subject in which she was really interested. She disliked England and constantly wished that we had never come. In vain did I tell her that I had no desire to return to Portugal, especially now that my mother was dead; and if she yearned so much for her native land I would make sure that she returned to it.

This she firmly thrust aside. Had she not been with me all my life? What did I imagine she would do without me to worry about?

“You could live in peace in the country you love.”

“You are the one I love,” she said. “Where you are is home to me.”

Dear Donna Maria! I am afraid I did not always appreciate her and was impatient with her sometimes. I should have been more grateful for all the devotion she gave me.

So with her I talked of events which were taking place in Portugal.

There has been conflict between my brothers.

“Pedro was always impatient with Alfonso,” said Maria. “It is a pity Pedro was not the firstborn.”

“Pedro despised Alfonso and was jealous of him because he was the elder,” I said. “And now he is known as Regent.”

“He was always the one to push himself forward.”

“But it was necessary, Maria. Alfonso could not govern without my mother.”

“Oh, she was the strong one. She knew at every turn what should be done.”

“When she was gone…this was inevitable, Maria.”

She nodded. “My poor Alfonso. What have they done to the boy?”

“He will be all right. They have sent him into exile. He is to live in the Azores, which I believe is very pleasant.”

“As long as he is well looked after.”

“There is something else,” I said. “His marriage has been annulled.”

“What?”

“Alfonso’s wife, Maria Françoise Elizabeth…”

“I know her name,” said Donna Maria impatiently.

“She has been divorced from Alfonso and has married Pedro.”

“He has married his brother’s wife!”

“That is so.”

“So he has not only the crown but the wife as well?”

“It seems so, Maria.”

“I wonder what next. Those boys…they were so pretty.”

“Pedro is making peace with Spain.”

“Is that a good thing?”

“It was what my mother would have done. She thought there must always be peace with Spain if possible. It was done with the help of Charles and his government.”

Donna Maria grunted. She believed that Charles had treated me badly and she did not forgive him easily for that, however much he had helped Portugal.

She was shaking her head sadly, thinking of two little boys whom she had loved, playing their childish games. They still played games…but less childish ones.

I left her dreaming of the old days.

The other important event passed almost unnoticed. No one at that stage could guess what violent repercussions it was to have in the future.

James, Duke of York, no longer made a secret of his religious beliefs. He worshipped publicly as a Catholic.

THERE WAS A NEW MINISTRY after Clarendon had gone. The people called it the Cabal because of the names of the ministers who formed it: Clifford, Arlington, Buckingham, Ashley and Lauderdale.

Charles had high hopes of them.

“They are men of differing opinions,” he said, “so between them they should be able to avoid narrow-minded prejudice. True Clifford is a Catholic — a somewhat fiercely enthusiastic one — and Arlington is also a Catholic, although more moderate in his views. Buckingham…well, you know the noble Duke…perhaps you could call him independent; Ashley is something of a philosopher and Lauderdale a solid Protestant. So you see, we should be well represented from all sides.”

Charles had always been fond of the theater — as it seemed was the whole of London. On his restoration Charles had granted two men of the profession, Sir William D’Avenant and Mr. Thomas Killigrew, a patent to open two theaters.

Charles was on terms of friendship with both these men. They were witty and amusing and Charles found them good companions. Both had been loyal to the royal cause throughout all the troubles and Charles was delighted to be able to reward them by making it possible for them to come back to a profession which they loved; and he naturally honored them with his patronage.

D’Avenant’s theater was called the Duke’s — actually the Duke of York’s. D’Avenant was a playwright and a poet. He had been knighted for valor in the battlefield during the Civil War and had lived in France in exile where he had became a favorite of Queen Henrietta Maria. He claimed to be related to William Shakespeare and he had frequented the court of Charles I, for whom he had written plays and poetry, and made quite a name for himself.

I occasionally went to the theater. I enjoyed the plays and meeting some of the players. We were always on show and the people liked to see us there. Sometimes I felt the people came to see us as much as the play. Charles agreed. “We must not disappoint them,” he said.

During the time of the plague the theaters had naturally been closed; and when the great fire followed, people seemed to have lost their zest for playgoing. It was coming back at this time and the playhouses were beginning to flourish again.

It was Lettice who said to me one day how pleased the people were that the King was going more frequently to the playhouse nowadays.

She said: “He seems to have a preference for Sir William D’Avenant’s players.”

I said: “He always found pleasure in the theater. The reason he has not been there so much of late is because he has had weightier matters on his mind.”

“Well, he is certainly finding D’Avenant’s The Rivals good entertainment.”

I might have known there was some insinuation behind her words. There was one name which I heard mentioned frequently. It was that of a certain Moll Davis.

I asked Lady Suffolk who Moll Davis was.

“Oh, Madam, she is an actress of Sir William D’Avenant’s company.”

“She seems to be attracting a good deal of attention. Is she very good?”

“They say she is very good indeed.”

“Perhaps I should go to see her.”

“It may be, Madam, that you would not care for the play.”

“But since everyone is talking about her…”

“She is a pretty girl…and some people like that.”

She was telling me something.

She went on: “It is her dancing perhaps. She dances a very merry jig.”

Suddenly the truth dawned on me. I heard one of the maids singing a song which sounded like “My lodging is on the cold ground…”

“You don’t sing it like Moll Davis,” said another.

“I’ll swear she doesn’t have to sleep on the cold ground now.”

There was laughter and giggles. “Changed the cold ground for a royal bed, eh?”

So then I knew. I flushed with shame. Why was I always the last to hear?

He was tired of Lady Castlemaine. He would have finished with her altogether, I believed, but for the fact that she would not allow herself to be set aside without making a great noise about it, so I supposed it was easier to let her go on clinging.

I gradually learned that Moll Davis had left the Duke’s Theatre and was set up in a house of her own. She possessed a handsome ring worth six hundred pounds.

Lady Castlemaine was heard to say that the King’s taste had gone from simpering idiots who played making card houses to vulgar actresses who danced jigs.

I was very sad. I thought he had changed a little, grown more serious. But no, nothing had changed. There would always be women…ladies of the court…actresses…it would always be thus.

On reflection, though, it was easier to accept the actresses than the ladies of the court, and when I contemplated what I had suffered through Lady Castlemaine and Frances Stuart, I told myself that I had little to fear from Moll Davis.

THE COUNTRY WAS in a very precarious position and there was a recklessness in the air. We were on the verge of bankruptcy. Rarely could so many misfortunes have occurred in such a short time.

Charles was worried. There were two sides to his nature. People might think him selfish and self-indulgent, but beneath all that insouciance there was a shrewd and clever mind backed by a determination never to go the way his father had gone. People declared that Clarendon had been the author of our ills. They refused to accept the absurdity of this and waited for the Cabal to produce a miracle.

There was an uneasy situation between James, Duke of York, and the Duke of Monmouth. It was obvious that Charles doted on his son. As for myself, I could never look at that handsome young man’s face without being filled with foreboding. He was a constant reminder of what Charles might have had from the right woman.

Monmouth resembled his father in some ways. He was sought after by women because of his looks and position. He was already known as a rake. He was full of high spirits and liked to roam the streets with his rowdy companions causing trouble. Charles was constantly making excuses for him and smoothing over difficulties made by the young man’s conduct.

There was no doubt that Monmouth was attractive and could be charming. I said that he was like the King…not in looks though, except that he was dark. I think he must have inherited his mother’s beauty. He liked to call attention to himself and remind people that he was the King’s son. It was natural, I suppose, particularly as he was not legitimate, but he did want everyone to remember that he was the King’s eldest son.

James, Duke of York, was very wary of him. I liked James because he had been pleasant to me from the first moment of my arrival in England. He was quite unlike Charles except in one respect: he shared the King’s obsession with women and was as unfaithful to Anne as Charles was to me. But there the resemblance ended. James had none of Charles’s grace, though he was a good naval commander. He had proved that, but he had no subtlety and every enterprise of his — apart from naval operations — seemed to go wrong.

There was something alarming in the attitude of James and Monmouth toward each other. I guessed what it was and that I was concerned in this. Monmouth was the King’s beloved son. It was Monmouth who accompanied the King to Newmarket for the races and to Bagshot for the shooting. What if the King, despairing of ever having a child through me, legitimized Monmouth? Then what of James? James must have an eye on the throne, for Charles was no longer very young and was still without legitimate offspring.

Monmouth yearned to be made legitimate and James feared that it might happen. Therefore they were very watchful of each other…and of me, for if I produced a child the matter could no longer concern them so deeply.

When I had discovered that Charles contemplated divorcing me, that he might marry Frances Stuart, I had been deeply shocked and, even though Frances had now married, I had not yet recovered from it.

What was so hard to endure was that Charles had numerous children. Barbara Castlemaine alone had, I believed, six — healthy boys among them. There were others scattered around, so there was no doubt as to whose fault it was that the marriage was unproductive. I felt wretchedly inadequate and never quite sure when Charles might attempt to get rid of me…not only for his own satisfaction but for that of the state.

When James committed some inanity which set the people laughing behind their hands, Charles said to me: “The people are wondering whether they did right to call me back. Cromwell gave them drab lives, telling them that pleasure was sin — and they did not like that. Is it possible though that they might prefer even that to what they are getting now?”

And when I protested that the people loved him, he went on: “They might just tolerate me for my time…but if it is James who comes after…” He shook his head gravely. “I fear for James.” I could see speculation in his eyes. Was he thinking of that other James…Monmouth?

It seemed at that time that manners became even more licentious. Courtiers were blatant in their promiscuity. I supposed they would say they were following the King’s example. Lady Castlemaine’s affairs were the talk of the town. The King was involved with a play actress, Moll Davis. He was turning more and more away from Lady Castlemaine, who retaliated by conducting love affairs with people in all stations of life. She would go to the theater and afterward summon actors to visit her. She made no secret of her amours.

“I always follow the royal example,” she said flippantly.

She was insatiable, it was said. I supposed that had been the reason for the attraction between her and Charles.

Yet he still visited her.

In the streets bawdy songs were sung about the various personalities of the court. Lampoons were passed round and Barbara Castlemaine could not be expected to be left out.

I was shocked to hear someone in the palace singing: “Full forty men a day provided for the whore, Yet like a bitch she wags her tail for more.”

These lines on Barbara were attributed to the Earl of Rochester, who was a great favorite with the King. He was a wild rake, noted for his wit, and he and Charles were often together. He was related to Barbara Castlemaine, and he spared no one in his verses…not even the King.

Buckingham, of course, was in the center of the scene, more outrageous, impulsive and wilder than any. He behaved very badly to his long-suffering wife. I often wondered what Mary Fairfax thought of marriage to a grand duke; I imagined she longed for the dignity of her father’s Puritan home. Buckingham, whose morals could be compared with those of Lady Castlemaine, was quite shamelessly carrying on an amorous intrigue with the Countess of Shrewsbury. He had brought her into his house and expected his wife to accept the presence of his mistress.

It was reported that Mary Fairfax had confronted the Countess, saying there was not room for both of them in the house and she must therefore ask the Countess to leave at once. At which time Buckingham had come upon the scene and declared that she was right. There was not room for the three of them, therefore he had ordered his carriage to conduct Mary to her father’s house.

Such stories, even in the immoral climate of London at that time, were considered by most people to be outrageous.

The Earl of Rochester had abducted the heiress Elizabeth Malet, married her and taken possession of her fortune.

There was a great scandal when the Duke of Buckingham fought a duel with the Earl of Shrewsbury and one of Buckingham’s seconds was killed on the spot and Shrewsbury died from his wounds a few weeks later. Lady Shrewsbury, the cause of the dispute, stood by dressed as a page holding Buckingham’s horse while the duel was in progress.

Buckingham continued to live in blatant adultery with Lady Shrewsbury.

It seemed that however outrageously people behaved, it was acceptable. What could be expected, some of the more serious-minded asked, when the King showed such contempt for moral standards?

“There is a new actress at the Theatre Royal,” said Lettice, “who, they say, can outshine Moll Davis. She should be seen in this Beaumont and Fletcher piece. Pilaster, I think it is called.”

I said I should be interested to go one evening.

When I went to the theater, it was considered fitting that I should be in the company of the King, so we went together. The people liked to see us there. Charles was affable to everyone, even the humblest orange girls.

Tom Killigrew, the manager, to whom Charles had given the grant to open the theater, was on terms of familiarity with the King, who had lately been frequenting the Duke’s Theatre because Moll Davis had been there.

I settled down to enjoy the play, and as soon as I saw the actress I realized that she had some special quality. She was small yet dainty with abundant reddish hair, rather wild and curly, framing a piquant face. There was saucy mischief in that expression and an unmistakable vitality.

She played the part of Bellario, a girl so much in love that she goes off to follow her lover, disguising herself as a pageboy. I might say that it was no disguise at all. She was completely feminine and could never be mistaken for anything else, and she had the kind of face which would be recognizable anywhere.

But it was an appealing piece. The King laughed and clapped his hands with pleasure. He was very intent on the stage and the actress was obviously aware of it. She gave the impression that she was playing for him.

All the young men in the house — and they were prominent among the audience — appreciated her, and when the play was over they demanded that she dance a jig, which she obligingly did with great animation.

The audience began to chant verses which some poet must have written about her. There were always verses, for many of the young men who haunted the theater believed themselves to be young Shakespeares waiting to be recognized.

She is pretty and she knows it

She is witty and she shows it

And besides that she’s so witty

And so little and so pretty

She’s a hundred other parts

For to take and conquer hearts

But for that suffice to tell ye

She’s the little pretty Nelly.

Lady Suffolk was beside me, so I said, “Who is this actress?”

“Her name is Nell Gwynne, Your Majesty. She is a great favorite, as you see.”

“The audience seems to like her,” I replied.

I turned to the King. His eyes were still on the girl. He seemed to like her too.

I WAS NOT SURPRISED when I heard that the King had invited Mistress Eleanor Gwynne to sup with him.

It was impossible to keep secret the fact that the King was sending for pretty little Nelly, but she did not replace Moll Davis immediately. Charles liked variety and apparently Moll Davis was a pretty little creature also. So Moll lived in her fine house and continued to flaunt her six-hundred-pound ring and Nell Gwynne was just the King’s casual playmate.

There were times when I felt dejected. The whole of London — and perhaps beyond — would be talking about the King’s latest mistresses — and the rivalry between Nelly and Moll.

Nell was a madcap who did wild things. A story was in circulation that one day Moll was boasting that the King had sent for her and she would be with him that night. Poor Nelly, she said, when had she last seen the King? Moll could sympathize. It must be maddening for her dear friend to be sent for so rarely.

Nell said that there was no ill feeling, and to show this, she would like to drink to her friend’s success. Moll agreed to this and Nell laced her rival’s drink with a strong purge so that Moll was unable to visit the King that night. Nell coolly presented herself to take Moll’s place.

It was said that when the King heard what had happened, he was greatly amused and soon after that Nell began to gain ascendancy over her rival.

I thought often of the romantic love which I had believed in before I came to England. What an innocent I had been! But perhaps not. Perhaps it did exist. Queen Henrietta Maria had found it when she came to England. But she had come in fear, most reluctantly and had discovered a faithful husband who had grown to love her as she had him. And I had come in joy and expectation and even for a short time believed I had found perfection. At least I had had that. And in this London of the Restoration, faithful husbands were rare indeed. Promiscuity, infidelity, adultery…that was the custom of the day.

So…I must not brood on my misfortune. I must hide my jealousy. I must adjust myself to this careless cynical age; I must be part of court life…enjoy the wit of those who crowded round the King, and try to be one of them.

I could not do that, but at least I had little to fear from actresses such as Moll and Nell and could forget the humiliation I had suffered through Barbara Castlemaine and the fear when I thought Charles would set me aside for the sake of Frances Stuart.

I must be grateful that that had passed.

IT WAS EARLY SEPTEMBER when the news came.

I was at Hampton Court. Charles, with his brother James, had gone off to hunt in the New Forest when a courier arrived from France. He came in great haste and said he would speak only to the King.

Messengers were immediately dispatched and Charles and James very soon arrived at Hampton.

I was with them when the courier told them the news.

“Your Majesty and my Lord Duke,” he began, “I have sad tidings. Queen Henrietta Maria expired on the last day of August.”

Charles was shaken. “How, how? She was well…”

“Your Majesty, she suffered frequently from sleeplessness. She had to take pills each night in order to sleep. On that morning…she did not wake up.”

Charles fired questions at the messenger. James stood by dazed.

All we could discover was that the Queen had suffered from various ailments since her return from England.

“She took the baths at Bourbon, Your Majesty. They helped but could not cure her. She was very brave and always said she did not wish to be like those ladies who lamented when they had an aching finger. King Louis sent his first physician, Monsieur Valot, to her.”

“Louis was fond of her, I know,” said Charles. “He would have done anything to help her.”

“He was very sad when he learned of her death, Your Majesty. He said a courier must be sent to England immediately.”

“It was good of him,” said Charles.

“Monsieur Valot is now a very unhappy man, for it was he who prescribed the grains to make Her Majesty sleep.”

“She was always averse to taking such things,” commented Charles. “And Dr. Mayerne, who attended her when she was here, agreed with her that such aids to sleep could be dangerous. Tell me, how was she before she died?”

“She suffered a cough, Sire.”

“Had she taken to her bed?”

“Oh no, Your Majesty. She was at supper as usual. She talked and laughed. She took her grains and went to sleep at once, her ladies said. When one of them went in to awaken her she could not do so and the doctor came. They said she was not dead but some vapor had touched her brain and prevented her from speaking. However, the priest had the ceremony of extreme unction performed. They said she revived a little but only for a few moments, and then she expired. There is great sadness at the court of France, Your Majesty. The King deeply mourns his beloved aunt, and the Princess Henriette is prostrate with grief.”

“My poor Henriette…she would be,” murmured Charles. “The Queen loved her more than any of us…even James.”

I felt as though I had lost a friend. I had not seen a great deal of her but there had sprung up a warm relationship between us.

I could grieve with them.

THE COURT WENT INTO MOURNING and Charles seemed a little closer to me then. I think he wanted to talk about his mother and he could do that with me more easily than with Lady Castlemaine or one of his actresses.

“Dear Mam,” he said. “I was never a favorite with her. She was disappointed in me from the day I was born. ‘What an ugly child!’ she said. ‘Can it belong to me and my handsome Charles?’”

“They say you were very like her father and she admired him greatly, I believe.”

“Like him in my ways…at least in the worst of them.” He looked at me with that half-amused, half-apologetic smile. “He was a great king, that Henri — one of the best the French have had. I should do well to emulate him in that respect…instead of others. I think of my dearest sister, Henriette. I would I could be with her. She was the closest to Mam. She is more French than English. She was only a child when she ran away from this country, and Mam…she was all French…she would never be anything else. That is why the English did not like her. They blame her for my father’s death.”

“The people must always blame someone.”

“Oh yes, it is comforting to pick a scapegoat. But I fear my dear Mam may not have helped matters. In the first place they did not like her religion.”

I flinched and he put a hand over mine.

“You are not like her. Mam made her opinions known and she believed she was always right. I think that was where she went wrong. She was indiscreet; she talked when she should have been silent. She went marching through life…blundering, you might say…taking action when she should have been passive…bringing disaster to her husband whom she wanted to help more than anything on earth. That was Mam, quick to rage…effusive in her affections…everything she did was done with the utmost enthusiasm. Perhaps that was why we loved her. I wish I could see my little sister.”

“You love her best of all your family, I think,” I said.

“Little Minette. Yes, she was my favorite. It is sad that we never meet. I do not think she is happy over there. The French court is different from ours. Perhaps what people here resent about our court is that it is too like the French, but, as I say, the difference is there. It is as free as ours…but shall I say less blatant. Our characters differ. I am half French, Catherine, so I know. Perhaps that is my misfortune.”

“Your misfortune! The people love you. They will forgive you anything.”

He smiled at me. “There is a strong puritanical influence in the country. You do not see it at court, but it is there. The stern rules of Cromwell and his followers are not easily forgotten. The country must become prosperous. There must be an end to these wars. We have to be friendly with our neighbors. It is not enough to give people pageants and playhouses. There has to be security too.”

“I know that you have your anxieties and that when people hear scandals they believe that you are more interested in pleasure than in duty.”

He took my hand and pressed it. I thought he was trying to explain to me, to ask forgiveness for his weakness. Then he shrugged his shoulders. “Poor Mam,” he said. “She could not help what she was, any more than the rest of us can. And now she is gone…”

QUEEN HENRIETTA MARIA was buried on the twelfth of September, nearly two weeks after her death; and she was laid to rest beside her ancestors in the Abbey of Saint Denis.

There were a great many rumors about her death, as there usually are about royal people who die before they are expected to.

Dr. Valot, I believe, had an uncomfortable time defending the “grains” he had subscribed. He declared he had given her these because she could not sleep, and so effective had they been that she had failed to wake up.

In England we mourned her. People ceased to talk of the part she had played in the Civil War and remembered the good things about her: her stoical attitude toward physical pain; her goodness; her care for her servants. I knew how warm-hearted she could be and I believed there had been much that was good in Henrietta Maria.

And then Frances Stuart, now Duchess of Richmond and Lennox, returned to court and I was deeply concerned as to what effect this would have on Charles.

She had changed. She was still beautiful, but she had lost just a little of that innocence…that childish outlook on life; but she was not subtle enough to hide the fact that the marriage was not a success.

Charles received her in a friendly but somewhat aloof manner. I was relieved by this, although it was no longer of vital importance to me; the Duchess of Richmond and Lennox could not be the threat that plain Miss Stuart had been.

Moreover, he was becoming more involved with the play actress Nell Gwynne who, I had heard, was expecting his child.

Poor Frances, she was not a happy woman.

I sent for her one day and dismissed everyone else, so that we could be alone together.

“Frances,” I said, “are you happy?”

She raised those beautiful eyes to my face and there was a mournful expression in them.

“It is not what I expected it would be, Your Majesty.”

“Oh,” I replied. “You thought there was something divine about marriage…did you, Frances? And now you find…”

“I was happier before,” she said.

I saw the regret in her eyes. It was natural that she should have been fascinated by the King, for, apart from that aura, he was attractive to men and women alike. His very ugliness — if it could be called that — was appealing; his tall lean figure moved with exceptional grace, but it was in his expression and smile that one recognized that easy tolerance, that sympathy, that acceptance of life and the determination to make it a pleasure for others as well as himself. He had a rare kindliness which drew people to him. So naturally Frances would have been attracted by him and would doubtless have preferred him to her drunken duke.

She had had the choice — as someone in my position would never have had. If Charles had been free to marry, most certainly she would have married him. But she had selected the way of morality and insisted on marriage, and she was regretting that.

Now she was back at court. I guessed it was the Duke who had insisted on their return, knowing that the King would forgive the woman on whom he had once so clearly set his heart.

He was right. Charles did not bear grudges for long. He had forgiven many who had trespassed against him; so he would forgive the Duke and Duchess of Richmond and Lennox.

He obviously did.

He was contented with the women he had. I began to believe that Nell Gwynne was responsible for this satisfaction. It was strange that an uneducated girl — though I believe she had a lively mind — could be so important to Charles. But then, when I considered Frances Stuart, was it so surprising?

He was still seeing Lady Castlemaine. She seemed to have some hold on him. I had heard her threaten to publish his letters to her. I think he could easily have prevented that, but perhaps he was fascinated by her insolence. She was notoriously unfaithful to him; her lovers were numerous and there were hints that many of them had to be paid for their services. Unpleasant scandals about her abounded. I could not understand why he continued to see her — but he did. This new serenity seemed certain to come from his association with Nell Gwynne.

I tried to discover something about her. I imagined for Charles she would provide a complete escape from formality, for Nell would be no respecter of persons. She was undemanding and asked for nothing. She was in love with the King in a way, as he was with her.

So perhaps it was due to Nell Gwynne that Charles did not dash to the side of Frances Stuart.

I said to her: “Frances, you wanted to be married, and you are. You are a duchess. You wanted a title, did you not?”

She agreed. “I thought it was right to be married. I did not want to be like so many at court.”

“Poor Frances. Life does not always turn out as we plan, you know.”

“No, Madam.”

“But you are the Duchess now…a married woman. Always remember, Frances, that is what you wanted. I am sorry you are disappointed. You used to be so happy in the old days.”

“But they could not go on, Madam.”

“No. You had to make a choice. Well, Frances, you made it, and now you are back at court. There is no turning back. So is it with us all.”

She was easy to read. I could see in her eyes that she was asking herself, what did I do? I chose the right thing and found unhappiness…when I might have been happy, doing what was wrong.

What a dilemma! It was one which I had not had to face.

I WAS WATCHFUL OF CHARLES, wondering what he was feeling about Frances. I guessed that if he wanted her to be his mistress there would be no obstacles this time.

The Duke would be complaisant enough, seeing advantages through such an arrangement. And Frances? What of her morals? I was not sure, but I believed she would succumb with ease. There was a great stir throughout the court when Frances contracted smallpox.

This was the most dreaded disease for, even if it did not kill, there must almost certainly be the inevitable disfigurement. Beauty could be destroyed in a few days by the hideous pits in the skin left after the sores had healed. And Frances Stuart, whose sole claim to fame had been her outstanding beauty, now stood at risk.

Charles was quite distressed when he heard. He could not bear to think of that incomparable beauty being destroyed. Frances was very ill. We heard that she had been badly smitten.

I thought the court would soon be in mourning for her. She had few enemies — only those who had been jealous of her good looks; she had never willingly done anything to harm anyone. I, who had suffered through her more than most, could only feel friendly toward her.

Then we heard that she was going to recover.

I was surprised when Charles went to see her. People did not visit smallpox sufferers. He was putting himself in danger.

That was characteristic of him. He must have truly loved her. I remembered his long pursuit of her, his contemplating divorcing me that he might marry her. Oh yes, indeed, he had cared deeply for her, for he would have hated to hurt me. Yet he had been ready to do it for her.

And now there she was, isolated because of the terrible affliction which had struck her. No one wanted to go near her; but he went.

When he returned I confronted him. I said: “Is it true that you have been to see Frances?”

He nodded, looking inifinitely sad.

“It was dangerous. What if you…?”

He shook his head. “She is past the illness.”

“But…”

He lifted a hand. “I went to see…an old friend.”

“And how was she?”

He turned away, unable to speak, and I knew then that the worst had happened.

“Poor Frances,” I murmured. “Poor, poor Frances.”