Devil Water (8 page)

“Old strumpet!” murmured Betty as loud as she dared, but there was nothing for it but to curtsey and move away, leaving the dazzled Charles to the Duchess.

Henrietta settled herself gracefully, spreading her violet skirts, arranging the silver-lace ruffles at her bosom to disclose the tops of her breasts, which were pushed up by the stays to a rounded firmness they did not actually possess. Nor was her face as oval as it once was, though the slight slackness of throat, and the fine lines near her mouth were well concealed by an enameling of paint and powder. On her temple a black beauty patch like a crescent moon drew attention to her best features -- the sensuous blue eyes and the dark curls which clustered above them, and she knew from his expression that Charles found her very seductive.

It was pique which had first roused her interest in the young Radcliffe lad, pique that both his brothers seemed indifferent to her. The Earl politely so, Francis with a silky insolence she could never quite fathom. Also, Charles was handsome in a callow raw-boned way, and it occurred to the Duchess that it had been several years since she had taken a very young lover. There would be a fillip to it.

As Charles continued to gape at her wordlessly, she laughed and gestured to her Negro page, who handed her a painted gauze fan. She flicked the fan open and lowering her long darkened lashes said, “You will put me out of countenance, sir, if you stare at me like that. Do you think me such a fright?”

“You know I d-don’t, your grace,” said Charles. “I don’t know what to say, except I-I wish I could kiss you,” he went on in a desperate rush.

“Oh la, sir, you go
monstrous
fast!” cried Henrietta, feigning anger so well that Charles was fooled.

“Forgive me, madam,” he said miserably. “I don’t know what made me speak so. Forgive me.” And to cover his confusion, he added at random, “Your blackamoor, he has a silver collar with a crest on it.”

“Why, ‘tis my crest, to be sure,” said the Duchess, seeing that she had frightened Charles and must let him recover. “Juba is my slave. Dr. Radcliffe gave him to me, and Juba was sent to him by some Colonial planter in the Virginias -- William Byrd was, I believe, the name of the planter, wasn’t it, poppet?” She turned indulgently to the Negro boy, who bowed solemnly.

“Yuss, mistiss. I’uz born in the Quarters o’ Master Byrd’s plantation in Virginny, then Master he sold me ‘cross that big ocean to Dr. Radcliffe.”

“And you like it better here, don’t you!” said the Duchess, patting the turbaned head. Juba’s intelligent brown face creased in an ingenuous grin. He rolled his eyes ecstatically, and made the expected answer.

“Sho do, mistiss. Jest like heaven with you, no beatings, have ale an’ white bread ev’ry day. A pure angel you is, mistiss.”

The Duchess laughed complacently. Not all her servants evinced such devotion, and she enjoyed seeing herself in this flattering light.

“Sure
you’re not homesick, Juba?” teased the Duchess. “Shall I send you back to Virginia with a Mr. Spotswood who’s going out as Governor?”

“No, no, mistiss!” cried Juba kneeling and nuzzling a portion of the violet skirt. “Don’t make me leave you, never! I’d die ef I couldn’t see your beautiful sweet angel face a-smiling at me.”

“Well, well,” said the Duchess. “It’s a good little black dog it is, and shall stay with me.” She waved Juba aside, and the page instantly sprang to his post behind the sofa, where he folded his arms and stood motionless.

“How delightful,” said Henrietta, glancing sideways at Charles, “to be certain of
one
person’s affection in this miserable world.”

“Your husband, madam,” answered Charles nervously after a moment. “For sure the Duke must dote upon you.”

This piece of naiveté startled Henrietta, but it intrigued her too. She proceeded to explain with many sighs and flutterings of her lashes that the Duke was an old man, with no thoughts for her, that they seldom met, and in any case that doting affection was woefully vulgar in an aristocratic marriage. During this conversation, she moved gently nearer to Charles, so that he felt the warmth and pressure of her body against his side. His head began to spin and presently he found himself making amorous speeches which the Duchess no longer rebuffed.

Betty, after one disgusted look at this scene, drank a cup of chocolate and allowed herself to be ogled by Sir Coplestone and Mr. Paulet, a pastime which annoyed her mother since the baronet was married to somebody in Devon and Paulet was a nobody.

In fact, thought Lady Lichfield, there was no one here of any eligibility at all, just Roman Catholics and hangers-on. A situation not improved when the footman curtly announced, “Mr. Pope.”

“Merciful heaven!” murmured Lady Lichfield as a tiny young man with a crooked back most obvious under a plain black suit, hunched into the room. “Another Papist! And a dwarfed linen-draper’s son to boot. I must say Dr. Radcliffe has a singular taste in friends.”

The two ladies watched Alexander Pope wander towards the gaming table, where nobody welcomed him, so he took a cup of coffee and sitting down surveyed the company alertly. He had come because he was a protégé and past patient of the Doctor’s, and because he was, as yet, much flattered by inclusion among the nobility.

“He looks very odd,” said Lady Stamford, “though I’ve heard he’s written some pretty pastorals, and is quite the thing at Will’s Coffeehouse these days.”

“Oh, those
Whigs
have no discrimination at all!” said the Countess acidly. “Pack of warmongers and place-seekers, running after the Marlboroughs, toadying that dreadful Duchess -- don’t speak to me of Whigs!”

Lady Stamford quite agreed, but felt it only fair to remark that the Duke of Marlborough had won some glorious victories for England against France, and that one might even hope the war would soon be over. Her friend retorted that it never would be, unless the Tories got in, though there seemed to be a dawning hope of that, and forgetting for the moment her disappointment in Dr. Radcliffe’s guests, she leaned forward whispering, “Have you heard that Her Majesty will not speak to the Duchess of Marlborough any more -- is casting her off? And high time too. Such insolence that woman has!”

Lady Stamford nodded. They pieced together the court gossip they had heard. Queen Anne’s long domination by Sarah, Duchess of Marlborough was ended. The quiet, insinuating chamberwoman Abigail Masham was the new favorite, an excellent thing, since Mrs. Masham intrigued for the Tories as ably as the Duchess had intrigued for the Whigs. The Duchess had even managed to place all members of her family in the highest state positions. Now there was hope of overthrowing the whole lot of Marlboroughs. The Queen might vacillate for years, as she had, but once her mind was settled, or she allowed a stronger mind to settle it, she could be as stubborn as a tortoise. “Like she is in naming her successor,” said Lady Stamford, who was a secret Jacobite.
“Nobody
can make her speak.”

“But surely the succession’s all settled on Hanover!” cried the Countess. “Willy-nilly we must have those Germans in, I fear. And ‘tis perhaps better than a Papist king.”

Lady Stamford did not think so, but she smiled and said pleasantly, “I wonder to hear
you,
my lady, who are a Stuart say that, and many believe that if Her Majesty actually names her brother as her successor he might go Protestant, and if he did not, he would certainly guarantee freedom of worship to his subjects.”

“True, true,” said Lady Lichfield vaguely. Queen Anne might live for years and her successor was not of great importance to a harassed mother just then. She had just noticed that Betty was almost sitting on the arm of Mr. Pope’s chair and was laughing down at him in a saucy provocative fashion. The Countess rose, intent on putting a stop to such behavior, but was checked by the arrival at last of their host.

Dr. Radcliffe stamped in, flourishing his gold-headed cane and crying, “Welcome, welcome, my good friends! A thousand apologies for my unavoidable absence!” There was snow on his boots, snow on the collar of his cape, from which a servant was disentangling him, snow mingled with the silver-gray of his peruke. His great nose flamed red from the cold as well as from the brandy which the Duke of Beaufort had given him. “Ecod!” he cried. “ ‘Twill be a good old-fashioned Christmas, and we must all make merry! Bring a bowl of punch!” he said to the footman. The Doctor’s shrewd little eyes twinkled as he greeted each of his guests, and then he turned towards the Duchess of Bolton, who had drawn away from Charles and was smiling tenderly at her host.

“Ah my darling Duchess,” cried the Doctor lumbering over to her. He seized her hand and kissed it with lingering gusto. “Did you miss me, hey, m’dear? Has young Radcliffe been diverting you? Get up, you puppy, and let me sit here!”

Charles was already up, and glad enough to yield his place, for matters had moved fast indeed on the sofa. He was choked with excitement, his head was hot, his hands were cold, and he wanted to collect himself. Henrietta had invited him to her mansion tomorrow night at ten, “When we will be quite safe from intrusion since it is Christmas Eve.” There was no mistaking what she meant, and Charles was torn between desire and apprehension. He wanted to be alone, and wandered into a small anteroom where a coal fire was burning. He rested his hand on the carved mantel and stared down, unseeing, at the fire. But Betty followed him.

“What are you and the Duchess up to?” Betty asked with deadly feminine precision. “You look peculiar, Charlie -- are you really going to let that woman seduce you?”

Charles stiffened, his eyes narrowed. “Lady Elizabeth, I find your remark offensive, and I fail to see what sanction you have for making it.”

“Hoity-toity!” said Betty reddening. She drew back and her teasing smile faded. “I’m sorry, sir. I thought we were good enough friends for a jest. It seems I’m at fault.”

Charles received the girl’s apology with a slight bow, and might have spoken something civil had not a lackey come into the room with a scuttleful of coals, which he dumped on the fire. The rattle of the coals and the tiny cloud of dust they raised brought instant memory to Charles. He was standing on Tyneside by the keelboat on that September morning when he had met Meg. These very coals might be some of those he had seen then, a bizarre speculation which he clung to, so as not to go deeper into memories, for they were painful. And though certain of the sensations aroused by the Duchess were like those he had felt for Meg, others were not. The result was a confusion of shame and discomfort.

Betty saw that he had forgotten all about her, and was dismayed to feel her eyes sting with tears. Head high, she walked back into the drawing room.

Lord Derwentwater had now joined the company, and Dr. Radcliffe was imparting great news in his booming voice.

“What d’ye think, my lord? Imagine what my friend His Grace of Ormond has arranged!”

James smiled. “Something good, I vow, my dear host, since all your arrangements are surpassing kind.”

The Doctor chuckled. “Oh, this is none of my doing. The Queen can’t abide me, never could unless one of her miserable brats was a-dying and then I was always called too late. But it
is
an audience with Her Majesty I mean. She wants to see you and your brothers -- alone. You’re to go to her private apartments at the Palace. What d’ye think o’ that?”

“That we are much honored,” said James quietly.

The company had all turned to listen. Though the peeresses had long ago been presented at Court, none of them had had much contact with the Queen, who since the death of her husband, Prince George of Denmark, had almost entirely withdrawn from public life. This summons was an extraordinary mark of favor.

“Now what can
that
mean?” murmured Lady Lichfield. She surveyed Lord Derwentwater with new attention. He was kin to the Queen, and if Her Majesty was really wavering towards the Jacobites this Earl might become of tremendous importance -- and even the younger brothers might also, thought the Countess, who was too realistic for any great hopes of inflaming Derwentwater with Betty. But the younger brothers were evidently not such devout Papists, and mixed marriages were common. Besides one heard that both youths were amply provided for by their father’s will. Lady Lichfield glanced at Francis, then looked away. One did not get sentimental about marriage, yet she was fond of her daughter, and that pock-marked squint-eyed macaroni, permanently glued to a gaming table, would not make a pleasant husband. The youngest then -- he was a promising lad, and the Queen’s favor might produce all sorts of peripheral benefits even, some day, a title. Moreover, the young people seemed to like each other. The Countess looked around for Charles, who had come to the drawing room door and heard Dr. Radcliffe’s announcement. Charles was staring at the Duchess, and waiting to hear, as she was, the date of the royal summons. If it were tomorrow night, then their rendezvous would have to be canceled. But it was not.

The Queen’s summons was for the Thursday after Christmas. The Duchess gave Charles one lightning glance of relief. Charles turned away, and beckoned for some punch.

The three brothers went to St. James’s Palace on the following Thursday noon. They rode in Dr. Radcliffe’s enormous new gilded coach, which was drawn by six horses. Eventually the Earl would keep his own London coach, and would repossess the mansion in Arlington Street where he had been born. But these things took time, and the Doctor’s generosity continued to be most welcome.

In the coach the elegantly dressed young men were silent, each with his own preoccupation. James had had many political talks with the Doctor, who saw the royal audience as a splendid chance to further the Jacobite cause, and also, if possible, to sound out the Queen on the fate of Henry Sacheverell. Dr. Sacheverell was a violently Anglican and Tory clergyman who had delivered a couple of inflammatory sermons demanding that all Nonconformists be suppressed. The Whigs were furious. Dr. Sacheverell had been arrested and thrown in the Tower to await trial. All England was roused, and in the coffeehouses they talked of nothing else. James had scant interest in Protestant squabbles, though he respected Dr. Radcliffe’s opinions. He did, naturally, have an interest in discovering whether the Queen had softened towards his cousin, her half brother, and intended to name him her successor. Yet, James thought comfortably, it didn’t matter much. When Queen Anne died this rigmarole of the Hanoverian succession would be forgotten and England demand the return of the rightful ruler. Everybody at St. German was certain of that. And James was weary of political intrigue, weary even of London. He wanted to get home up North.