Intrigued (38 page)
“Then, why,” Autumn demanded of him, “is she said to be your mistress, Louis?”
“Because she is,” he replied. His fingers moved with determiniation. “Her uncle thinks to keep me amused with his niece while he and my mother negotiate a princess bride for me. They feel Marie is a harmless diversion, and that a man of my years needs a mistress to keep him out of trouble.” He swung himself over her and, seating himself upon her hips, began to fondle her round breasts.
“Sacrebleu, ma bijou,
these are the most delightful little love apples you have for me to play with,
cherie.”
“Sacrebleu, ma bijou,
these are the most delightful little love apples you have for me to play with,
cherie.”
Autumn shifted her weight slightly. She hadn’t realized until now how much she had missed his passion. She wanted him inside her. She liked the feel of his weight upon her, and his lance thrusting and thrusting until she was mindless with the pleasure he could provide. She whimpered softly and slipping, her arms about his neck, drew him down so that their lips were just barely brushing. “Make love to me, Louis. I have longed for you so!” And that was true. She had longed for his touch, his hot desire.
The king pushed himself slowly into his mistress, smiling at her long, audible release of breath. “Ah,
ma bijou,”
he murmured, “I have missed you also!”
ma bijou,”
he murmured, “I have missed you also!”
“I hope you are as enthusiastic this year as you were last, Louis,
ma cher,”
she daringly told him, “for I am quite randy, I fear!”
ma cher,”
she daringly told him, “for I am quite randy, I fear!”
The king laughed aloud at this admission. “I am, I believe, even more enthusiastic,
ma bijou,”
he told her. And then he proceeded to show her exactly what he meant, much to Autumn’s delight.
ma bijou,”
he told her. And then he proceeded to show her exactly what he meant, much to Autumn’s delight.
The king returned to Paris in early November. “Until next year,” he told Autumn, kissing her lips a final time before he rode off, and she smiled up at him, nodding.
The Comte de Montroi had been released from the king’s service so he might marry and look after his own holding. His wedding day was set for December 1 and, bidding Autumn and her companions farewell, he hurried off home to prepare for the arrival of his bride.
“Bring her to Archambault at Christmas,” Jasmine said. “The de Savilles will welcome you both, and we will be there.”
“I will,” Guy Claude said. Then he looked at Autumn and said, “You will not change your mind,
cherie,
and marry me?”
cherie,
and marry me?”
She shook her head with a small smile. “You are so damned gallant, Guy Claude. I thank you, but no. I am not yet ready to settle down again, and it will take someone very special to fill the hole in my heart that Sebastian left, I fear. May we remain friends?”
He kissed both of her hands. “Always,
cherie.”
he promised. Then he was gone.
cherie.”
he promised. Then he was gone.
The winter set in again with its gray days and bursts of snow. At Christmas they went to Archambault to celebrate with the family. Phillipe de Saville was as gallant as ever and welcomed them warmly. Madame de Belfort and Madame St. Omer were delighted to see Charlie again. He flattered and teased the two ladies, giving them a most enjoyable time. The Comte de Montroi arrived with his bride, and the new comtesse was immediately drawn into their little group. She was a pretty young woman with a sweet smile, and she obviously adored her bridegroom.
“Treat her well, Montroi,” Madame St. Omer said sternly. “She is, I am certain, far better than a rascal like you deserves. I like you, madame la comtesse. You are always welcome to Archambault.”
The winter passed slowly. A letter arrived from Glenkirk from Patrick, who was unaware that his brother was with their mother. Charlie’s children were well, and growing quickly. He was worried about his brother’s daughter, Sabrina, approaching her seventeenth birthday. She was, Patrick wrote, as wild as any colt. Frederick, now fourteen, and William, who had just had his tenth birthday, were far more manageable.
“Patrick must send the girl to me,” Jasmine said. “She faces the same difficulty that Autumn faced at that age. There is no fit society with which she may associate. I cannot have my granddaughter gowing up like that, Charlie. She is your daughter, a duke’s daughter.”
“A Stuart,”
he reminded his mother. “It would be too dangerous to get her out of either England or Scotland now. Just a little more time and the king will certainly be restored. Then I shall reclaim my children and my home. You will come back to Queen’s Malvern, Mama, and teach Brie all she needs to know about being a proper lady. She has time, and her dowry will gain her any man she wants,” Charlie said.
he reminded his mother. “It would be too dangerous to get her out of either England or Scotland now. Just a little more time and the king will certainly be restored. Then I shall reclaim my children and my home. You will come back to Queen’s Malvern, Mama, and teach Brie all she needs to know about being a proper lady. She has time, and her dowry will gain her any man she wants,” Charlie said.
“That, my son, could be the very problem you want to avoid,” his mother warned. “If the king is not restored within the year, you must arrange for Sabrina to come to France.”
Spring came, and the vines began to show signs of life once more. Shortly before Margot’s first birthday, word came of a great battle, called the Battle of the Dunes, that had been fought near Dunkirk, between the French army and their Cromwellian allies against the Spanish and their allies the English royalists, led by Prince James, the Duke of York. On the fourteenth of June the French, under Marshal de Turenne, defeated the Spanish, led by the renegade French Prince de Conde.
A peace was signed. The French gained Roussillon, Artois, and several isolated strongholds along their northern border with the Spanish Netherlands. The Treaty of the Pyrenees also called for a marriage between King Louis and the Spanish Infanta, Maria-Theresa. Cromwell had been promised Dunkirk, but he died on September 3 of that year, and the promise was not kept.
Almost immediately upon Cromwell’s death, King Louis publicly declared for his cousin, King Charles II, and supported General Monck, who sought the king’s return. Richard Cromwell had neither his father’s magnetism nor the strength of character to hold together the anti-Royalists. It would require some months of negotiation, but King Charles was going home to England, and almost immediately his supporters, who had been scattered, began returning to his side for that glorious day when they would return to their native land with him. But not quite yet.
In his excitement King Charles proposed marriage to Princess Henrietta Catherine, sister of his brother-in-law, the Prince of Orange. When by November it was observed that Charles’s prospects were not quite realized—and possibly might not be unless the negotiations proceeded better—the betrothal was forgotten. Henrietta Catherine married John George of Anhalt-Dessau. The king was regretful, but he moved on with his life. Like all of Europe he observed the almost supernatural calm that seemed to blanket England after Cromwell’s death. But then came the reality that Richard Cromwell, or Tumbledown Dick, as he became known, could not manage the government.
His supporters wanted Charles II to return, but the time was not yet right. There was dissension among the Royalists over everything. Scandal broke when it was discovered that Sir Richard Willys, one of the founders of the Sealed Knot Society, a Royalist organization operating secretly within England during the Cromwell years, had been a double agent. That he had managed to get away with his duplicity for so long was both amazing and frightening. The timing of this revelation was bad, and it delayed the king’s return. A small Royalist force led by Sir George Booth attempted a rising at harvest time. It was quickly put down, and hopes for the king’s restoration were brought low, though not entirely extinguished.
Charlie had left Chermont to rejoin the king. He returned at Christmas to tell his mother and sister what was happening. There was only one man in all of England who the king trusted to aid him in his restoration. This, Charlie told them, was General George Monck. Monck was a professional soldier who belonged more properly to the generation of King Charles I. He had governed the Cromwellian forces in Scotland, and ruled fairly. He was a man who believed in order and efficiency.
Monck had not profitted from the confiscation of either Royalist or church lands during the Cromwell years. He had taken no part in the death of King Charles I, neither signing the arrest warrant, sitting in judgment, nor condemning the king to death. This was very important to King Charles II, who had no forgiveness in his heart for his father’s murderers. If England was not to find itself enmeshed in another civil war, General Monck decided, the monarchy would need to be restored. His brother, a clergyman in Cornwall, acting as his intermediary, set about to make it so.
“I will remain with you until spring,” Charlie informed his sister. “The king was so discouraged this October that he considered seeking his fortunes in Spain. We have now convinced him otherwise, and he will wait for General Monck to make his move.” He looked at his sister. “Did you see
your
king this year, little sister?”
your
king this year, little sister?”
“Of course,” Autumn laughed. “He came in October but was very sad. The cardinal and the queen have separated him finally from his little friend, Marie Mancini. Marie, it seemed, thought she might circumvent her uncle’s wishes and trap the king into marriage. He was really quite fond of her, for she is clever, intelligent, and witty, I am told. I have heard it said, even from Louis, however, that her features are quite common and coarse. Like a tavern wench, it is said.”
“The king’s wedding is set for next summer,” Charlie noted.
“I know,” Autumn replied. “Louis says that Mama and I are to come. I do not know, though, if it would be proper under the circumstances.”
“If you receive an invitation, you will have to go,” her brother responded. “You cannot refuse a royal command.”
“I think the cardinal and Queen Anne will oversee the guest list, and it is unlikely we shall be invited,” Jasmine said to her children. “It is also a moot point as to when we shall see King Louis again, now that he is to be married. He will certainly not come to Chambord next year, but a few months after his marriage. What I look forward to is the possibility of going home. Of seeing India and Henry and their families. We have been away so long.”
“What of Patrick?” Autumn asked her mother. “And Glenkirk?”
“I want to see all my children,” Jasmine said, “but I do not know if I can go back to Glenkirk.”
They were not, as the Duchess of Glenkirk anticipated, invited to the king’s wedding to the Spanish Infanta. The English king, Charles II, was restored to his throne on the thirtieth of May in the year 1660. Charlie had returned to his cousin’s side and was already in England. He wanted his mother and sister to return as well. Autumn wisely waited until the harvest, and then departed Chermont, her children and servants in tow.
“When will you return, madame la marquise?” Lafite asked his mistress. “When will the petite mademoiselle return?”
“I will be back,” Autumn promised him, “and so will my daughters, Lafite. They are, after all, French, and is not Mademoiselle d’Oleron mistress of this estate? And Mademoiselle de la Bois, King Louis’s own child? We will return.”
He bowed to her. “We will anxiously await your coming, madame la marquise,” Lafite said gravely.
Chapter
16
16
A
utumn stared from the hillsides at her brother’s home, Queen’s, Malvern. It looked deserted and forlorn. It was all overgrown. The wing that had been set afire by the Roundheads those years back was a burnt ruin. Autumn’s horse shifted beneath her and, reaching out, she touched her brother’s hand.
utumn stared from the hillsides at her brother’s home, Queen’s, Malvern. It looked deserted and forlorn. It was all overgrown. The wing that had been set afire by the Roundheads those years back was a burnt ruin. Autumn’s horse shifted beneath her and, reaching out, she touched her brother’s hand.
“God’s blood, Charlie, is it habitable? It looks absolutely wretched. I’m glad we left Mama and the children in Worcester.”
“If it isn’t, little sister, it soon will be,” her brother assured her. “Thank God I don’t have to petition the king for the monies to restore Queen’s Malvern. Poor Charles, who is poor enough himself, is being beseiged by those returning supporters and those who remained here in England faithful to him. He says I am the only one among his friends and family who have not asked him for something,” the Duke of Lundy chuckled. “I think my task will be far easier than his.” He kicked his stallion into a walk. “Come on, Autumn, let’s go down and see what we can see of my home.”
They rode down the hill to the house, dismounted, and tethered their horses to a bush. Charlie drew forth a large key from his pocket and, putting it into the old iron lock set in his front door, turned it. To his surprise, it operated quite smoothly.
“Someone has been keeping the lock in order,” he said almost to himself as the door swung open, and they stepped into the hallway. To their surprise the house was clean; the floors, bare of their carpets, swept clean, the wood polished. As they moved from room to room, they found the furniture swathed, the windows covered by their heavy draperies through which just enough light penetrated to allow them to move freely. The duke drew a drape aside, and sunlight filled the room. “Queen’s Malvern has been cared for,” he noted aloud to his sister.
“And why would it not be, sir?” a voice behind them said. As they turned, the man fell to his knees before Charlie and caught up his hand to kiss it. “Welcome home, my lord duke,” Becket said. There were tears in his eyes that overflowed, falling upon the threadbare black fabric of his garment.
Charles Frederick Stuart, Duke of Lundy, bent down and raised up the man before him. Their eyes met, and Charlie said two words to the faithful servant:
“Thank you!”
Then he gave Becket his hand to shake and clapped him on the back. “How have you managed to keep the house in such incredible condition, Becket? Did not the Roundheads give it over to one of their people?”
“Thank you!”
Then he gave Becket his hand to shake and clapped him on the back. “How have you managed to keep the house in such incredible condition, Becket? Did not the Roundheads give it over to one of their people?”
“They did, your lordship. Some self-important little lordling with overpious ways called Dunstan. Oh, how delighted they were to be here, but determined to put their own stamp upon the house. The first thing they did was remove the portraits of Lord and Lady de Marisco that hang in the family hall. Lady Dunstan said to me that she had heard he was a pirate, and she no better than a common . . . well, you know what she said, my lord. Well, sir, it was right after that that things started happening. Doors would open and close before you, and no one there. The portraits of Lord and Lady Dunstan that replaced those of your great-grandparents kept falling from the wall, no matter how hard we tacked ’em up. Once the fireplaces all began to smoke, and yet none of them had a fire in ’em. The servants the Dunstans brought with ’em began to swear that they had seen a dark-haired woman with startlingly bright blue-green eyes walking the halls of the house. What really sent those interlopers scampering, however, happened on Twelfth Night, my lord, and as I seen it myself I can honestly attest to it. Lord Dunstan suggested they toast Protector Cromwell. Well, my lord, before you could say God Bless, both Lord and Lady Dunstan’s goblets rose straight off the table and poured themselves out over their heads!”
Autumn burst out laughing.
Becket grinned and continued his tale. “Well, my lord, after a moment of shocked silence, Lady Dunstan jumped up and told her husband she wouldn’t spend another night in this house. It was obviously haunted by demons, and they could have the place for all she cared. It was too old-fashioned and drafty to suit her, she said. Then their portraits fell from the wall again with a horrible bang, and she ran shrieking from the hall. Her maid packed the essentials and she was gone from Queen’s Malvern within the hour. By the following day they were both gone, bag and baggage, I’m happy to say. After that no one came here. My wife and I closed the place up, and we’ve kept it ready for your lordship’s return. As soon as the Dunstans were gone, I rehung the portraits that belonged in the family hall. They ain’t ever fallen,” he finished.
“How soon can the house be ready for occupancy, Becket?” the duke asked him.
“By tomorrow, your lordship,” replied the majordomo. “I’ll call the servants back, them that aren’t too old to work, and I’ll replace the rest with their relations. We’ve all been waiting for you to come home, my lord. Are we to expect your children?”
“No, not yet. Just myself, my mother and sister, and Lady Autumn’s two little girls, Becket. They are in Worcester, but we shall ride back today and return tomorrow. Get the gardeners working on all that growth outside, and tell those too elderly to return to their places that there will be cottages and pensions for all. I do not forget those who have served my family so well in good times and bad,” the duke told Becket. He turned to his sister. “Come, Autumn.”
“Your ladyship . . .” the majordomo said.
“Yes, Becket?”
“I never welcomed you home, your ladyship, but I do most heartily,” the majordomo said. “Will your husband be joining you?”
“Thank you, Becket, and in answer to your question, no. I am a widow. I am now Madame la Marquise d’Auriville.”
“Very good, your ladyship,” Becket replied, and he bowed to her.
“One more thing, Becket,” the duke said. “The Dunstans—have they ever been back since they departed? The king has promised that no one will be dispossessed, and I should hate to have the house fall out of the family’s hands.”
“They were killed, my lord, leaving Worcester. Their coach horses were startled by something and bolted from the inn yard before their driver was on the box. It overturned several miles down the road. They had no children to mourn their passing, and as no one knew from whence they had originally come, they were buried in the cathedral graveyard. Their serving people disappeared with their possessions, and the church took what was in the coach and Lady Dunstan’s jewelry to pay for their graves and coffins.”
Charlie nodded, pleased that he should not have to annoy his cousin the king in an effort to retrieve his family’s home. “We will return tomorrow, Becket,” he said. Then he and his sister departed the house to ride back to Worcester town.
They returned the next day, the two coaches and the baggage carts rumbling down the hill to Queen’s Malvern. The doors of the house were flung open and a troop of young footmen in the duke’s livery hurried out to open the coach doors, put down the steps, and help the occupants out. Becket hurried forward to welcome them, but his warmest welcome now was for Adali, the duchess’s majordomo. He helped the elderly gentleman from the carriage, smiling and chattering.
“Do I have my old room, Becket?” Autumn asked him.
“Yes, your ladyship, and your wee ones are next to you. There is a connecting door,” Becket answered. “The duchess will be in her old suite. Everything will be as it once was,” he concluded happily.
“I miss my pony,” Madeline complained.
“You shall have another,” her uncle promised.
“Speak English,” her grandmother said sharply. “You are in England now, my child. And you, also, Margot.”
“I want to go home,” Madeline whined as they entered the house. “I don’t like England. I want to go to Chermont.”
Autumn stopped, and then she picked up her eldest daughter and set her on a chair so that they were eye to eye. “You will go home to Chermont, Maddie, but not now. I am a Scot, and our king has now been restored to his throne. Uncle Charlie is the king’s cousin. You should be honored to be here in this house. We are going to remain in England for a time. Most of my family is here. Perhaps we shall even go up to Scotland, and you and Margot can see the castle where I was raised. I have told you this before. I shall not tell you again. You have Marie with you, and Margot has Giselle. Do not upset your little sister, Maddie. You know she copies everything you do, and if you make yourself unhappy, she will be unhappy. And that would make me unhappy. You may speak French in your chambers, but all other times you will speak English. Is that understood?”
“Yes, Mama,” Madeline said as her mother set her on the floor once again. “Will I get to see your king?”
“Perhaps if you are very good,” Autumn answered. Then she turned to her daughters’ nursemaids. “I expect you both to enforce my will,” she said. “And you will not encourage the girls to complaints or comparisons between England and France. Is that understood?”
“Yes, madame,” the two nursemainds chorused, curtseying.
They settled into Queen’s Malvern, although Charlie had to go off to court to stand by their king. Back in England, Autumn realized that for all her wealth she had nothing here. She had no home of her own. She had no title other than her French one.
Henry and his family came to welcome them home, and Autumn was astounded to see how old her brother had gotten. He was now over fifty, and three of his five children were grown. Her nephew, Henry, was already married, as was her niece, Anne. Then it occurred to Autumn that she, the baby of her siblings, would be twenty-nine on her next birthday, which was only a few months away.
She had thought she had gotten over missing Sebastian. Perhaps it had just been easier in France, at Chermont, at Chambord one month a year with Louis. For the first time since her husband’s death almost five years earlier, Autumn began to consider the possibility of remarriage. But who would have her? she wondered. She wasn’t her mother, with a James Leslie madly in love with her and pursuing her to the ends of the earth to make her his wife. She was the widow of a foreign nobleman who had a bastard child by the French king. What was she to do?
She could spend several months visiting with her family, but she had no place of her own in England or Scotland. She could return to France, but Chermont belonged to her daughter. Maddie was almost seven now. Before she knew it, Autumn thought, her daughter would be of marriagable age. Chermont had no dower house. Was her fate to be to remain in her daughter’s chateau, barely tolerated, but with nowhere else to go? And would King Louis, despite his marriage, insist on having his sweet idyll with her every October and November? Would that be her only chance at passion? And what if he no longer wanted that sweet idyll? Contemplating her future, Autumn found it very bleak. She might as well be dead. Who would miss her?
Charlie, returning in mid-October from court, noticed the change in his little sister and asked his mother what was wrong.
“I haven’t the faintest idea,” Jasmine admitted to him. “I have asked her, but she says I am imagining it. That there is nothing wrong at all, but there is. Perhaps you can find out what is troubling Autumn. I will admit I feel quite helpless.”
The Duke of Lundy invited his sister to walk with him. They found themselves in the family burial ground, where the graves of the family and their faithful servants were located. Charlie sat down on a marble bench that was set between his great-grandparents, Skye O’Malley and her husband, Adam de Marisco. He patted the space by his side, and Autumn joined him. They sat silently for several minutes.
Then Charlie said, “You may deny it, but both Mother and I know there is something wrong, Autumn. What is it?”
“I have nothing,” Autumn told him, her voice tinged with sadness. “No home. No life.
Nothing.”
She sighed despairingly. “Chermont is Maddie’s, not mine. I don’t even know if I want to go back to France, although my daughters must eventually. Everyone has a home but me, Charlie. I am truly alone.”
Nothing.”
She sighed despairingly. “Chermont is Maddie’s, not mine. I don’t even know if I want to go back to France, although my daughters must eventually. Everyone has a home but me, Charlie. I am truly alone.”
Charlie didn’t know whether to laugh or weep at this revelation. While he understood the depression his sister was suffering now, she was in reality a fortunate woman. When Sebastian had died, she had suddenly had the entire responsibility for Chermont thrust upon her, not to mention her orphaned daughter. And then came the French king, who determined to be her lover, and their child. There had been no time for Autumn to mourn or come to terms with herself over her husband’s death five years ago.
Despite the fact that her mother had been there to comfort and aid her, it had all been, Charlie could now see, too much for his youngest sister. While their sister India had been headstrong and adventurous and their sister Fortune practical and determined, Autumn had not had enough experience with life to find herself. But he could easily tell that she was a survivor. Back in her own land she was heavy-hearted and filled with melancholy. Remaining here at Queen’s Malvern would not help her to rise above her doldrums.
“You are coming to court with me,” Charlie announced.
“What?”
She certainly couldn’t have heard him right.
She certainly couldn’t have heard him right.
“You are coming back to court with me,” the duke repeated.
“But the children . . .” Autumn protested
“Have Mama, Marie, Giselle, and a houseful of servants to look after them, spoil them, and dote upon them, little sister. You need gaiety and a change of scene. There is no better place to find it than at Cousin Charlie’s court. And, madame la marquise, you have never been to court. You are facing your twenty-ninth birthday, and you have never been to court!”
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