The Loves of Charles II (11 page)

Lucy lay in bed watching her lover dressing. He was preparing himself to go to the little Court which the Prince had set up in The Hague.

Lucy had seen little of the place as yet. She had arrived after a tedious journey which had taken far longer than her ex-lover had anticipated. The journey to Harwich had been beset by difficulties; one of the horses had gone lame, and they had to procure another; everywhere they went they were under suspicion, as many were in England at that time; and then, when they had been ready to sail, the wind and weather had been against them. Meanwhile, in The Hague, Algernon Sydney eagerly awaited the girl who was being brought to him.

Lucy had discovered that he had paid fifty gold crowns to her lover, and that amused Lucy. He had paid for that which he could have had for nothing, had he waited to court her as a gentleman should. Not that Lucy would have needed much courting. She could quickly decide whether or not a man could appeal to her, and how far that appeal would carry him; Algernon Sydney need not have feared that he would fail to win that which he coveted.

Yet she would always laugh at the way things had turned out. She heard now, from Colonel Robert Sydney, how impatient his brother Algernon had been—watching the tides, riding three miles a day to Scheveningen where the boat was expected to make port, finding no satisfaction in any other woman, so that he had been the laughing stock of the whole Court.

Colonel Robert laughed with her, for after all he had come very well out of the affair.

“God’s Body, Lucy!” he told her. “He almost wept, so vexed was he! He said there wasn’t another woman in the world who would do; and worse still he had paid some rogue fifty gold crowns for you.”

“Then he has none but himself to blame,” said Lucy. “No man should pay another money for me. I’m not that sort of harlot.”

Now, watching him dressing for his appointment at Court, she did not regret the way in which matters had turned out. Robert was a satisfactory lover and she doubted his brother could be better. When she thought of arriving from the boat, and being brought to this place, to the comfort of hot food, a warm bed and a lover, she was not sorry. Robert was handsome and bold; he had wasted no time in taking to himself his brother’s preserves. “It is, after all, a family matter!” he had joked.

She had not known that her arrival and the fifty gold pieces had provided the amusing story of the moment. It was the sort which would amuse a band of exiles. They craved other amusement than continual dicing, and all were eager to see the young woman for whom Algernon Sydney had paid his fifty pieces. That he should have been called to join his regiment for service elsewhere and so been deprived of his prize, was a matter for the greatest hilarity.

Robert knew how all at Court were laughing over the affair; he also knew that his brother—whom he had always believed to have been something of a connoisseur where women were concerned—had not been deceived about this one. Robert was anxious to keep her to himself and not eager that she should be seen by the young roués who circulated about the Prince.

Lucy was happy enough; never very energetic she was content to lie about the apartment, eating the sweetmeats which Robert provided, trying on the pretty ribbons which he had procured for her.

So Robert went off to Court and Lucy lay in bed. Soon Ann Hill would come in—for Lucy had insisted on bringing Ann with her to The Hague—and her toilet would be made by the time her lover returned. Later, Lucy would explore the town, but not yet; she needed a few more days to recover from her journey.

Ann came in and sat on the bed and talked in her bright cockney way, which was such a contrast to Lucy’s musical Welsh accent.

Ann had been out; she had seen something of the flat country and she dismally shook her head over it. There could not be anything more different from London, she assured her mistress. The land was so flat; the wind blew across the sand, forming it into dunes; and these people had built dykes to keep out the seawater. There were small lakes all along the coast, where the sea had defied all attempts to keep it out. The town itself was more interesting
although quite different from London. She had seen the palace where the Prince’s sister Mary lived; and she had heard that the Prince was with her there; she had seen the arched gateway which led to the prison. But this town was a poor place compared with London, and the fresh wind howled all the time. Yet there were many gallant gentlemen in the streets, and to see them in their fine clothes, and with their fine manners, one might be in London; moreover, these gentlemen were even finer than those they had been wont to see in London recently; yes, there were some who were very fine indeed.

Lucy’s eyes shone as she listened. She said: “I think I shall dress myself and take a walk.”

But as she rose from her bed she and Ann heard a voice singing outside the window; it was a deep, masculine voice and very musical. Lucy put her head to one side, listening, for the singer had stopped beneath her window.

Lucy could not refrain from going to the window; she opened the casement wide and leaned out. Below was a very tall young man of about her own age with large brown eyes, the warmest and merriest she had ever seen; he had long dark curly hair, and as she looked down he stopped singing, swept off his beaver hat, and bowed low.

“Good day to you, mistress,” he said.

“Good day,” said Lucy, drawing about her the wrap she had slipped on—and which was all she was wearing—but making sure that it did not cover too much of her magnificently rounded shoulders.

“I trust you liked my poor song, mistress.”

“It was well rendered, sir.”

“At least it had the desired effect of bringing you to the window.”

“So that is why you are singing there!”

“Why else?”

“Then you know me?”

“Everyone in this town has heard of the beauty of Mistress Lucy Water.”

“You flatter me, sir.”

“Nay, to flatter is to praise unduly. However great the praise accorded to you, it could not be undue. Therefore it would be impossible to flatter you.”

“You must be an Englishman.”

He bowed. “I am glad you recognize me as such. These Dutchmen are dull fellows. They are not our equals in eating, dicing or loving the ladies.”

“I have no knowledge of your talents at the table, sir, nor with the dice, nor …”

“Who knows, I may be able to prove my talents in all three one day, mistress.”

“You are bold.”

“There again we differ from these Dutchmen. Bold they may be on the seas, but it would need an Englishman to be as bold as this.”

Lucy gave a little scream, for he had swung himself up on to the parapet, and his long slender fingers, immaculately white and adorned with several flashing rings, were clinging to the sill.

“You will fall, foolish man!” She reached for him, and, laughing, he managed, with her help, to scramble through the window, which was no easy matter, the window being small and he being six feet in height.

Lucy’s wrap had slipped from her shoulders in the effort; this but added to their pleasure in the adventure—his to see so much which was beautiful, hers to show it.

“You might have killed yourself,” she reproved.

“It would take more than a fall from a window to kill one so strong as I.”

“And all for a silly prank!”

“It was worth the slight discomfort. I see rumor has not lied. Mistress Lucy Water
is
the most beautiful woman in The Hague.”

“I must send you away. You should not come here thus. What Colonel Sydney would say if he found you here, I dare not think.”

“I will risk Colonel Sydney’s displeasure.”

“You are too bold, young man.”

“I count boldness a virtue. It is a quality which such as I could not do without.”

“I must tell you that Colonel Sydney is a very important man.”

“I know of him, and you are right.”

“Then have you no fear …?”

He put his hands on her shoulders and, drawing her swiftly to him, kissed her lips, then her throat, then her breasts.

“This is too much,” she stammered.

“Indeed, it is not enough.”

“It is too much to be suffered!”

“That which cannot be helped must be endured.”

“Sir … how dare you come thus to my chamber?”

“How dare I? Because you are beautiful; because I am a man; because I saw you at the window; because you heard my song and helped me in; because I have seen that which makes me long to see more; because I have kissed your lips and tasted that which I would savor to the full.”

“I have a lover.”

“I offer you a better one.”

“You are insolent!”

“I am ardent, I confess.”

Lucy tried to be stern, but how could she be? Colonel Sydney was a lover to her taste, but this young man was different from any she had ever known before. He was tall and strong; he could have overpowered her, and perhaps she would not have been sorry if he had; but he did no such thing, although he was somewhat arrogant and very sure of himself. He was not going to take by force, she realized, that which he knew would not long be denied him. There was a tenderness mingling with the passion she saw in his eyes, and such tenderness she had never before encountered. There was something lazy in his manner which matched her own laziness; his sensuality, she felt, was equal to her own; he was of her age; and yet he was by no means handsome; but Lucy’s experience told her that he had more than good looks; he was the most charming person it had ever been her good fortune to meet.

Lucy said: “You must know that Colonel Sydney will consider it a great offense to force your way in here thus.”

“Are we not to tell him that you helped me in then?”

“I did not mean to help you in. It was but to save your life. I feared you would fall.”

“I thank you for my life, Lucy. How can I repay you?”

“By going quietly before Colonel Sydney returns and finds you here.”

“Is that all I am to get for my pains … after risking my life to be near you as I did?”

“Please go. I am afraid the Colonel will arrive.”

“You are beginning to make me fear the Colonel. Are you fond of him, Lucy? Is he good to you?”

“He is good to me and I am fond of him.”

“But not so fond that you cannot spare a smile or two for a passing fancy, eh? Lucy, do you think you could grow as fond and fearful of me as you are of the Colonel?”

“You forget I do not know you. I saw you for the first time only a few minutes ago.”

“We must put that right. From now on we will see a good deal of each other. I will risk Colonel Sydney’s displeasure. Will you?”

“I might,” murmured Lucy.

He took her hand and kissed it. “You are the most beautiful woman I have ever seen,” he said; “and I have always been a close observer of women. Why, I remember an occasion—in the town of Oxford it was—when I was in church with my father, and he smote me on the head with his staff because, instead of listening to the sermon, I was smiling at the ladies. I am older now, but I have never ceased to smile at the ladies, and no amount of smiting on the head will stop me. So you see I know what I am talking about.”

“I am sure you would always give a good account of yourself to women. There is no need to tell me that. Now go, I beg of you. I will order my maid to take you down by the back staircase. You must go at once.”

“But I will have a kiss before I go.”

“Then … you will go?”

“I swear it. But do not imagine we shall not meet again.”

“I would do anything to be rid of you before Colonel Sydney returns.”

“Anything!” His warm brown eyes were alert and hopeful.

“I would kiss you,” she said firmly.

So he took her into his arms and kissed her, not once but many times, and not only on the lips as she pretended to intend. Lucy, flushed and struggling, was nevertheless laughing. It was an amusing adventure with the most fascinating man she had ever met. She hoped he would keep his word and visit her again.

She called Ann Hill.

“Ann,” she said, “show this man out of the house … quickly … by way of the back staircase.”

“Yes, mistress,” said Ann.

Lucy watched him go regretfully. At the door he turned and bowed. He bowed more elegantly than any man she had ever known. “We shall meet again … very soon,” he promised. “But not too soon for me.”

Then he turned and followed Ann.

At the door he looked at Ann. She had lifted her face to his, for Ann too felt the power of his fascination. The warm brown eyes softened. Poor Ann! She was not well-favored, but she had seen the kiss he had given her mistress. ’Od’s Fish! he pondered. She’s envious, poor girl!

And because, ever since the days when his father had smitten him for his too-open admiration of the girls in church—and perhaps before then—
he had been unable to slight any woman, pretty or plain, lowly or highborn, he stooped quickly and lightly kissed Ann’s cheek.