The Loves of Charles II (39 page)

So she amused herself by listening to Buckingham’s protestations of affection, flirting with him while making it perfectly clear that his desires concerning her would never be fulfilled.

“‘Od’s Fish!” said her brother in high amusement. “You are leading poor old George Villiers a merry dance.”

“Then it will do him much good to dance, as he has doubtless made others dance.”

“I am sorry for poor George.”

“I am sorry for his wife.”

“I doubt not that Mary Fairfax can look after herself.”

“To think it is only three years since she married him! How sad she must be to see him pursuing other women!”

“Three years!” cried Charles. “It is an eternity … in marriage.”

“Would you not ask for three years’ fidelity in a wife?”

“Dear Minette, I would not cry for the moon!”

“You are all very cynical here, and you, Charles, set the pace.”

“That may well be. But don’t fret for Fairfax’s daughter. She was promised to Chesterfield, you know, and after the banns were published she eloped with Buckingham. We might say ‘Poor Chesterfield!’ There were those to say it once. Nay! Do not waste pity on others in this game of love, Minette. Only take care that there is none to say ‘Poor Henriette!’”

“Charles, I am reminded that I must marry soon.”

“It is a good match, Minette. There is none I would rather see you marry, now that you cannot have Louis.”

“I am unsure.”

“We are all unsure at such times, dearest.”

“I cannot understand why Philippe so suddenly should want to marry me.”

“You are very attractive, Minette, as well as being the sister of a King—one who has now a throne. You are a worthy match for Philippe, as he is for you.”

“I wish I could love Philippe.”

“Some would say ‘That will come.’ But we do not allow fictions to exist between us, do we, Minette? No. You should not think of love in conjunction with husbands. I do not, in connection with wives.”

“You are being cynical again, Charles.”

“There are some who turn from the truth when it is not pleasant and call it cynicism. Do not let us be of their number, Minette. Face the truth and you will find that if you study it well you may discover that there is some part of it which is not as unpleasant as you thought it.”

“Must I marry Philippe, Charles?”

“It would be unwise not to.”

“But could I not wait awhile? I am young yet.”

“Mademoiselle de Montpensier told herself she was young yet, and now she is … not so young.”

“She would give much to marry you now, Charles.”

“And you see she comes too late. Do not follow Mademoiselle in that, Minette. Marry Philippe. We shall not be far apart then. We shall visit each other often. It is the best marriage you could make.”

“Is it what you wish?”

“I dearly wish it.”

“Then I will marry Philippe.”

“And I will give you a handsome dowry—40,000 jacobuses and 20,000 pounds, that you may not be a beggar when you come to your husband. I wish all the world to know that, though I am the most inconstant man in the world, there is one to whom I am constant forever—my sweet Minette.”

“Thank you, Charles. But, I pray you, let us talk no more of my marriage. Let us be gay and happy while we are together.”

So she danced and was happy; she forgot Henry; she forgot the Duchess of York; she forgot that soon she must return to France where she must marry one royal brother while she loved the other.

The King insisted that his mother and sister should not leave England until after the Christmas festivities. Christmas was celebrated with more gusto in England than in any other country, and this year’s celebrations promised to be more exciting than ever, for under the rule of the Protector such revelries had been considered a sin. All Englishmen were going to make England merry once more; they were determined on it, and during that December there was high excitement in the streets of the capital.

The Princess Mary had thrown herself into the preparations with enthusiasm. There were to be ballets and masques.

“We must not fail Charles,” she said to Henriette, “for he wishes his Court to rival that of Louis. We can help him achieve this, I am sure, although the English do not dance with the grace of the French.”

Henriette agreed. She began feverishly planning the ballet. There would not be Louis to dance so gracefully, to enchant the spectators with his commanding presence; but she fancied they could give the English Court something it had never seen before.

As she and Mary sat together talking of the costumes they would wear, and the dances they would arrange, the verses which would have to be compiled, Mary said suddenly: “You look sad, sister.”

And Henriette said in a rush of confidence: “It is this talk of the ballet. It reminds me of others. It reminds me that soon I must go back to France, and that …”

“Is it your marriage of which your are apprehensive?”

“Yes, Mary.”

“We all are when our time comes. Our marriages are arranged for us, and we have nothing to do but obey. Oh, Henriette, you are more fortunate than many. At least you will not go to a stranger.”

“Mary, sometimes I think that Philippe is almost a stranger.”

“But you have known him from childhood.”

“Yes. But it seems I knew a different Philippe.”

“It is because he seemed then but a boy to you, and now he is the man who is to be your husband. I remember my own marriage. I was very young, but in time I came to love my husband.”

Henriette turned to look at her sister. “It is such a comfort to have a family,” she said. “I often think what a wonderful life ours might have been if everything had gone well for our father, and we had all been brought up together … Charles, James, you, Elizabeth, Henry and myself. I never knew Elizabeth. I saw very little of Henry … and now they are both dead.”

“The rest of us must be good friends … always,” declared Mary.

“And be happy together,” said Henriette. “James is not very happy now, is he, Mary?”

Mary had put her hand to her head. She said: “I feel too tired to talk further, sister. I think I should like to rest awhile.”

Henriette felt saddened, suspecting Mary was making excuses. Mary was as obstinate as their mother, over the affair of Anne Hyde.

Mary stood up. She swayed slightly and it occurred to Henriette that she really was feeling ill, so she helped her sister to bed and told her attendants that their mistress wished to rest.

“You have had too much excitement, Mary,” she said. “You’ll feel better in the morning.”

But in the morning Mary was not better; and the news spread through Whitehall. The Princess of Orange was smitten with the smallpox, that dreaded disease which, so recently, had carried off her brother.

Henrietta Maria was beside herself with anxiety. Henry dead. Mary ill. Smallpox in the Palace. Frantically she commanded her daughter to prepare to leave at once.

“Who will nurse Mary?” asked Henriette.

“Not you! You are to leave Whitehall at once. That is the King’s command. I shall send you to St. James Palace, and there you must remain.”

The King himself joined them. His face was grave. He took Henriette into his arms and kissed her solemnly.

“It is as if there is a blight on our family,” he said. “First Henry … now Mary. Minette, I want you to leave Whitehall at once.”

“I think Mary would wish to have some of her family about her.”

“Mary is too ill to recognize her family, and you, my dearest, shall certainly not come within range of contagion.”

“You are to leave at once,” commanded Henrietta Maria. “I have arranged for you to leave in twenty minutes.”

“And you, Mam,” said the King, “must go with her.”

“My place is at my daughter’s bedside, Charles.”

“Your daughter is sick. This is not the time for your conversions.”

“A sickbed, Charles, is the place for conversions.”

“Mary is very weak. She has been bled many times. Several of my doctors are with her. She is in no state to listen to your religious advice.”

Henrietta Maria looked sternly at her son, but she knew him well enough to recognize the obstinate line of his mouth. Here was the little boy who had refused to take his physic. He was slack; he was easygoing; but suddenly he could make up his mind to stand firm, and then none could be firmer.

For a few seconds they glared at each other, and she gave way.

He was too good-hearted to make his victory obvious. He said: “Stay and look after Henriette, Mam. We should never forgive ourselves if aught happened to her.”

“It may be you are right,” agreed the Queen.

And she was thinking: Later, when Mary is a little better, I will talk to her; I will make her see the truth.

She left with Henriette and in the Palace of St. James eagerly they awaited the news.

It came. The Princess of Orange was improving. The doctors believed that the bleeding had proved efficacious.

Henrietta Maria made her youngest daughter kneel with her.

“Let us thank the Blessed Virgin and the saints for this recovery. It is a miracle that she is now on the road to good health. My prayers have been answered. I said: ‘Holy Mother, I cannot lose two children … and so soon. I cannot lose them both in so short a time, and both to die heretics.’ And, Henriette my child, my prayers have been answered. ‘Give me my Mary’s life,’ I said, ‘and I will give you her soul!’ When she is well enough … a little later on, I will go to her and tell her that her life has been saved through prayer, and that she owes her soul to God.”

Henriette, kneeling with her mother, was not listening to the Queen’s words. The tears ran slowly down her cheeks.

“Thank God,” she murmured. “Thank God we have not lost Mary too!”

The King was at Mary’s bedside. She had asked for a cordial that she might have the strength to receive the sacrament.

Charles could not keep back his tears. He knew that Mary was dying.

Only yesterday they had believed her condition to be improved, but they realized now that they had been too quick to hope.

“Charles,” said Mary. “Are you there, Charles?”

“I am here, Mary.”

“You should not be. It is dangerous.”

“I am a tough fellow, Mary.”

“Oh, Charles … my favorite brother …”

“Don’t talk,” he said. “Keep your strength to fight for your life.”

“It is too late. The fight is over. You are weeping, Charles. Pray do not. We are an unlucky lot, we Stuarts. We don’t live long, do we? Elizabeth, Henry, and now Mary. Only three left now. Three and poor Mam. Father went … long ago.”

“Mary, I beg of you, save your breath.”

“I’m not afraid of death, Charles. I regret dying only because of my boy. Charles, be a father to him.”

“I will, to the best of my ability.”

“My little Dutch William. He is a solemn boy.”

“Have no fear. All shall go well with him.”

She lay breathless on her pillows. Her glazed eyes looked up at him. “Charles … Charles … you should not be here. And you the King!”

“I have seen so little of you, Mary. I cannot leave you now.”

“There will not be long for us to be together. I was cruel to James’ wife, Charles.”