The Loves of Charles II (79 page)

A few days later she had an opportunity of speaking to Buckingham alone.

She immediately began to discuss Frances.

“Do you believe she is as virtuous as she feigns to be?”

“There is no proof that she is otherwise.”

“Mayhap no one has tried hard enough.”

“The King is a skillful player. Would you not say he is trying very hard indeed?”

“George, you may not be the King, but you are the handsomest man at Court.”

Buckingham laughed.

“Dear cousin,” he said, “I know full well how mightily it would please you should I take the Stuart for my mistress. It is galling for one of your high temper to see His Majesty growing more deeply enamored every day. It would be pleasant for me to bask in your approbation, Barbara, but think what goes with it: the fury of the King.”

“Nay, he’d not be furious. It is her seeming virtue that plagues him. He only half believes in it. Prove it to be a myth and he’ll love you better than he loves the silly Stuart.”

“And you too, Barbara?”

But Buckingham went away thinking of this matter. He
was
a handsome man; he was irresistible to many. Might it not be that for all his royalty, Charles as a man had failed to appeal to Frances? Might it not be that she realized that Charles in pursuit might be more amusing—and profitable—than Charles satisfied?

He decided to cultivate the fair Stuart.

Barbara whispered to Sir Henry Bennet: “She is beautiful, is she not—Frances Stuart?”

“She is indeed. Apart from yourself, I would say there is not a more handsome woman at the Court.”

“I know that you admire her.”

“’Tis a pity she is determined not to take a lover.”

“So far!” said Barbara.

“What mean you by that?”

“Mayhap the man she would wish for has not yet claimed her!”

“The King, it is said, has had ill fortune in his pursuit of her.”

“The King may not always be victorious. I have heard it said that Lucy Water, who knew you both well, had a more tender heart for Henry than for Charles.”

Bennet was a vain man. He postured and laughed aloud at the memory of Lucy Water.

And when he left Barbara, he was thoughtful.

The plot to discredit Clarendon failed completely, largely through Charles’ interference. Charles fully realized that the charge had been brought against him, not because those who brought it believed that Clarendon was working against him and the country, but because the plotters were working against Clarendon.

The Chancellor’s judges decided that a charge of high treason could not be brought by one peer against another in the House of Lords; and that even if those charges against Clarendon were true, there was no treason in them. The House of Lords therefore dismissed the charges.

Bristol, who had been the prime mover against Clarendon in this case, seeking to justify himself with the King and believing that Charles wished to rid himself of Catherine, added a further charge against Clarendon, declaring that he had brought the King and Queen together without any settled agreement about marriage rites, and that either the succession would be uncertain, in case of Catherine’s being with child, for want of the due rites of matrimony, or His Majesty would be exposed to suspicion of being married in his own country by a Romanish priest.

When the King heard of this he was indignant.

“How dare you suggest that there would be an inquiry into the secret nuptials between myself and the Queen?” he demanded.

“Your Majesty, I thought that in raising this point I should be acting as you wished.”

“You carry your zeal too far.”

“Then I crave Your Majesty’s pardon.”

“It would be easier to grant it if I did not have to see you for a little time. I would have you know—and all those who are with you—that I will not have slights cast on the Queen.”

“There was no desire to slight the Queen, Your Majesty.”

“Then let us hear no more of the matter. It is astonishing to me that you, a Catholic yourself, should have added this article to the impeachment of Clarendon. What caused your conversion to Catholicism?”

“May it pleasure Your Majesty, it happened whilst I was writing a book for the Reformation.”

The King turning away, said with a half smile: “Pray, my lord, write a book for Popery.”

It was necessary after that for the Earl of Bristol to absent himself from Court for a while.

The people in the streets and about the Court had said that Bristol and his friend had cast the Chancellor on his back past ever getting up, but Clarendon retained his post, although the rift between the King and his Chancellor had widened.

The Queen had become very happy. She was certain now that she was to have a child.

This made the King very tender towards her; he longed for a legitimate heir. He had not proclaimed Monmouth legitimate and he had denied the rumors that he had married Lucy Water. He was seen often in company with the Queen; but he was deeply in love with Frances Stuart.

He still continued to visit Barbara, who retained her hold over him, and she kept her title as his first mistress.

She made no attempt to control her temper, and she was pregnant again.

“It would seem,” she said, “that I have no sooner borne a child than the next is conceived. Charles, I hope our next will be a boy.”

“Our
next?” said Charles.

“Indeed it is our next!” shouted Barbara.

The King looked about him. Barbara was not the only one who had her apartments in the Cockpit, for the building was large and had been built by Henry the Eighth to lodge those whom he wished to keep near him. Clarendon had a suite of rooms there; so had Buckingham.

Charles knew that these people were quite aware of the stormy nature of his relationship with Barbara, but he did like to keep their quarrels private.

“I doubt it,” said Charles. “I very much doubt this one to be mine.”

“Whose else could it be?”

“There you set a problem which you might answer more readily than I, though I confess you yourself might be hard put to it to solve it.”

Barbara looked about for something that she might throw at him; there
was nothing to hand but a cushion; she would not throw that; it would seem almost coy.

“Oh, Barbara,” said the King, “let another man father this one.”

“So you would shift your responsibilities!”

“I tell you I do not accept this responsibility.”

“You had better change your mind before the child is born … unless you would like me to strangle it at birth and set it up in the streets with a crown upon its head proclaiming it the King’s son.”

“You’re fantastic,” said the King, beginning to laugh.

She laughed with him and leaping towards him threw her arms about his neck. In the old days such a gesture would have been a prelude to passion, but today the King was pensive and did not respond.

In Frances Stuart’s apartment the light of wax candles shone on all the most favored of the gallant gentlemen and beautiful ladies of the Court.

The King sat beside Frances who looked more beautiful than even she had ever looked; she was dressed in black and white, which suited her fair skin, and there were diamonds in her hair and about her throat.

From her seat at another table Barbara watched the King and Frances.

Frances seemed unaware of everything except the house of cards she was building. She was like a baby! thought Barbara. Her greatest delight was in building card houses; and everyone who sought to please her must compete with her in the ridiculous game. There was only one who could build as she did; that was Buckingham.

They built their card houses side by side. The King was handing Frances her cards; Lady Chesterfield was handing Buckingham his; all the other builders of card houses had given up the game to watch these two rivals. Frances was breathless with excitement; Buckingham was coolly cynical; but his hand was so steady that it seemed that his calmness would score over Frances’s excitement.

Imbecile! thought Barbara. Is she really so infantile that a card house can give her that much joy? Or is she acting the very young girl in the hope that the King is weary of such as I? We shall see who wins in the end, Mrs. Frances.

Lady Chesterfield caught Barbara’s attention momentarily; she had changed much since those days when she had first married Chesterfield and had been another simpleton such as Frances would have them believe she was. Simplicity had not brought Lady Chesterfield all she desired. Now George Hamilton sought to be her lover—and he had been Barbara’s lover
too—and the Duke of York was paying her that attention with which he was wont to honor ladies; it consisted of standing near them and gazing longingly, at them in a manner which made all secretly laugh, or writing notes to them which he pushed into their pockets or muffs; and as the ladies concerned were not always willing to accede to his advances, there had been much amusement when the notes had been allowed to fall, as though unnoticed, from muff or pocket and left lying about for any to read.

Barbara thought of Chesterfield, her first lover, her first experience in those adventures which were more important to her comfort than anything else. Chesterfield had been a good lover.

She realized with some dismay that it was a long time since he had been to see her. She verily believed that he was more interested in another woman than he was in herself; and it was rather comic that that woman should be his wife.

Ah, but he had turned too late to Lady Chesterfield, who would not forget the humiliation she had suffered at his hands. It delighted her now to be cold to him, to accept the admiration of George Hamilton and to return the yearning gazes of the Duke of York, to set new fashions in the Court such as this one of green stockings which had begun with her appearing in them.

The King’s attention was all for the fair Stuart; Chesterfield’s for his wife; and Buckingham—for naturally Barbara and Buckingham had slipped into amorous relationship now and then—was also paying attention to the Stuart, although, Barbara reminded herself, it was at her suggestion he did this.

Three of her lovers looking at other women! It was disconcerting.