He took her by the shoulders and shook her in exasperation. “You are like a child,” he said. “Grow up! For God’s sake, grow up!”
She threw her arms about his neck. His exasperation turned to anger. He found her repulsive—this fresh and innocent young girl—because she was not Barbara on whose account he had suffered bitter jealousy ever since the King came home.
“Know the truth,” he cried. “Know it once and for all. I cannot love you. My thoughts are with my mistress.”
“Your mistress, Philip!” Elizabeth was white to the lips. “You mean … your dead … wife?”
He looked at her in astonishment and then burst into cruel laughter.
“Mrs. Barbara Palmer,” he said. “She is my mistress….”
“But she … she is the King’s mistress, they say.”
“So you have learned that? Then you are waking up, Elizabeth. You are becoming very knowledgeable. Now learn something else: the King’s mistress she may be—but she is mine also. And the child she has just borne … it is mine, I tell you.”
Then he turned and hurried away.
Elizabeth stood like one of the stone statues in the Palace grounds.
Then she turned away and went to her apartment; she drew the curtains about her bed and lay there, while a numbness crept over her limbs, and it seemed that all feelings were merged in the misery which was sweeping over her.
Before Chesterfield arrived at the house in King Street, Barbara had another visitor.
This was her relative, George Villiers the Duke of Buckingham. He was now a gentleman of the King’s bedchamber; his estates had been restored to him, and he was on the way to becoming one of the most important men in the country.
He did not look at the child in the cradle. Instead his eyes were warm with admiration for the mother.
“So Mrs. Barbara,” he said, “you flourish. I hear that the King continues to dote. This is a happy state of affairs for the family of Villiers, I’ll swear.”
“Ah, George,” she said with a smile, “we have come a long way from the days when you used to tease me for my hot temper.”
“I’ll warrant the temper has not cooled, and were it not that I dare not tease such a great lady as Mistress Barbara, I would be tempted to put it to the test. Do you bite and scratch and kick with as much gusto as you did at seven, Barbara?”
“With as much gusto and greater force,” she assured him. “But I’ll not kick and scratch and bite you, George. There are times when the Villiers should stand together. You were a fool to get sent back from France.”
“It was that prancing ninny of a Monsieur. He feigned to be jealous of my attentions to the Princess Henrietta.”
“Well, you tried to make her sister Mary your wife and failed, then you tried to make Henrietta your mistress and failed in that.”
“I beg of you taunt me not with failing. Mayhap your success will not last.”
“Ah! Had I not married Roger mayhap I should have been Charles’ wife ere now.”
George’s thoughts were cynical. Charles might be a fool where women were concerned, but he was not such a fool as that. However, it was more than one dared say to Barbara. Roger had his uses. Not only was he a complaisant husband but he supplied a good and valid reason why Barbara was not Queen of England.
“It seems as though fortune does not favor us, cousin,” said George. “And the lady in the cradle—is she preparing herself to be nice to Papa when he calls?”
“She will be nice to him.”
“You should get him to own her.”
“He shall own her,” said Barbara.
“Roger spoke of the child as though there could be no doubt that she is his.”
“Let him prate of that in public.”
“The acknowledgment by her rightful father should not be too private, Barbara.”
“Nay, you’re right.”
“And there is something more I would say to you. Beware of Edward Hyde.”
“Edward Hyde? That old fool!”
“Old, it is true, my dear; but no fool. The King thinks very highly of him.”
Barbara gave her explosive laugh.
“Ah yes, the King is your minion. You lead him by the nose. I know, I know. But that is when he is with you, and you insist he begs for your favors. But the King is a man of many moods. He changes the color of his skin like a chameleon on a rock, and none is more skilled at such changing than he. Remember Hyde was with him years ago in exile. He respects the man’s judgment, and Hyde is telling him that his affair with you is achieving too much notoriety. He is warning him that England is not France, and that the King’s mistress will not be accorded the honors in this country which go to His Majesty’s cousin’s women across the water.”
“I’ll have the fellow clapped into the Tower.”
“Nay, Barbara, be subtle. He’s too big a man to be clapped into the Tower on the whim of a woman. The King would never consent to it. He would promise you in order to placate you, and then prevaricate; and he would whisper to his Chancellor that he had offended you and he had best make his peace with you. But he will not easily turn against Edward Hyde.”
“You mean I should suffer myself to be insulted by that old … old …”
“For the time, snap your fingers. But beware of him, Barbara. He would have the King respectably married and his mistresses cast aside. He will seek to turn the King against you. But do nothing rash. Work stealthily against him. I hate the man. You hate the man. We will destroy him gradually … but it must be slowly. The King is fickle to some, but I fancy he will not be so with one who has been so long his guide and counsellor. His Majesty is like a bumble bee—a roving drone—flitting from treasure to treasure, sipping here and there and forgetting. But there are some flowers from which he has drunk deep and to these he returns. Know you that he has given a pension to Jane Lane who brought him to safety after Worcester? All that time, and he remembers—our fickle gentleman. So will he remember Edward Hyde. Nay, let the poison drip slowly … in the smallest drops, so that it is unnoticed until it has begun to corrode and destroy. Together, Barbara, you and I will rid ourselves of one who cannot be anything but an enemy to us both.”
She nodded her agreement; her blue eyes were brilliant. She longed to be up; she hated inactivity.
“I will remember,” she said. “And how fare you in your married life?”
“Happily, happily,” he said.
“And Mary Fairfax—does she fare happily?”
“She is the happiest of women, the most satisfied of wives.”
“Some are easily satisfied. Does she not regret Chesterfield?”
“That rake! Indeed she does not.”
“She finds in you a faithful husband?” said Barbara, cynically and slyly.
“She finds in me the perfect husband—which gives greater satisfaction.”
“Then she must be blind.”
“They say love is, Madam.”
“Indeed it must be. And she loves you still?”
“As she ever did. And so do the entire family. It is a most successful marriage.”
Barbara’s woman came in and was about to announce that Chesterfield was on his way, when the Earl himself came into the room.
He and Buckingham exchanged greetings. Chesterfield went to the bed, and, taking the hand Barbara gave him, pressed it to his lips.
“You are well?” he asked. “You are recovered?”
“I shall be about tomorrow.”
“I rejoice to hear it,” said Chesterfield.
Buckingham said he would take his leave. Matters of state called him.
When he had gone, Chesterfield seized Barbara in his arms and kissed her with passion.
“Nay!” she cried, pushing him away. “It is too soon. Do you not wish to see the child, Philip?”
He turned to the cradle then. “A girl,” he said. “Our child.”