Catherine, resting in the Palace of Whitehall and shut away from rumor, was waiting for her baby to be born. She had allowed herself to believe that when the child came she and Charles would be content with one another. It was true that he was enamored of the beautiful Mrs. Stuart, but Frances was a good girl, who conducted herself with decorum and had made it quite clear that the King must give up all hope of seducing her.
When the child came he would forget his schemes concerning Frances Stuart, Catherine persuaded herself; he would give himself up to the joys of family life. He was meant to be a father; he was tolerant, full of gaiety and a lover of children. There would be many children; and they would be as happy a family as that in which she had been brought up—nay, happier, for they would not have to suffer the terrible anxiety which had beset the Duke of Braganza’s.
All this must come to pass as she knew it could, once he was free of that evil woman. The name Castlemaine would always make her shiver, she feared. When she saw it she would always remember that terrible occasion when she had seen it written at the top of the list; and that other when she had given her hand to the woman to kiss, without realizing her identity; and the shame of the scene that followed.
But in the years to come the name of Castlemaine would be nothing but a memory, a memory to provoke a shiver it was true, yet nothing more.
So now she thought exclusively of the child, hoping it would be a boy; but if that should not be, well then, they were young, she and Charles, and they had proved themselves capable of getting children.
I knew I should be happy, she told herself. It was only necessary for him to escape from that evil woman.
The women below her window were giggling together. She wondered what this was about. She gathered it concerned a certain chine of beef. The stupid things women giggled about!
She turned away from the window, wondering when she would see Charles again.
Perhaps she would tell him of her hopes for their future—such confidences were often on her lips, but she never uttered them. Although he was tender and solicitous for her health, he was always so merry; and she fancied that he was a little cynical regarding sentimental dreams.
No! She would not tell him. She would make her dreams become realities.
Donna Maria came to her, and Donna Maria had been weeping. Old and infirm, hating the English climate, not understanding the English manners, Donna Maria constantly longed for her own country, although nothing would have induced her to leave her Infanta.
Poor Donna Maria! thought Catherine. She always had a habit of looking on the dark side of life as though she preferred it to the brighter.
“So you have heard this story of the chine of beef?” she asked.
“Well, I heard some women laughing over it below my window.”
“It was for the King’s supper, and the kitchens were flooded, so it must needs be carried to my Lord Sandwich’s kitchens to be cooked.”
“Is that the story of the chine of beef?”
“A noisy story because Madam Castlemaine cried out to burn the place down—but roast the beef.”
“Madam … Castlemaine!”
“Why, yes, have you not heard? The King is back with her. He is supping with her every night and is as devoted to her as he ever was.”
Catherine stood up. Her emotions were beyond control as they had been on that occasion when the King had presented Lady Castlemaine to her without her knowledge and consent.
All her dreams were false. He had not left the woman. In that moment she believed that as long as she lived Lady Castlemaine would be her evil genius as she was the King’s.
“Why … what ails you?” cried Donna Maria.
She saw the blood gushing from Catherine’s nose as it had on that other occasion; she was just in time to catch the Queen as she fell forward.
The King stood by his wife’s bed. She looked small, frail and quite helpless.
She was delirious; and she did not know yet that she had lost her child.
Donna Maria had explained to him; she had repeated the last words she had exchanged with Catherine.
I have brought her to this, thought the King. I have caused her so much pain that the extreme stress of her emotional state has brought on this miscarriage and lost us our child.
He knelt down by the bed and covered his face with his hands.
“Charles,” said Catherine. “Is that you, Charles?”
“I am here,” he told her. “I am here beside you.”
“You are weeping, Charles! Those are tears. I never thought to see you weep.”
“I want you to be well, Catherine. I want you to be well.”
He could see by the expression on her face that she had no knowledge of the nature of her illness; she must have forgotten there was to have been a child. He was glad of this. At least she was spared that agony.
“Charles,” she said. “Hold my hand, Charles.”
Eagerly he took her hand; he put his lips to it.
“I am happy that you are near me,” she told him.
“I shall not leave you. I shall be here with you … while you want me.”
“I dreamed I heard you say those words.” A frown touched her brow lightly. “You say them because I am ill,” she went on. “I am very ill. Charles, I am dying, am I not?”
“Nay,” he cried passionately. “Nay, ’tis not so.”
“I shall not grieve to leave the world,” she said. “Willingly would I leave all … save one. There is no one I regret leaving, Charles, but you.” “You shall not leave me,” he declared.
“I pray you do not grieve for me when I am dead. Rejoice rather that you may marry a Princess more worthy of you than I have been.” “I beg of you, do not say such things.”
“But I am unworthy … a plain little Princess … and not a Princess of a great country either…. A Princess whose country made great demands on you … a Princess whose country you succored and to whom you brought the greatest happiness she ever knew.”
“You shame me.” And suddenly he could no longer control his tears. He thought of all the humiliations he had forced her to suffer, and he swore that he would never forgive himself.
“Charles … Charles,” she murmured. “I know not whether to weep or rejoice. That you should care so much for me … what more could I ask than this? But to see you weep … to see you so stricken with sorrow … that grieves me … it grieves me sorely.”
Charles was so overcome with remorse and emotion that he could not speak. He knelt by her bed, his face hidden, bent over the hand that he held. As she drifted into unconsciousness, she felt his tears on her hand.
Donna Maria came to stand beside the King.
“Your Majesty can do no good to the Queen … now,” she said.
He turned wearily away.
He was at her bedside night and day. Those about the Queen marveled at his devotion. Was this the man who had supped nightly with my Lady Castlemaine, the man who was deeply in love with the beautiful Mrs. Stuart? He wished that his should be the hand to smooth her pillows, his the face she would first see should she awake, his the voice she should hear.
She was far gone in fever, and so light-headed that she thought she was the mother of a son.
Perhaps she was thinking of the tales she had heard of Charles’ babyhood, for she murmured: “He is fine and strong, but I fear he is an ugly boy.”
“Nay,” said the King, his voice shaken with emotion, “he is a very pretty boy.”
“Charles,” she said, “are you there, Charles?””
Yes, I am here, my love.”
“Your love,” she repeated. “Is it true? But I like to hear you say it as you did at Hampton Court before … Charles, he shall be called Charles, shall he not?”