Rochester and Sedley and Winifred exchanged smiles. “I still hope,” said the Earl, “that some day that little milksop Stewart will come to blows with Castlemaine. Gad, I could write an epic on it!”
Several hours later Frances and Charles stood beside an open casement window above the garden, and the soft night breeze carried to them a faint smell of roses and the waxen sweet scent of potted orange-trees. It was almost midnight and many of the ladies and gentlemen had left already. Others were counting up their losses, arranging loans, grumbling about bad luck or exulting if it had been good.
Queen Catherine was talking to the Duchess of Buckingham and pretending not to notice how engrossed her husband was in Mrs. Stewart. She had learned her lesson well three years before, and though she loved Charles sincerely and hopelessly, she had never again objected to his interest in another woman. Now she played cards and danced, wore English clothes and dressed her hair in the latest French mode; she was as much an Englishwoman as her early training would allow. Charles always showed her the most perfect courtesy and insisted that the members of his Court do likewise. She was not happy, but she tried to seem so.
Frances was saying, “What a beautiful beautiful night! It doesn’t seem possible that only twenty miles away there are thousands of men and women—sick, and dying.”
Charles was quiet for a moment, and then he spoke very softly. “My poor people. I wonder why this has happened to them. They can’t deserve it—I can’t make myself believe in a malignant God who would punish a nation for the faults of its ruler—”
“Oh, Sire!” protested Frances. “How can you talk like that! They’re not being punished for your faults! If they’re being punished for a fault it’s for their own!”
Charles smiled. “You’re loyal, Frances. I think you must be my loyal subject—But of course you’re not my subject at all. I’m yours—”
At that moment the high flaunting voice of Lady Castlemaine interrupted them. “Lord, what wretched cards I held tonight! I lost six thousand pound! Your Majesty, I swear I’m stark in debt again!”
She gave a gurgling laugh, staring up at him with her great purple eyes. Barbara was not so docile as the Queen. Charles visited her in private; she was then carrying his fourth child, and she did not intend that he should slight her in public. Obviously resenting her intrusion, he looked at her coldly with something of the forbidding hauteur he could so well assume when he had a use for it.
“Are you, madame?”
Frances now took up her skirts, with a gesture which delicately conveyed her distaste. “Excuse me, Sire. Your servant, madame.” She scarcely looked at Barbara, and then she started away.
Quickly Charles touched her arm. “Here, Frances—I’ll walk along with you, if I may. You have an escort, madame?” His question to Barbara did not demand or want an answer.
“No, I haven’t! Everyone’s gone.” Her lips pouted and she had an injured air which was probably the beginning of a crackling tantrum. “And I don’t see why I should shift for myself while you—”
Charles interrupted. “With your leave, madame, I shall see Mrs. Stewart to her chamber. Good-night.” He bowed, very politely, offered Frances his arm, and the two of them walked off together. They had gone only a few feet when Frances turned her head and looked up at him; suddenly she burst into a gleeful giggle.
They walked back to her apartments and at the door he kissed her, asking if he might come in while she made ready for bed—which he often did, sometimes with a herd of his courtiers. But now she gave him a wan little smile and a look of pleading.
“I’m tired. And my head aches so.”
He was instantly alarmed, for though there had been no plague at Court the slightest sign of an indisposition was enough to set up unpleasant fears. “Your head aches? Do you feel well otherwise? Have you any nausea?”
“No, Your Majesty. Just a headache. Just one of my headaches.”
“You have them often, Frances.”
“All my life. Ever since I can remember.”
“You’re sure they’re not just a convenience—for putting off unwelcome visitors?”
“No, Sire. I really have them. Please—may I go now?”
Quickly he kissed her hand. “Certainly, my dear. Forgive my thoughtlessness. But promise me that if it gets worse or if you have any other symptoms you’ll send for Dr. Fraser—and let me know?”
“I promise, Sire. Good-night.”
She backed into the room and closed the door gently. It was true that she had always had violent headaches. Her gaiety and high spirits were part nervousness, for she had none of Castlemaine’s robust hearty vigour.
In her bedroom the long-tailed green parrot which she had brought from France was sleeping, his head tucked under his wing, but at her entrance he woke instantly and began to dance up and down on his perch, squawking with delight. Mrs. Barry, the middle-aged gentlewoman who had been with Frances since babyhood, had also been dozing in her chair; now she too woke, and came hurrying forward to help her mistress undress.
Alone now and off her guard, with no need to impress anyone, she looked frankly tired. Slowly she got out of her gown, unfastened the laces of her busk and with a sigh of relief sat down while Barry began to unpin the jewels and ribbons twisted in her hair.
“Another headache, sweetheart?” Mrs. Barry’s voice was worried, soft and maternal, and her fingers worked with loving tenderness.
“Terrible.” Frances was close to tears.
Barry took a cloth now and wrung it out in a bowl of vinegar which was kept on a shelf nearby, convenient for frequent use. She laid it across Frances’s forehead and held it with her fingers at either temple, while Frances closed her eyes and let her head rest gratefully against the cushion of Barry’s bosom. They continued silent for a few moments.
Suddenly there was a sound of commotion from outside. A little page spoke, quietly, and an angry feminine voice answered; the door of the bedroom burst open and there stood Barbara Palmer. For an instant she glared at Frances and then she slammed it closed, with such violence that the noise seemed to reverberate in Frances’s brain, making her wince.
“I have a crow to pluck with you, Madame Stewart!” declared the Countess.
Frances’s pride rose, ready to do combat, and sweeping the weariness from her face she stood up, lifting her chin. “Your servant, madame. And what can I do for you, pray?”
“I’ll tell you what you can do for me!” replied Barbara, and she crossed the room swiftly, until she stood just three or four feet from her. Barry was glaring pugnaciously from over Frances’s shoulder and the parrot had begun to squawk his resentment, but Barbara ignored them both. “You can stop trying to make me appear a fool in public, madame! That’s what you can do!”
Frances looked at her with obvious distaste, wondering how she had ever been so stupid as to consider this wild uncontrolled harpy her best friend. And then she sat down again, motioning Barry to continue undressing her hair.
“I’m sure I don’t know how I can make you look a fool, madame—in public or anywhere else. If you do, you have only yourself to thank.”
Barbara stood with her hands on her hips, eyes slightly narrowed. “You’re a cunny gypsy, Mrs. Stewart—but let me tell you this: I can be a mighty dangerous enemy. You may find you’ve got the bear by the nose. If I set my mind to it, I could have you out of Whitehall like that!” She gave a quick sharp snap of her fingers.
Frances smiled coolly. “Could you, madame? You’re welcome to try—But I think I please his Majesty quite as well as you—even though my methods may not be the same—”