And then one evening, while she was being made ready for bed, Lady Suffolk, aunt of Lady Castlemaine, and the only English attendant thus far appointed, handed the Queen a sheet of paper with a list of names written upon it. “These are the persons proposed for your Majesty’s attendants,” she said. “Will your Majesty be pleased to sign?”
Catherine, now in her flowing night-gown of white silk, took it and went to her little writing-table. She picked up a pen and had bent to write her signature, when suddenly Penalva’s hawk-nosed face appeared over her shoulder.
“Don’t sign without reading it first, your Majesty!” she whispered.
Catherine gave her a glance of mild surprise, for she had assumed that if the King had chosen these ladies to attend her they could not be otherwise than acceptable. But already her old chaperon was mumbling them over.
“—Mrs. Price. Mrs. Wells. Mother of the Maids: Bridget Saunderson. Ladies of the Bedchamber: my Lady Castlemaine—” At the last name her voice became audible, suddenly sharp and indignant, and her face turned to Catherine’s.
It was the only name which meant anything to her. For before she had sailed her mother—who had given her so little advice as to how to be happy, either as wife or queen—had warned her never to allow Lady Castlemaine to so much as come into her presence. She was, the old Dowager Queen had said, an infamous hussy for whom the King had shown a deplorable kindness during the days of his bachelorhood.
“Why!” said Catherine, horrified. Then quickly she glanced about to catch the cool eyes of Lady Suffolk upon her, and turned so that only her back was to be seen. “What shall I do?” she whispered, pretending to study the list.
“Scratch the creature’s name out, of course!” With a quick motion she snatched up the pen which Catherine had dropped, dipped it into the inkwell and handed it to her. “Scratch it out, your Majesty!”
For a moment longer Catherine hesitated, her face troubled and hurt, and then resolutely she crossed her pen over the name with several dark broad strokes, until it was completely obliterated. She felt that by so doing she had also obliterated this menace to her happiness. She turned then and spoke to her interpreter.
“Tell my Lady Suffolk that I shall return the list to her in the morning.”
Half an hour later Charles arrived to find her alone and, as usual, on her knees before the little shrine which had been set up next to the great scarlet-velvet bed-of-state. He waited quietly, but already his eye had caught sight of the paper on the writing-table and the black bar which marked out Lady Castlemaine. However, he said nothing, and when she turned and smiled at him he crossed over to help her to her feet; but as he stooped to kiss her he could feel her tiny body stiffen defensively.
For a few moments they talked, discussing the play they had seen that night—a performance of “Bartholomew Fair” done by the King’s Company—but all the while Catherine was wondering nervously how she should broach the subject and wishing that he would mention it first. At last, in desperation, just as he excused himself to go into the dressing-room, she spoke quickly.
“Oh—and Sire—before I forget. My Lady Suffolk gave me the list tonight—it’s over there—” She swallowed and took a deep breath. “I crossed out one name. I’m sure you know which one,” she added hastily, a little note of defiance coming into her voice, for Penalva had warned her that she must let him know once and for all she was not to be treated like that again.
Charles stopped, glancing carelessly across his shoulder, for he was just passing the writing-table. He turned slowly to face her. “Have you an objection to a lady you’ve never seen?”
“I’ve heard of her.”
Charles gave a shrug and one finger stroked his mustache, but he smiled. “Gossip,” he said. “How people love to gossip.”
“Gossip!” she cried, shocked now to see how crassly unconcerned he was at having been taken in this bold attempt. “It can’t be just gossip! Why, my mother told me—”
“I’m sorry, my dear, that my personal affairs are known so far afield. And yet since you seem so well advised of my shortcomings, I hope you’ll believe me when I tell you that that episode is past. I have not seen the lady since we were married, and I intend having nothing more to do with her. I only ask you to accept her so that she may not have to suffer the indignities sure to be otherwise imposed upon her by ladies and gentlemen who were her friends only a short while since.”
“I don’t understand you, Sire. What else does a woman of that kind deserve? Why, she was nothing but your—your concubine!”
“It’s always been my opinion, madame, that the mistresses of kings are as honourable as the wives of other men. I don’t ask you to make her your friend, Catherine, or even to have her about you—but only that she be allowed the title. It would make her life much easier—and could scarcely hurt you, my dear.” He smiled, trying to convince her, but nevertheless he was surprised at her stubbornness, for he had never suspected that this quiet adoring little woman had so much spirit.
“I’m sorry, your Majesty, but I must refuse. I would gladly do anything else you ask—but I can’t do this. Please, Sire—try to understand what it would mean to me, too.”
A week later Charles, on the pretext of going hunting, went to see Barbara at her uncle’s nearby estate. She had just arrived and had sent him a desperate, humble imploring letter which, however, touched him less than did the fragrance it carried—that heavy musky compelling odour with which she always surrounded herself.
Breathless from running, she met him just as he stepped into the great hallway where stag-horns decorated the walls and ancient armour and firearms hung in every corner. He looked at her and saw a woman more beautiful than the one he remembered—his memory was short for such things—with brilliant violet eyes, her hair in a lavish cluster of curls about her face dressed in a becoming gown of deep-red silk.
“Your Majesty!”
She made him a sweeping curtsy and her head dropped gracefully. Her eyes closed and she gave a little sigh as he bent casually to kiss her upon the cheek. Then she took his arm and they walked on into the house and up the flight of stairs which led to the main apartments.
“You’re looking very well,” he said, determinedly ignoring her obvious efforts to enchant. “I hope your confinement was not difficult.”
She laughed gaily and pressed his arm, as sweet and merry as she had ever been in the early weeks of their acquaintance before the Restoration. “Difficult! Heavens, Your Majesty, —you know how it is with me! I’d rather have a baby than a quartan ague! Oh, but wait till you see him! He’s ever so handsome—and everyone says he’s the image of you!” That was not what they had said about her first child.
In the chapel the bishop was waiting with Lord Oxford and Lady Suffolk and the baby. When the ceremony of baptism was over Charles admired his son, took it up into his arms with an air of knowing exactly what he was about. But presently it began to cry and was sent off back to the nursery. The others went into a small private room to have wine and cakes, and here Barbara maneuvered him off to one side, under the pretext of showing him a section of the garden.
But she soon turned from the roses and flowering lime.
“And now you’re married,” she breathed softly, looking up at him with her eyes sad and tender. “And I’ve heard you’re deep in love.”
He stood and stared at her moodily, his eyes flickering over her face and hair and down to her breasts and small-laced waist. He caught the faint lascivious odour of her perfume, and his eyes darkened. Practiced voluptuary as he was, Charles had begun to long for a woman whose senses he could arouse, and who could arouse his. Catherine loved him, but he was finding her innocence and instinctive reticence a bore.