But how could Charles do that! She was after all my mother and in spite of those traits of hers which I had to admit were there, I loved her. Charles could never do anything to hurt me if he could help it, so she remained.
It was true that she meddled. One day she said to me: “I was not idle in Holland. All the time I concerned myself with your good and that of the children. I sounded them on the possibility of a match between the Prince of Orange and one of your girls.”
“The Prince of Orange!” I cried. “He is of no great importance.”
“I didn’t mean for Mary, of course. Perhaps Elizabeth.”
“She is three years old!”
“My dear daughter, we have to think of the alliances of our children when they are in their cradles. I will discuss the matter with the King.”
“No, my lady,” I said firmly. “I will discuss it with the King.”
“Oh,” she said, a little huffily, “you two seem to talk nothing but lovers’ talk. State matters have their place too, remember.”
“They will be the state matters of England,” I retorted coolly, and wondered if I was becoming as hard toward her as Louis was. We must show her that she could not interfere in English affairs any more than she could in French. Hadn’t she learned her lesson? Surely being turned out of her home must have made her realize something. But no doubt she blamed Louis and Anne…and the Cardinal of course, for turning away one who could have been—as she would see it—a great help to them.
At the first opportunity I told Charles what she had suggested.
“The Prince of Orange!” he said. “Oh, he is too petty a prince to mate with a Princess of England.”
“So thought I,” I replied. “But my mother talked of it when she was in Holland and she tells me that the Prince of Orange would be very happy with the match.”
“I have no doubt he would. No. Not even for one of our younger daughters would he be good enough.”
There was one other point which seemed to have escaped them all and of which I was very much aware: the Prince of Orange was a Protestant. When my children married I wanted to make sure that they married Catholics.
I was getting bigger but still able to walk a little in the gardens. I loved those of St. James’s with the deer park and the terraces. I enjoyed walking there with Charles and the children. Charles was always so tender and affectionate and everyone marveled at his care of me…especially when I was in the condition I was at this time.
Charles and I would sit on one of the seats and the children would run about making a great deal of noise with all the dogs yapping round them; and the ladies and gentlemen made such a charming sight walking on the paths round the palace.
Happy days they were, when Charles looked so handsome and was so different from the rather shy young man whom I had first met. I rarely heard him stammer now; he didn’t when he was at peace and happy; and he certainly was with his family. He liked to hear little domestic details. He answered young Charles’s questions gravely and gave his attention to James when he accused Mary of taking his share of the custard tart they had had for dinner. I was sure he would have been happier being just with us than coping with his ministers.
Why couldn’t everyone stop complaining? I asked myself. Why could they not enjoy life as we did walking in the gardens of St. James’s.
Winter came in fiercely. “Queen Mother weather,” said the boatmen.
It was at the end of a bitter January that my baby was born. It was a little girl and she was hastily baptized and christened Catherine, for she died a few hours after her birth.
THE HUMAN SACRIFICE
After the death of Catherine I think happiness was over for me, although perhaps I did enjoy snatches of pleasure when I was able to convince myself that all was well; and even when I was most apprehensive I could not have conceived the magnitude of the horror which was waiting to spring on me, crushing my joy forever and making me wait each day for the release which only death could bring.
Where did it start? It is difficult to say. Scotland—I sometimes think—that land of trouble which I hate, with all the squabbling over a prayer book. But who am I to talk? Who was more sternly religious than I? Had I not from the moment I had set foot in England worked to bring the country back to Rome from which it had been so ruthlessly torn by that monster Henry VIII, simply because he wished for a new wife? But the succeeding monarchs had had their chance and had done nothing. I see now that the Protestant Faith suited the English—not the Puritan branch, which was as intense as our Catholic—but the easygoing, not-too-demanding Church of England.
Was it religion? Perhaps to some extent. Then if it were, I was indeed to blame.
But no. That was not the real reason. I was not the only one.
I suppose Archbishop Laud with his rigid insistence on the ceremonies of the Church, the correct vestments of the clergy, all the ceremonies which were akin to the Church of Rome, had done much to bring about the Puritan strain, and consequently to result in what was tantamount to a new party composed of solemn men who thought it was a sin even to laugh; as for dancing and singing, to take pleasure in those meant to them to be on the road to hell. Laud was anxious not to be called a Catholic, but he resembled one in many ways, and he had become the most unpopular man in the country.
Charles respected him very much and Charles was always loyal in his friendships, but I think the man he preferred above all was Thomas Wentworth. Charles admired him enormously for he had often in the past proved himself to be an honest man. He had recently returned from Ireland, where he had done well by promoting the growing of flax, opening up trade with Spain and abolishing piracy in St. George’s Channel. His aim had been to make the Irish as prosperous as the English and dependent on England while they realized that it was in their interest to be loyal to the English.
Wentworth’s conduct of affairs had led Charles to believe that it was men like him whom he wanted at home and he sent for him. Soon after his arrival in England, Thomas Wentworth was created Earl of Strafford.
That year came in on a rather melancholy note. I knew that Charles was very worried although he was cheered by Strafford who, he confided to me, was one of the ablest men he had ever come across and loyal too. For that reason I tried to like the man, and I found I could when I rid myself of a certain jealousy for he was a most elegant, gallant and courtly gentleman.
I was beginning to see myself a little more clearly than I had before. I had had time for reflection during my pregnancies and to my dismay (although I did not let Charles know this yet) I was pregnant again. The experience with Catherine had been so distressing that I had hoped for a little respite. To suffer the discomforts of nine months only to find there is no result, or that it is snatched away from you almost before you have received it, is a devastating experience for a woman. The point was that I realized I had been jealous of Charles’s appreciation of Strafford. Buckingham had a great deal to answer for; I suppose that during my happy life with Charles I was always looking out for some clever man who might try to snatch him from me…not that anyone could do that now but they could diminish the regard he had for me and that was something I could not bear.
But it was not so with Strafford and when I overcame my initial dislike, I was grateful to him for the comfort he brought to Charles; and then I found I liked him for himself. There was someone else in my household who liked him very much. That was Lucy Hay. Lucy was ten years older than I which made her bordering on forty, but no one would have believed it to look at her except that the years of experience—and I suspected very great experience—had made her more fascinating than ever; in spite of being no longer young she was still the most attractive woman at Court.