Henriette looked up into the dark eyes so like Charles’, and embraced the young man.
James, Duke of Monmouth, had been sent by her brother to visit her. Charles was proud of his son; perhaps, could Lucy Water see her Jemmy now, she too would be proud.
Henriette knew that Charles had received him at the London Court, that he had given him a dukedom and that he loved him dearly; but this was the first time she had set eyes on him.
Now she became gay again; it was the best way of forgetting those humiliating days at Villers-Cotteret; and how easy it was to be gay with Charles’ son!
In some ways he reminded her of Charles, but he lacked her brother’s wisdom, that gay cynicism, and perhaps that underlying kindness. How could she have expected it to be otherwise? There was only one Charles in the world.
“James,” she cried, “you must tell me about my brother. You must give me news of him. You must tell me every little detaiclass="underline" What time he rises … how he spends his days … Please, all these little humdrum things that take no account of state affairs. Talk to me … talk to me of my dearly beloved brother.”
So James talked, and Henriette often drew him aside to hear the news of her brother’s Court. She would have him show her the dances prevailing there, those quaint folk dances which seemed so strange to the French; but best of all she liked to hear news of Charles.
Lorraine seemed to grudge her even this pleasure.
“They talk in English,” he pointed out to Philippe. “She is half in love with this handsome nephew of hers.”
“Nonsense!” said Philippe. “He is but the son of the brother she loves so well.”
“She loved the brother too well, some say. Now she loves the brother’s son. These are the ways of the Stuarts … all know that.”
So Philippe taunted his wife, and their life together became more intolerable than ever. Even the Duke of Monmouth’s visit was spoiled for Henriette.
In the June of that year Marie-Thérèse gave birth to a son. There was general rejoicing throughout the country. The Dauphin, though sickly, still lived.
Henriette was expecting a child in two months’ time. She prayed for a son. If she had a boy she was determined to leave Philippe. She would speak of these matters to the King, once her child was born; and surely Louis would understand that no woman of her birth could endure to be treated as she was.
She was worried about her mother, who had aged considerably since her return from England. She had become ill through her anxiety when there had been trouble between England and France, and had spent many sleepless nights wondering about the future relationship between her son and nephew.
Henrietta Maria came to see her daughter at Saint-Cloud because at this time the birth of Henriette’s child was imminent, and she herself could pay no visits. They did not speak of the state of friction between the two countries, nor of their private affairs; these subjects were too unhappy to be talked of. Henrietta Maria knew of her daughter’s treatment at the hands of her husband—indeed the whole Court knew. So they talked of the child who would soon be born, of their hopes for a boy, and the Queen’s malady.
“I do not know what it is that ails me,” said Henrietta Maria. “But perhaps it is not a good thing to complain. I have always thought that to complain of illness did little good, and I do not care to be like some ladies who lament for a cut finger or pain in the head. But how I wish I could sleep! I lie awake and brood on the past. It parades before me. I fancy your father speaks to me … warns me … that I must curb the levity of Charles.”
“Charles is popular, Mam. I should not worry about him. It may be that subjects like their Kings to be gay. It may be that they wish for these things. They grew tired of Cromwell’s England.”
“But the women at his Court! It is not that he has a mistress … or two. It is a seraglio.”
“Mam, Charles will always be Charles, whatever is said of him.”
“And no son to follow him! Only James Crofts … or Monmouth, as he now is.”
“A charming boy,” said Henriette.
“And likely to become as profligate as his father and mother.”
“Lucy Water!” pondered Henriette. “I saw her once. A handsome girl … but with little character, I felt. Well, Charles loved her and he has kept his word to care for her son; and the little girl is well looked after, although many say that Charles is not her father.”
“He is ready to accept all who come to him and accuse him of being their father.”
“Dearest Charles! He was always too good-natured. Mam, I beg of you, cease to worry. I will send my physicians to you to prescribe something for your sleeplessness.”
“My child, may the saints bless you. May they bring you through your troubles to happiness. May you have a happier life than your poor mother.”
“I always remember that you had a good husband who was faithful to you, Mam. It would seem to me that that made up for so much.”
“Ah, but to have such a one … and to lose him … to lose him as I did!”
Mother and daughter fell into silence, and after a while Henrietta Maria left for Colombes.
Four days later Henriette’s daughter was born. Her mother did not come to see her; by that time she was feeling too ill to leave Colombes.
Henrietta Maria lay in her bed while the physicians sent by her daughter ranged themselves around her.
“It is sleep Your Majesty requires,” said Monsieur Valot. “If you could rest you would regain your strength. We shall give you something to ease your pain, Madame.”
Henrietta Maria nodded her assent. She, who had complained bitterly of her unhappy life, bore pain stoically.
Monsieur Valot whispered to one of the doctors: “Add three grains to the liquid. That will send Her Majesty to sleep.”
Henrietta Maria, hearing the talk of grains, raised herself on her elbow. She said: “Monsieur Valot, my physician in England, Dr Mayerne, has told me I should never take opium. I heard you mention grains. Are those grains you spoke of, grains of opium?”
“Your Majesty,” explained Valot, “it is imperative that you sleep. These three grains will ensure that you do. My colleagues here all agree that you must take this sleeping draught, for you cannot hope to recover without sleep.”
“But I have been strictly warned against opium on account of the condition of my heart.”
“This dose is so small, and I beg of Your Majesty to accept the considered opinion of us all.”
“You are the doctors,” said Henrietta Maria.
“I shall then instruct the lady in attendance on Your Majesty to give you this dose at eleven o’clock.”
Henrietta Maria felt a little better that day. She was able to eat a little, and soon after supper her women helped her to bed.
“I feel tired,” she said. “I am sure that, with the aid of my sleeping draught, I shall sleep well.”
“There are two hours yet before you should take it, Your Majesty,” said her ladies.
“Then I shall lie and wait for it in the comfort that a good night’s rest is assured me.”
Her ladies left her, and two hours later one of them brought in the draught. The Queen was then sleeping peacefully.
“Madame,” said the woman, “you must wake and drink this. The doctor’s orders, Your Majesty will remember.”
Half awake Henrietta Maria raised herself and drank. She was too sleepy to question the wisdom of waking a sleeping person to administer a sleeping draught.
When her attendants came to wake her in the morning, she was dead.
Henriette held her child in her arms. Another daughter. Did this mean she must resume marital relations with Philippe? It was too much to ask. She would not do it. She hated Philippe.
Her woman came to tell her that Mademoiselle de Montpensier was on her way to visit her.