A black summer for Charles, this Summer of ’seventy-three.
Anger against James was hardening; Monmouth’s popularity evergrowing. And some breath of that secret treaty with Louis had leaked out; it followed Charles like a faint, bad odour. And still the war with Holland dragged on; but the nation that had so desired it, was weary of it to the bone. And always the long, bitter struggle with Parliament—struggle over freedom of worship for all. He had not yet admitted that he meant to give way; he had gone on hoping. But now, now he must tell them; until then—no money. His life, it seemed, was one unending struggle.
Never had he felt so melancholy, so alone. But, for all that, he must show a cheerful face. The common people crowding into Whitehall to watch the dancing or to see their King dine with good appetite, would wonder at him. So much trouble in the country... and he so carefree!
But they did not see him in the privacy of his closet, patient upon the hopeless mass of his affairs. They knew nothing of the long hours spent with his Council, nor see him exhausted after a struggle with Parliament. But they did know that twice the King had promised freedom of worship and twice that promise had been broken. And they knew that there was some sly friendship with hated France. And they knew that the King was at odds with his Parliament so that a new party had sprung up against him—gentle-men from the country—Whigs they called themselves. And that my lord Shaftesbury—that Ashley Cooper whom the King had ennobled, and once his close friend, had gone over to lead the enemy. The wickedest of men, Charles called him; but he was merely the most expedient. But, if he had lost one old friend he had regained another. Ormonde was back again, their quarrel forgotten—trusted Ormonde with a seat in the Cabinet. And with him, to the Queen’s comfort and joy, Eliza.
All about the King—disapproval, distrust. His own father, Charles thought, must have felt this same unease. Was it possible for the old, wicked tale to repeat itself?
It was a question Catherine never asked. Charles would win... in the end; in spite of everything he had the power to draw men. She was unhappy because the tide ran against him; but she was not afraid. For him, not afraid; but for herself she feared... and with some cause. False Shaftesbury playing for popularity, forever demanded the King’s divorce, forever whipped the people to fear, to anger. The Duke of York means to take a Catholic wife and a young one. A Catholic line of Kings! England beneath the heel of the Bishop of Rome! How, Englishmen, shall you endure that? The King must put away the Queen, must give the country its heir...
Charles refused even to discuss the matter. The Queen was his wife; his wife she should remain.
There were times when she longed to leave Whitehall where the court looked and wondered how long before she was put away. Whitehall where one mistress ruled like the Queen and the other played the clown; and each inched for advantage and boasted herself to be the King’s favoured bedfellow. Louise fought with her beauty and her breeding; Nell with her wit, her gutter impudence. She could plant her dart before my lady duchess could open her lovely mouth. There were smiles aplenty at Nell’s impudence... but behind my lady’s back; none dared offend Madam Favourite.
Louise was of the Queen’s Bedchamber; it was the King’s wish... and everybody knew why. It meant easier access to the King. Now, except for the King’s apartments, hers were the best in the palace; they lay at the end of the Stone gallery overlooking the King’s private gardens. Where others looked out upon stables and yards and huddled roofs, she looked upon green lawns, shady trees and flowing river. And, to these rooms, there was a constant coming-and-going. Catherine sitting alone save for her ladies, would hear the click of high heels passing the Queen’s rooms and dying down the gallery... the world paying court to Madam Favourite.
And the rooms themselves! The Gobelin tapestries, the priceless paintings, the marble statues; the screens and hearth furniture of fine worked silver, the dishes and plates of pure gold, the goblets of glass from Venice! She had ransacked the King’s choicest treasures, they said; there was nothing there but was a masterpiece and a wonder. And she, with her lovely face, her grace and her elegance was, of all masterpieces, the finest—they said that, too.
There was nothing she could not get from Charles. And what he did not give of himself she asked for; asked sweetly, asked gently. And, if it were not at once forthcoming, never a word of reproach; only tears filling the lovely eyes... a wounded dove.
‘No dove that one!’ old Penalva said. ‘Not dove, but a bird of prey.’
None could get the better of Madam Louise save Mistress Nell. Louise could neither worst her rival nor induce Charles to send her away. ‘I would as soon banish the sun!’ he said; and it was true. There was no-one these dark days that could make him laugh like Nell. And, besides, he owed her something. At the height of her success she had given up the theatre for his sake. And, above all, there was her child. For her there was no apartment at Whitehall; but she had a pretty house in the Mall, its gardens delightfully adjoining the King’s.
About this house gossip was lively. Bedchamber lined—walls and ceiling—with looking-glass, they said. When Mary Buckingham repeated the gossip by her husband’s orders, ‘An odd taste!’ the Queen said and relieved my lady from her duties.
Charles made no secret of his affair with Nell. He not only visited her in the looking-glass chamber, he would walk in St. James’s; or, leaning against the wall, would chat with her—and she sitting above him on that same wall, as often as not, in nothing but her smock. There they would be, laughing and jesting for all the world to see.
He had won some popularity on Nell’s account. She was of the people—and proud of it. And they, in turn, were proud of her; with her open hand and her gay impudence she had won their hearts. But for Madame Louise, when she appeared in her coach, there were hisses and catcalls; the Catholic whore, they called her, hating her alike for her faith, her foreignness and her greed. They knew all about the gold plate in daily use upon her table. She was welcome to it—molten in the fire and poured down her throat!
There was a tale about them both. There was a fine gilt coach driving down Oxford Street; and, within, a young woman alone and richly dressed. The crowd believing it was Madam from France hemmed in the coach so that it could move neither backward nor forward; the mood was ugly. Suddenly up went the window; and there was Nell Gwynn laughing and crying out, Good people let me pass. ‘It’s the Protestant not the Catholic whore!’ So they let her pass with cheers. She was one of themselves; and honest enough to call a spade a spade.
But it’s the Catholic whore they must reckon with, Catherine thought when she heard the tale. She robs the King of his treasures, she rules him with her whims, she betrays him with France, she corrupts the Council with her French bribes.
Louise could do all these things; but still she could not persuade him to dismiss Nell; he needed laughter more than ever.
She made more than the King laugh. She set the whole court laughing. When Madam the Duchess of Portsmouth walked grandly, Nell would strut behind, head wickedly held as though it carried a coronet, walking as though pages carried a ducal train.
Louise, that wounded dove, complained to Charles; but Nell, unrepentant, shook her bright curls. ‘Madam from France should be ashamed to be King’s whore—if she’s as noble as she says. But me—’ she looked him full in the eye, ‘I was born in a ditch and my mother died in one—where I promise myself not to follow her. It is natural for me to find myself in a gentleman’s bed. Though—’ and she cocked an impudent nose, ‘I had not dreamed of such a gentleman!’
It was a just answer; and, laughing, he was forced to admit it. After this she let no opportunity slip to make Louise appear a fool. The Prince de Rohan died. Louise appeared in mourning deep enough for a wife. She was not even a distant relative, and her degree of nobility too low to justify any mourning at all.
Next day Nell appeared before an astounded court swathed in deepest black, caged within weeds so voluminous her small figure could scarce carry the weight. Charles startled—as well he might be—asked her reason for the sable garb. She threw back the heavy veil, her mournful voice came clear. ‘Sir, the great Cham of Tartary... he died yesterday!’ And sobbed into her weeds.
Louise went white. She stared at Charles as though commanding him to annihilate the low creature. But he didn’t even see her; he was blinded with the tears of his laughter.
The court had no little enjoyment watching the grand lady and the little girl from the gutter; but it was an enjoyment wise to hide. To offend Louise—save one were a Nell Gwynn—was to invite dire consequences. Her wealth and her influence—there seemed no bounds to either; fabulous both. Besides her income of eighteen thousand a year she had had in two years alone a present of fifty thousand pounds, together with an extra gift of sixteen thousand. She had ten thousand a year from wine licences; she had revenues from lands in Ireland to which she had no right; and, in addition, revenues sufficient to rear her son in ducal state. She had houses, she had lands; she had furnishings and jewels beyond price. And, in addition, she had gone into business; she sold places at court. There was no dishonest transaction, but her hand was in it.
She was flattered and fawned upon. None dared utter a word against her; even Nell’s sallies were by innuendo. Mistress Phillis Temple, for a few light words, was banished the court; she was one of the Queen’s ladies and Catherine, herself, did not escape the blame. Of such blame she was contemptuous. ‘Words against Mademoiselle?’ And she refused Madam Duchess her title. ‘It is impossible anyone should prevent them,’ she told Charles. ‘She has enemies everywhere. That she makes enemies for herself—with that I have no quarrel. But she makes enemies for you, sir—and there I have great quarrel!’
It was the truth and he knew it; but, for all her kindness, a truth he did not relish. He turned upon his heel and left her. She wanted to cry after him, In all other dealings you are just and shrewd and kind. But she, your sly mistress, does what she will with you. Oh she is clever! She never raises her voice, never shows an angry face. After the loud-mouthed Castlemaine you think yourself in heaven! She is gentle and lovely... she rests me; you said that once. Charles, Charles, how can you be so blind? All the time she betrays you. Oh not with her body—she dare not; and she’s cold, besides. But in the heart she’s false. But she has given you a child... a son...
She paced the room restless, distress drove her; she was unable to sit or stand or anyway find peace.
And me? What, Charles, of me? You praise what you are pleased to call my goodness, my honesty, my commonsense. But, goodness, truth and commonsense—what comfort to a woman that loves you—and that woman your wife?
She thought she had come to terms with his lack of love for her; and with her own barrenness. Now, grief, again, overthrew her; she drowned in grief as in a sea. She flung herself before her prie-dieu and besought the Mother of God that she might bear a child. That commonsense of hers told her it was too late. She was thirty-five; she had never carried a full-term child... and her husband did not love her. But faith was stronger than commonsense. With God all things are possible. Women older than she had borne children. Physicians were but men. But God was God.
These days she was weary of the court; weary of the sight of the King’s mistresses; weary of his everlasting quarrels with Parliament of which she always got the backwash; weary of the war against the Dutch, of the death and the disaster; weariest of all of the country’s hatred of the Faith she loved. And, all the time, she must endure the diversions of the court—sugar coating her bitter pill. Charles needed his sugar, she knew it well; knew that, while he played, his subtle mind worked for the country’s good. He needed pretty women, he needed music and dancing and the play; needed them as he needed food and sleep. But pleasure could not hold him long. There he would be, smiling, the Gwynn at his side, or the de Kérouaille; and all about him lovely women and gay gallants. And she would see the smile fade and the eyes grow sombre; and she would know his mind was back again upon his problems. She would see him leave his toying with his ladies and get up and go away. And she would follow him—the only one that dared. And he would talk and she would listen; and back he would go refreshed.
To ease his mind, to give him that comfort—it was much. But, if he might come to love her a little, only a little! She would ask no more of life.