THE CHASTE NYMPH

Our household was no longer at Richmond. It had been moved to St. James’s, that ancient palace which had once been a hospital for women suffering from leprosy. That was years ago, before the Norman Conquest, of course. It was dedicated to St. James and the name remained when it became a palace. Like Richmond, it was a place full of memories, and because of my growing awareness of all the murmurings about my father’s leanings toward Catholicism, I thought of my namesake, Mary, who had lived here when her husband, Philip II of Spain, had gone away. He had not been a very kind husband; he was obsessed by his religion and such people are often too busy doing their duty toward God to be over-concerned with people. Perhaps they felt people were not very important. However, in spite of the fact that nowadays I often thought of sad, cruel Queen Mary who had ordered people to be burned at the stake because they would not become Catholics, I was happy to be near my father and Mary Beatrice.

It was at this time that I first met Frances Apsley. Frances’s father was a friend of mine, and because of this she had been given a place at court.

From the moment I met her I was entranced. When she was presented to me I felt that I should have been the one to kiss her hand and do homage to her because of her excellence, which I could never match.

She was a few years older than I was and when she talked to me I was too bemused to take in what she had said. I did gather that her father was Sir Allen Apsley.

My father had been good to hers, she told me.

When she was about to leave, I said that we must meet again.

“I have my duties,” Frances told me.

“I shall write to you,” I said, and Frances replied that that would give her great pleasure.

I was so filled with admiration that I must have shown it, and when I met Mary Beatrice I spoke of Frances Apsley to her.

“Ah yes,” said my stepmother. “A very pleasant girl, and a beautiful one. Your father is friendly with her father. They were together during the long exile. Sir Allen was always loyal and worked hard to bring about the Restoration.”

It was the beginning of that passionate friendship which I shall remember all my life. I was very fond of Anne Trelawny; she was my confidante and had been from childhood—but this was different. Anne was to me just another girl, older than I, wiser in many ways, my very good friend. But Frances was like a goddess.

I thought of her a good deal and I decided I would write to tell her of my feelings. This I did and her response was immediate. She told me that she cared for me in the same way as I did for her and that we must meet whenever it could be contrived and when we could not we would write to each other.

So began our romantic correspondence. We would ask people to take our letters to each other. I prevailed on my drawing master, little Richard Gibson, to do it and he was eager to oblige. I noticed that people were very ready to please me nowadays. True, my stepmother was pregnant, and if she had a son my position would change immediately, but the son had not yet put in an appearance and royal babies had a habit of either being girls or not surviving.

Sarah Jennings was a good courier although I did not altogether trust her. I preferred to use my little dwarf.

Frances had given a new zest to the days. Each morning when I awoke, my first thoughts were of her. Should I see her that day? Would there be a letter from her? Life was wonderful. I loved and was loved.

I wrote to her and told her that I felt toward her as though she were my husband. My love for her was greater than I had ever felt for anyone before—even my father. I loved him dearly but he was just a father. This was different.

I was very young and totally innocent. I knew that this was how lovers talked to each other—in plays for instance. Unlike my sister Anne, I liked to read of romance and passion in those pieces where the lovers were a young man and woman, but I saw no reason why the lovers should not be of the same sex.

I gave Frances a new name. It was Aurelia, a character in one of Mr. Dryden’s comedies. In this, Aurelia was a delightful creature whom everyone loved. As for myself—I must have a special name, too. It was difficult to find anything that fitted myself. Beaumont and Fletcher had written of a young shepherdess named Clorine, who was faithful through all sorts of trials.

So we became Aurelia and Clorine. It gave a romantic secrecy to our correspondence.

One day my father came to see me.

He said: “You are growing up, daughter. Twelve years old, no less, and Anne coming on a little way behind. The King thinks it is time you made an appearance at court now and then. After all, you are my daughters.”

“What shall we have to do?”

“Well, he has an idea. He thought it would be rather interesting if you gave a performance. Some play . . . something in which you could sing and dance to show the court you have not been idling all this time.”

“A performance! Do you mean act?”

“Why not? It will be amusing. You will enjoy it.”

“Like actors on a stage?”

“And why not? But your stage would be Whitehall. I have a plan. I am sending for the Bettertons . . . the great actors. They will come to court and teach you how to say your lines. We shall make sure that you have some beautiful dresses. It will be a great introduction to court. I shall be so proud of you.”

“Anne and I to act! Do you really think we can?”

He touched my forehead lightly. “Do not frown, dearest daughter,” he said. “When Mrs. Betterton has coached you, you will act perfectly. You will enjoy it. Some of the girls can join in. Jemmy will help. He will want to be in it. He will be coming over to see you.”

I was a little taken aback and I wondered whether Frances would be present to see me act. I should have to do my very best.

It was interesting to meet Mrs. Betterton. She was a very handsome woman and most deferential. She told us to read for her. I wondered what she thought of Anne, who could scarcely read at all. She said she was quite pleased with me.

She instructed us to say words after her. I enjoyed it, particularly when Jemmy arrived.

He was very handsome and tended to give himself airs. I did not mind that. I liked Jemmy. He was always very friendly toward me. I had heard Sarah Jennings say that he acted as though he were heir to the throne and seemed to forget he was born on the wrong side of the blanket.

I had long ago discovered what that meant and because of it Jemmy could not have what he had set his heart on. Jemmy was a very ostentatious Protestant, though I did not believe he was very religious in truth. He just liked to be present at all the ceremonies of the Church so that he could remind people of this. He was very popular, though there was a great deal of scandal concerning him at this time. It had something to do with a Mrs. Eleanor Needham, daughter of Sir Robert Needham.

When Jemmy arrived he was as blithe as ever. He snapped his fingers at scandal. I suposed he was too accustomed to it to take much notice.

He was a very good dancer and was going to perform with us, but that would not be until the play was over, for that was for ladies only.

It was all very exciting. Even Anne was aroused to enthusiasm and made an effort to learn her lines; she really worked hard under Mrs. Betterton’s tuition. Anne was to take the part of Nymphe in the play—a chaste nymph like myself.

The story of Calisto, the Chaste Nymph, was taken from Ovid’s Metamorphoses and John Crone had been commissioned to write a play from it.

Jemmy was overcome with mirth about something and when I asked him what it was, he said he dare not tell me, but I could see that with a little prompting he would. In the story, Jupiter pursues the Chaste Nymph with the object that she shall be chaste no longer.

At last I prevailed on Jemmy to tell me what amused him.

“The noble Duke will not allow his daughter to be sullied, even by the greatest of the gods,” said Jemmy. “Poor John Crone! He has to make a different ending. Depend upon it, dear cousin, my chaste nymph, you are in danger of losing your virginity, but you will be rescued in time. This is one occasion when wily old Jupiter will not have his way, for Calisto is in truth the Lady Mary . . . and the daughter of my Lord Duke must be rescued in time.”

This seemed very funny and everyone laughed mightily.

It was a most enjoyable time and we were all very excited about the play. Sarah Jennings, of course, had a part, and Jemmy told us that Lady Henrietta Wentworth was going to play the part of Jupiter, which gave him great pleasure.

Frances would be present. I should act for her and I must be good.

Sarah Jennings, who was going to play the part of Mercury, had no qualms. She was sure she would give a superb performance. I heard her telling Margaret Blague, who was dressed in a magnificent gown embroidered with brilliants, not to be so nervous. She was not in the least.

Margaret was protesting: “I did not want to do this. I do not want to act. But they told me I must. Oh dear, I am sure I am going to spoil everything.”

Mrs. Betterton said: “This is an attack of nerves which comes to most good actresses. Some say that if one is not a little nervous one will not give a good performance.”

I could not help glancing at Sarah. She never felt nervous, I was sure. Sarah interpreted my glance and merely tossed her head. Rules which might affect others did not touch her; in her opinion she knew better than everyone else about any subject and that included acting; and even in the presence of a highly acclaimed lady of the theater, Sarah would rely on her own judgment.

Henrietta Wentworth and Margaret Blague were talking together. How different they were! They were two of the most beautiful girls at court however. Henrietta Wentworth was rather boldy handsome; she would make an excellent Jupiter. Margaret Blague was shy and retiring; and she was sure she was going to make an inadequate Diana. Moreover, she was very religious and felt there was something not very moral about acting.

Henrietta Wentworth was admiring the beautiful diamond Margaret was wearing.

“It was lent to me by Lady Frances,” Margaret explained. “I do not want to wear it. I hate borrowing things. I am always afraid I will lose them. But Lady Frances was insistent. She said it suited the part and my costume.”

“Why should you lose it?” cried Henrietta. “I love jewelery and that is a very handsome piece.”

The stage was set. Mrs. Betterton hovered about us, giving last-minute instructions.

“Do not forget, Lady Anne, plenty of feeling in your words. And you, Lady Henrietta, remember, Jupiter is a great god, the head of them all. He has come to woo Calisto. And Lady Mary, you must show your determination to resist his advances . . . just as I showed you.”

“Yes, Mrs. Betterton. Yes, Mrs. Betterton,” we all assured her we would remember what she had taught us.

The music had started and we were there. It was wonderful. There were one or two little mishaps. Anne forgot her lines on one occasion, but Mrs. Betterton’s voice, hushed though clear, came from behind the scenes. Diana was not where she should have been at a certain point, but that also was put right. The ballet went well. I saw Jemmy dancing with Henrietta Wentworth and the audience seemed to like it, for they applauded with enthusiasm.

The King himself congratulated us all; then he kissed both Anne and me and said he had not known there was such thespian talent in the family, which made everyone laugh and applaud again.

We were all very happy, except poor Margaret Blague, who was in a state of dire dismay, for her fears had been realized and she had indeed lost the diamond which she had been lent by Lady Frances Villiers.

Poor Margaret! She had not wanted to be in the play in the first place. She had had to be persuaded that it was her duty, and now, to have lost a diamond which did not belong to her plunged her into the deepest gloom.

Anne said, in her lighthearted way: “You must not worry, Margaret. It is certain that it will be found. It must have dropped onto the floor. Let there be a search.”

I could see that there would be no comfort for Margaret until the diamond was found and returned to Lady Frances.

Margaret was appalled to discover it was worth eighty pounds.

I felt very sorry for her. Margaret was different from the others. She was more serious; at one time she had been in my mother’s household and my mother had thought very highly of her.

She had said once: “Margaret Blague is a really virtuous girl. She is deeply religious and lives according to her beliefs. One cannot say that of many. Oh yes, they will attend the church services; they assume piety, but when it comes to the virtuous way of life they betray that they are merely making a show. With Margaret her religion goes deep.”

I knew she thought playacting was sinful and I could not agree with her in that. Poor girl. She had been more or less forced into doing what she had not wanted to, and against her judgment to borrow the diamond. It was ironic that this should have happened to her.

A search was made but the diamond was not to be found. It would be easy for someone to pick it up and pocket it. Who would be the wiser?

“Eighty pounds,” mourned Margaret. “I am not rich enough to pay Lady Frances such a sum.”

“She will not ask for it,” I comforted her.

“But I must pay it nonetheless. Otherwise how will she know that I have not stolen it?”

“No one could possibly suspect you of that.”

“There will be some,” insisted Margaret. “And how can I be happy again knowing that I have lost this valuable jewel?”

It was true. If the diamond were not found, Margaret would remember it all her life.

I could not stop thinking of her. The incident had put a blight on what should have been a happy evening.

My father noticed my preoccupation. He had come to us full of enthusiasm.

“Calisto! Nymphe! My clever little girls,” he cried. “You were enchanting. I was so proud of you both. We shall have Davenant wanting you to join his players.”

“It was Mrs. Betterton who helped us,” said Anne.

“Ah, she is a great actress and a charming lady, too.”

“She made us say our lines again and again, didn’t she, Mary?”

“Yes, she did.”

“What ails you, daughter?” asked my father. “Is something wrong? You cannot hide your feelings from me, you know. Come. Tell me.”

“It is poor Margaret Blague.”

“What of her?”

“She has lost Lady Frances’s diamond and is very frightened. She did not want to act in the first place, nor did she want to borrow the diamond.”

My father grimaced. “A little puritan, eh?”

“She is really very good and now so unhappy because she thinks losing the diamond is some judgment on her for playing when she knew she should not do so.”

“These puritans can be something of a trial . . . as we found to our cost. Tell her not to worry. Doubtless the jewel will be found. If it is not . . . then it is lost.”

“She says she must pay for it and she cannot because she is not rich.”

“And that worries my tenderhearted little daughter?”

“I like her. She is very pretty and she looks unhappy now.”

“And you cannot be happy and enjoy your triumph while poor Margaret grieves.”

He understood, as he always had.

“Well,” he said, “I refuse to have my daughter sad on such an occasion. I tell you what shall be done. I shall provide the eighty pounds, so that Margaret Blague can take it along to Lady Frances and so forget about the matter. How is that?”

I looked at him with adoration. He was indeed the best and kindest man in the world.

“So you are happy now you have this matter settled?” he asked.

“I am happy,” I said, “to have the most wonderful father in the world.”

ANNE HAD BEEN SO EXCITED by the performance that she wanted to do more. She had liked Mrs. Betterton so much that she had wanted to keep her at court. Of course, she was indulged in this matter and there was to be another play with a bigger part for Anne. We were all so pleased to see her enthusiasm. Good-tempered, good-natured as she always was, she was rarely excited about anything, so it was unusual to see her working on her lines with energy and real enjoyment. This was for the play Mithridate, and Anne was to have the part of Semandra.

Mr. Betterton was also at court and he was coaching the young men in their parts.

Anne had discovered my passion for Frances Apsley. She knew about the letters we exchanged and that Frances was Aurelia and I Clorine. She did what was typical of her; she decided she must have a passionate friendship. I had Frances and, as there was no one to compare with my choice in Anne’s opinion, she must have Frances too.

After all, sentimental friendships were the fashion. So many young women indulged in them and they were generally conducted by letters.

This had nothing to do with her allegiance to Sarah Jennings, any more than mine had toward Anne Trelawny. They were our true friends, our everyday friends. This was different. The object of our devotion in this case was an ideal being, a goddess to be worshipped.

I had found the goddess and she must be Anne’s too.

I often wonder now what Frances thought of our outpourings. When I remember some of the impassioned words I wrote I can smile at my innocence. It did not occur to me at the time that others might think it was not exactly a healthy state of affairs.

However, Anne was soon corresponding with Frances in the same manner. Frances humored her, as I expect she did me. We were the daughters of the Duke of York, heir to the throne, and if there was no son, I was second in line to the throne, Anne third. That had to be a consideration.

Not only was Anne writing to Frances—an example of her devotion and her determination to imitate me, for writing was an occupation she had hitherto avoided and I could imagine what those letters were like—but they must have their private names, as Frances and I had. So Frances was Semandra—from the play, of course—and Anne was Ziphares, another character from it.

It may have been this unusual activity on Anne’s part that attracted Lady Frances’s attention, and she may have felt that she should know what was going on. We were, after all, in her charge. She was especially watchful.

It happened that Richard Gibson, the dwarf, whom we often used as a courier, was away. Sarah Jennings, who was fully aware of the passion Anne and I shared for Frances Apsley, and no doubt laughed at it and clearly considered it no impediment to her domination over Anne, agreed to take the letters while Richard Gibson was absent. Thus, I supposed, she could keep a close check on Anne and share her confidences about what she would consider to be a silly and by no means a permanent arrangement.

One day, when I was having my dancing lesson with Mr. Gorey, our dancing master, Anne was in her closet, writing to Frances—never an easy task for Anne—and before she had time to finish her letter she was called to have her dancing lesson.

She did not want to leave the letter unsealed, so she took it with her to the class and, as my lesson had just finished, she gave it to me, whispering that I might be good enough to seal hers with mine and that Sarah had promised to take them both to Frances.

I went back to my closet and there wrote my letter to Frances, but just as I was finishing, Sarah Jennings came in.

“I shall have to go now,” she said. “So I will take the letters.”

“My sister’s is not yet sealed. Will you please seal it for her while I do mine?”

As I gave her the letter, Lady Frances came in and I had a notion that she might have heard some of the conversation.

I felt my face grow scarlet. Suppose she asked to see the letter? I could not bear to think of those cool eyes reading the impassioned words. She would not understand at all and they would seem quite foolish to such a practical person. I had called Frances my husband and I was her adoring wife.

Sarah was calm enough. In any case, she had nothing to fear. She was just standing there with Anne’s letter in her hand.

As Lady Frances came into the closet, I was so embarrassed. I stammered something about my new gown and asked how she liked it. I turned to the cupboard and opened it so that my back was toward her and she could not see my flushed face.

Lady Frances said: “My Lady Mary, what were you doing in your closet before I came in?”

Sarah stood there with an air of nonchalance, Anne’s letter still in her hand.

“I . . . had called in Mrs. Jennings to show me a new way of sealing a letter,” I said.

Lady Frances looked at the letter in Sarah’s hand and there was a slight pause before she said: “Mrs. Jennings is very ingenious with such things.”

There was an awkward silence and then she left us.

Sarah shrugged her shoulders. “Let us seal the letters,” she said, “and I will take them to Mrs. Apsley without delay.”

After that I fancied Lady Frances was very watchful and when next I wrote and Richard Gibson was still away and Sarah was unable to deliver the letter, I summoned one of the footmen and asked him to take it, in spite of the fact that Frances had warned me not to send letters unless it was by someone whom I could trust.

I was sure then that Lady Frances was watching us closely, for that letter fell into her hands.

I was horrified when she came to my closet and said that she wanted to talk to me. She was very respectful, as always, but her mouth was set in stern lines and I saw that she was determined to do what she considered her duty.

She said: “You have been corresponding with Mistress Apsley.” She held up the letter which I had given to the footman. She must have ordered him to give it to her.

“You . . . have read it?” I gasped.

“Lady Mary, your father has put me in charge of this household. It is therefore my duty to know what goes on in it.”

I was trying to think what I had written in that letter. I was always in a state of high emotion while I wrote them, words flowed out and I was never sure half an hour afterward what I had said except that all the letters contained pledges of my constant love.

Then I remembered that I had mentioned something about the scandal concerning the Duke of Monmouth and Eleanor Needham and that the Duchess of Monmouth had taken the matter mightily to heart.

That had been indiscreet, of course, and I should not have referred to it. Nor should I, if I had thought anyone was going to read it other than Frances. I was rather proud of my eloquence and I remembered the end. “I love you with a love that never was known by man. I have for you more excess of friendship than any woman can for woman and more love than even the most constant husband had for his wife, more than can be expressed by your ever obedient wife and humble servant who wishes to kiss the ground where you walk, to be your dog on a string, your fish in a net, your bird in a cage, your humble trout. Mary Clorine.”

I had been so proud of those words when I wrote them; now I blushed to remember them.

Lady Frances was looking at me very strangely. I noticed an uncertainty in her eyes. I had realized that she was not sure how to act.

She began: “His Grace, your father . . .” Then she shook her head; her lips moved as though she were talking to herself.

“It is a very excessive friendship,” she said at length. “I think it would be better if we did not speak of it. And the Lady Anne . . . ?”

“My sister writes to Mistress Apsley because I do,” I said.

“I must ponder this matter,” she said, as though to herself.

“I do not understand. Is it not good to have friends . . . to love?”

“Perhaps it would be well if you did not meet for a while.”

“Not meet?”

“And not . . . write such letters.”

“I do not understand . . .”

“No,” said Lady Frances briskly. “I am sure you do not.”

“Not to see her . . .” I murmured blankly.

“I think you might meet, say on Sundays. You will be in the company of others then. And perhaps on Holy Days.”

I stared at her in dismay. I had been in the habit of taking any opportunity I could to be with Frances.

I said: “Lady Frances, you have my letter.”

She looked at me with caution in her eyes. I knew that she was eager not to displease me. It was a fact that my stepmother was pregnant, but who could be sure what the result of the pregnancy would be? And if the situation did not change, Lady Frances might be at this moment earning the deep resentment of the future Queen of England.

“We will forget this matter,” she said slowly. “I think, my Lady Mary, it would be well if we were a little discreet.”

She was smiling at me. Gravely I took the letter from her and she left me.

IT WAS A BLEAK JANUARY DAY in the year of 1675. I would soon be thirteen years old. My father had been very disappointed because, instead of the hoped-for boy, Mary Beatrice had produced a girl. He tried not to show it and declared that he was very happy with our little sister.

I found Mary Beatrice in excellent spirits. She confided to me that she wanted the child to be baptized in the Catholic faith and she was afraid there would be some opposition to that.

“Your father desires it, too,” she said. “And I am going to be very bold. I shall command Father Gallis to baptize the baby before anyone else can do anything about it.”

In view of the conflict which was growing over this matter of the Catholic faith, I thought this was a very daring thing to do. I knew that my father was very sad because Anne and I were being brought up as Protestants, and he only accepted this because if he had attempted to stop it we should have been taken away from him altogether and he would probably have been sent away from court.

I was amazed that the usually meek Mary Beatrice could be so bold; but I was learning that people will do a great deal for their faith.

It was no use trying to dissuade her, and Father Gallis baptized little Catherine Laura. The name Catherine was given to the baby in honor of the Queen and she was Laura after Mary Beatrice’s mother.

Mary Beatrice had no qualms about what she had done. I supposed this was due to the fact that, whatever misdemeanor she committed at court was of no importance because she had done right in the sight of Heaven.

However, she did seem a little subdued when she told me, a few days later, that the King had announced his intention of coming to St. James’s to discuss the baptism with her.

I was horrified.

“The King will be angry,” I said. “You have been very bold. It is not that he will care very much. He is careless about such matters. But you have to remember that the people are not very pleased.”

She held her head high, but I could see that she was apprehensive. I begged her to tell me quickly what the King said when he came. I felt she had gone too far, even for his good humor.

She kept her word and I hastened to her. I found her a little baffled.

She said: “I told the King what I had done but it was not as I expected. He did not show anger at all. He just smiled in a rather absent way and talked of other things. I was overjoyed. My baby is a Catholic, even though she was born in this heretic land.”

“Do not be too sure of that,” I said. “There are people around us who could create mischief.”

The next day I was told that the baby was to be baptized in the Chapel Royal, according to the rites of the Church of England, of course, and one of the bishops would perform the ceremony.

I was astounded. Mary Beatrice had said the King had not seemed to hear what she had said.

“He did hear,” I assured her. “He is sweeping it aside, as he does anything that is unpleasant. He understands what you did. Most people would have been furious . . . banished you to the Tower. But the King does not act like that, so he brushes it aside as though it has not happened. But he will have his way all the same and Catherine Laura will be baptized in the Church of England.”

“But she is a Catholic!” Mary Beatrice was almost in tears. She was bewildered. She did not understand the ways of our court. The King, so charming . . . smiling, showing no signs of anger, had just swept aside her childish action. As far as he was concerned, it had never happened.

Soon after I heard that my sister Anne and I were to stand as sponsors and the Duke of Monmouth was to join us.

When it was over my father came to see me.

“The Duchess told you that there was a previous baptism,” he said.

“Yes,” I replied. “She did.”

He was frowning and staring before him. “The King has spoken to me very seriously,” he went on.

“The King behaved to the Duchess as though it were of no importance.”

“He understood her motive. ‘She is young,’ he said, ‘and quite ignorant of the significance of her action. She is not to be blamed, but watched that she commits no more such follies.’ If this were known, Gallis would be hanged and quartered. As for myself and the Duchess, he warned me that at least we should be sent away from court. No one must know that this ceremony took place. Please, never speak of it.”

I did understand. I was growing up fast. I saw that my father could be in danger.

I threw myself into his arms and clung to him.

“I promise, I promise,” I cried.