The Loves of Charles II (82 page)

Poor Donna Maria! thought Catherine. She always had a habit of looking on the dark side of life as though she preferred it to the brighter.

“So you have heard this story of the chine of beef?” she asked.

“Well, I heard some women laughing over it below my window.”

“It was for the King’s supper, and the kitchens were flooded, so it must needs be carried to my Lord Sandwich’s kitchens to be cooked.”

“Is that the story of the chine of beef?”

“A noisy story because Madam Castlemaine cried out to burn the place down—but roast the beef.”

“Madam … Castlemaine!”

“Why, yes, have you not heard? The King is back with her. He is supping with her every night and is as devoted to her as he ever was.”

Catherine stood up. Her emotions were beyond control as they had been on that occasion when the King had presented Lady Castlemaine to her without her knowledge and consent.

All her dreams were false. He had not left the woman. In that moment she believed that as long as she lived Lady Castlemaine would be her evil genius as she was the King’s.

“Why … what ails you?” cried Donna Maria.

She saw the blood gushing from Catherine’s nose as it had on that other occasion; she was just in time to catch the Queen as she fell forward.

The King stood by his wife’s bed. She looked small, frail and quite helpless.

She was delirious; and she did not know yet that she had lost her child.

Donna Maria had explained to him; she had repeated the last words she had exchanged with Catherine.

I have brought her to this, thought the King. I have caused her so much pain that the extreme stress of her emotional state has brought on this miscarriage and lost us our child.

He knelt down by the bed and covered his face with his hands.

“Charles,” said Catherine. “Is that you, Charles?”

“I am here,” he told her. “I am here beside you.”

“You are weeping, Charles! Those are tears. I never thought to see you weep.”

“I want you to be well, Catherine. I want you to be well.”

He could see by the expression on her face that she had no knowledge of the nature of her illness; she must have forgotten there was to have been a child. He was glad of this. At least she was spared that agony.

“Charles,” she said. “Hold my hand, Charles.”

Eagerly he took her hand; he put his lips to it.

“I am happy that you are near me,” she told him.

“I shall not leave you. I shall be here with you … while you want me.”

“I dreamed I heard you say those words.” A frown touched her brow lightly. “You say them because I am ill,” she went on. “I am very ill. Charles, I am dying, am I not?”

“Nay,” he cried passionately. “Nay, ’tis not so.”

“I shall not grieve to leave the world,” she said. “Willingly would I leave all … save one. There is no one I regret leaving, Charles, but you.” “You shall not leave me,” he declared.

“I pray you do not grieve for me when I am dead. Rejoice rather that you may marry a Princess more worthy of you than I have been.” “I beg of you, do not say such things.”

“But I am unworthy … a plain little Princess … and not a Princess of a great country either…. A Princess whose country made great demands on you … a Princess whose country you succored and to whom you brought the greatest happiness she ever knew.”

“You shame me.” And suddenly he could no longer control his tears. He thought of all the humiliations he had forced her to suffer, and he swore that he would never forgive himself.

“Charles … Charles,” she murmured. “I know not whether to weep or rejoice. That you should care so much for me … what more could I ask than this? But to see you weep … to see you so stricken with sorrow … that grieves me … it grieves me sorely.”

Charles was so overcome with remorse and emotion that he could not speak. He knelt by her bed, his face hidden, bent over the hand that he held. As she drifted into unconsciousness, she felt his tears on her hand.

Donna Maria came to stand beside the King.

“Your Majesty can do no good to the Queen … now,” she said.

He turned wearily away.

He was at her bedside night and day. Those about the Queen marveled at his devotion. Was this the man who had supped nightly with my Lady Castlemaine, the man who was deeply in love with the beautiful Mrs. Stuart? He wished that his should be the hand to smooth her pillows, his the face she would first see should she awake, his the voice she should hear.

She was far gone in fever, and so light-headed that she thought she was the mother of a son.

Perhaps she was thinking of the tales she had heard of Charles’ babyhood, for she murmured: “He is fine and strong, but I fear he is an ugly boy.”

“Nay,” said the King, his voice shaken with emotion, “he is a very pretty boy.”

“Charles,” she said, “are you there, Charles?””

Yes, I am here, my love.”

“Your love,” she repeated. “Is it true? But I like to hear you say it as you did at Hampton Court before … Charles, he shall be called Charles, shall he not?”

“Yes,” said the King, “he shall be called Charles.”

“It matters not if he is a little ugly,” she said. “If he be like you he will be the finest boy in the world, and I shall be well pleased with him.”

“Let us hope,” said the King, “that he will be better than I.”

“How could that be?” she asked.

And the King was too moved to continue the conversation. He bade her close her eyes and rest.

But she could not rest; she was haunted by the longing for maternity.

“How many children is it we have, Charles? Three, is it? Three children … our children. The little girl is so pretty, is she not?”

“She is very pretty,” said Charles.

“I am glad of that, for I should not like you to have a daughter who was not lovely in face and figure. You care so much for beauty. If I had been blessed with great beauty …”

“Catherine,” said the King, “do not torment yourself. Rest. I am here beside you. And remember this: I love you as you are. I would not want to change you. There is only one thing I wish; it is that you may get well.”

Newly slaughtered pigeons were laid at her feet; she was bled continuously; a nightcap, made of a precious relic, was put upon her head; but the King’s presence at her bedside seemed to give her more comfort than any of these things.

In the streets the people talked of the Queen’s serious illness which might end in death; and it was generally believed that, if she were to die, the King would marry the beautiful Frances Stuart whose virtue had refused to allow her to become the King’s mistress.

This thought excited many. Buckingham, in spite of his being banished
from Mrs. Stuart’s company on account of his suggestion that she should become his mistress, had been restored to her favor. No one could build card houses as he could; no one could sing so enchantingly, nor do such amusing impersonations; so Frances had been ready to forgive him on the understanding that he realized there were to be no more attempts at love-making. Buckingham, who thrived on bold plans, was already arranging in his mind for the King, on the death of the Queen, to marry Frances; and Frances’s greatest friend and adviser would be himself.

Barbara, knowing these plans were afoot, was watching her relative cautiously. Buckingham had been her friend, but he could easily become her enemy. So Barbara was one of those who offered up prayers for the recovery of the Queen.

As for the King, he was so assiduous in his care for Catherine, so full of remorse for the unhappiness which he had caused her, that his mind was occupied solely with his hopes for her recovery.

The Duke and Duchess of York also prayed for Catherine’s recovery, for it was said that she would be unable to bear children; and if this were true and she lived, it would mean that the King would be unable to remarry, thus leaving the way clear for their children to inherit the throne.

Speculation ran high through the Court and the country, but this ended when Catherine recovered.

One morning she came out of her delirium, and her anguish on discovering she was not a mother was considerably lessened by the sight of her husband at her bedside, and the belief that she might be a beloved wife.

He continued full of care for her, and the days of her convalescence were happy indeed. The King’s hair had turned so white during her illness that he laughingly declared he looked such an old man that he must follow the fashion of the day and adopt a periwig.

“Could those gray hairs have grown out of your anxiety as to what would become of me?” she asked.

“Assuredly they did.”

“Then I think mayhap I shall enjoy seeing you without your periwig.”

He smiled, but the next time she saw him he was wearing it. He looked a young man with the luxuriant curls falling over his shoulders, although his face was lined and on his dark features there were signs of the merry life he lived. But he was tall and slender still and so agile. Then she remembered with horror that she had had all her beautiful hair cut off when the fever was on her, and that she must be plainer than she had ever been before.

Yet he seemed determined to assure her of his devotion; and when she was told that she must impute her recovery to the precious relics which had
been brought to her in her time of sickness, she answered: “No. I owe my recovery to the prayers of my husband, and the knowledge that he was beside me during my trial.”

las, as Catherine’s health improved the King’s devotion waned. It was not that he was less affectionate when they were together; it was merely that they were less frequently together. Irresistible attractions drew him away from Catherine’s side.