She spent the rest of that morning making her two rooms, her bedchamber and her little sitting room, gay and pretty, and rehearsing Jackie in his bow and his greeting to his father. Betje tactfully suggested that it might be as well to remove Mary, secreting her for the moment in Betje’s bedchamber, but this kind offer Lucy indignantly refused. Mary was her beloved daughter and must remain. So Mary remained, looking out wisely from her pink lined cradle, her coral in one hand and three bells on a ribbon in the other. It was she who first seemed to hear the sounds of arrival. Her blue eyes widened and the hand that had been jingling the bells was suddenly still.
But Charles did not come that day or the next. When he did come, on the evening of the third day, Lucy had just put the children to bed. She heard the door of her sitting room open and shut and thought it was Betje with her supper, but when she reached the further room she saw Charles.
She went into his arms quite naturally, as she had always done, and he put his arms round her and kissed her lightly on the cheek, then held her away from him, looking at her. “Mrs. Barlow,” he said. “Do you know, on that devilish journey we would often talk to each other under assumed names. Barlow was one. Sometimes Wilmot was Mr. Barlow and sometimes I was. I travelled very safely as Mr. Barlow. I got the feeling that you protected me.”
He spoke lightly but his huge black eyes gazed straight down into hers in a way that exerted an almost intolerable pressure upon her; as though he were trying to get the truth out of her by physical force. It was all she could do to keep her own eyes upon his, but she did, and her voice was as steady as her eyes. “I prayed for Your Majesty’s safety by day and by night, knowing as I do that sincere and penitent prayers are accepted of God. I am Your Majesty’s humble and contrite servant and your loving wife. Do not put me from you by calling me Mrs. Barlow. I am Lucy. I am sorry, and I will never fail you again. I am Lucy.”
Her voice died away and her eyes devoured his face. She could understand now what Lord Taaffe had meant when he said he had hardly recognized the King, for this man was not the Charles she knew. He had become thin as a scarecrow and his skin, darkened and roughened by exposure, was scored with new lines. This was the face of a man who would never become young again, nor trust anyone again; except the very few. It was a guarded face and the mouth was hard. Suddenly he smiled and the charm was still there.
“Lucy, I am sorry you have been ill but your pallor becomes you.” He took her chin between finger and thumb and turned her face to the light. “The bones of your face are good and you will always be beautiful. I shall always love your face.”
He pinched her chin affectionately and dropped his hand. He had never before treated her in quite this way; as though she were a woman for his amusement only. She knew now that there had been a sort of death; she had dealt him a blow from which he would not recover.
But he was struggling to forgive her, trying not to remember that when he had been hiding in that damnable loft, staying himself upon the thought of her loyalty, her heart had probably already strayed from him. For he was a fair man. “I cannot blame you for unfaithfulness to the marriage vow, dear heart,” he told her lightly. “I have not the right. Now that’s enough of our sins and failings. We have a son to keep us in good humour with each other. Where is Jackie?”
“It is after his bedtime and he is asleep now. I am sorry you have come so late for I had trained him to make his bow and say, Sir, my father. Only he pronounces it Shir Da.”
“I trust I still have some rights,” he said drily, “and one of them is surely the right to look at my son in his sleep.”
Lucy led the way silently to her bedchamber where Jackie in his cot and Mary in her cradle lay sleeping side by side. A nightlight was burning to comfort Jackie should he have one of his nightmares, but she lit the candle and shading the flame with her hand that it might not waken the children, she held it so that the King could look at his sleeping son. Jackie in sleep was almost unbelievably beautiful, and his innocence and vulnerability caught at the heart. He lay defenceless on his back, one hand hidden under the counterpane, the other flung up on the pillow as though to ward off the night terrors.
His father looked at him long and speechlessly, great vows forming in his heart. This boy should never suffer as he had suffered. He should have everything it was in his father’s power to give him, yes, even the throne. This was his true son and he would yet win back the throne of England for Jackie. If his mother was a jade she had at least given the child her beauty and the boy himself would never fail him. That he knew, looking at the perfect face. That was not the face of a son who would ever forsake his father. His spirit, that had been wrung out day by day by ceaseless betrayals and hypocrisies, by an evil smiling deviousness that he had had to emulate himself in order to survive, was suddenly refreshed. His wife had failed him, but he had Jackie.
Charles dragged his eyes from his son’s face and turned politely towards the cradle. Lucy, suddenly cold, lowered the candle and Mary was illumined in her rosy nest. Red-faced, red-headed, buttoned up in determination, she was so comical a baby that neither heartbreak nor tension, nor heightened emotion of the sort that Jackie caused, could survive in her presence. Charles took two strides into the next room and exploded with laughter on the hearth.
“The little brat is the spit image of Taaffe,” he said. “ ’Sdeath, but I’ll twit him about her! When it comes to producing children, Lucy, you go from the sublime to the ridiculous.”
It was harsh laughter but it was good to hear him laugh at all. Lucy laughed too. Once more Mary had been the emolument in a difficult situation.
3
Settled again at the Louvre Charles flung himself with a forced cheerfulness into whatever action was possible. He consulted with his friends and advisers and he vanquished his mother and the Queen Regent in the affair of Dr. Cosin’s chapel; on the first Sunday after his return it was in use again and he and his household gave thanks there for his safety. That over he could find nothing else for which to give thanks and fell into something like despair.
Winter came down upon Paris and the perennial revolution was still muttering in the streets. The French royal family and the peacock aristocrats, having welcomed Charles and listened with polite interest to his tales of his adventures, then dropped him. He seemed only able to talk about his troubles and people in trouble are so dull. They are also a reproach with their lean faces and shabby garments, and the look in the eyes as though they expected to have something done for them. And what more could be done for these boring exiles? The Queen Dowager and her family had free house room at the Louvre and if there was occasionally delay in the payment of their minute pensions they must remember that there was a civil war on. The rumours that the English Queen was short of fuel, that the Princess Minette had to go to bed when her one chemise was being washed, and that the King was wearing Lord Jermyn’s shirt were not verified in case they should be true.
The exiles smiled grimly and huddled closer together, and Lord Taaffe was once more reminded of wrens in winter time. The great old man with whom he had spent that unforgettable evening had told him he would serve the poor, but he had not expected that those who needed him most would be the King and the King’s family. He now held the distinguished post of chamberlain, equerry and cupbearer to His Majesty, which in practice meant that he was the King’s dog’s-body. He shaved Charles, polished his shabby boots, groomed his horse, borrowed money for him and saw to it that whatever else ran short the drink did not. He managed to appear always good-humoured and confident, his great laugh rang out often and his red head was a cheerful sight to the depressed royal family on their fireless days.
Lord Taaffe found his own comfort downstairs with Dr. Cosin and Lucy and the children, where there was almost always warmth and laughter. They were on the whole a little better served than the royal family for Pierre Latour, the servant who had fetched the coals for Dr. Cosin on the day of L
ucy’s first visit, saw to it that they were never without at least a small fire in his study.
Lucy frequently had none in her sitting room but Dr. Cosin did not know this, and the pleasure which she and the children took in his company he accepted with humility as a personal compliment. It was also a source of slight irritation to him, for his writing suffered sadly. His powers of concentration were great but with Jackie playing and chatting on the floor, Lucy murmuring to her baby, Betje in and out, Lord Taaffe in and out, the continual stream of visitors in trouble that he had always had continuing as before, his pen was more often idle than active and the idleness was more painful to him than his increasing physical weakness and infirmity. When he wished to pray and meditate he had to take refuge in his cold little cell of a bedchamber, and here he was occasionally visited by his old friend Sir Harry Verney.
The two elderly gentlemen would sit side by side on the bed, the chairs having been removed to the study for visitors, Sir Harry wrapped in the tattered ruins of a fur coat, Dr. Cosin in his blanket, and talk together of the matters near their hearts. Almost always they spoke of selfless matters such as the welfare of their families and the plight of their King, but occasionally they could not help looking back to the comforts and grandeurs of the past, and Dr. Cosin would recall the way of life of those vanished personages, the Master of Peterhouse and the Dean of Salisbury, shake his head and murmur sadly, “So unlike my present existence, much beset by mice and nursing mothers.” Then Sir Harry, a jolly man when not actually hungry, would take a look at the two shabby figures sitting on the edge of the hard bed and burst into laughter. And Dr. Cosin would cheer up and say, “But this is pastoral work. This is a care of souls. And one of the souls in my care is that of my King.”
Charles was often with him in the evening when they could be alone and they would talk late into the night, and sometimes he would come with Lord Taaffe to visit Lucy and the children in Dr. Cosin’s room. This situation of the two fathers and the two children he had accepted with grim humour, since his utter dependance upon Lord Taaffe and his ever growing love for him made anything else impossible, and he always greeted Lucy with affectionate courtesy and never failed to admire her baby before turning to his own son, but that he was turning from her was obvious to them all; Lucy herself knew it, with death in her heart. He would stay for a while and then picking Jackie up in his arms he would carry him away upstairs to play with Minette, and it was a long time before he was returned. That he was trying to wean their child away from Lucy was as obvious as the fact that he had tired of her.
“But she is your wife, sir,” Dr. Cosin said to him one December evening. “I may speak openly of your marriage for Lucy has told me that you know she once inadvertently revealed it to me. And she is a good wife. Will you listen while I plead for her?”
Charles listened courteously but Dr. Cosin thought he had done no good. There was a sort of death in the young man against which he could make little headway. Yet a few days later he tried again; to be instantly silenced.
“Do not speak of her,” said Charles curtly. “She is not my wife. I have just been told that our marriage was illegal. I shall always do my duty by her, for I once loved her and she is the mother of my son, but more than that is not now required of me.”
The room was growing dark and neither could see clearly the face of the other, but Charles was sensitive enough to feel how great was the shock that kept Dr. Cosin silent for so long. When he spoke it was with anger and bitterness, and with none of the ceremonious respect he usually showed when speaking to his King. “Sir, I have myself seen the marriage certificate. Who is now endeavouring to separate you from this girl who is your loyal wife? The fact that you are once more seeking the favours of Mademoiselle de Montpensier makes me suspect your mother. Now that she herself has failed to convert her sons to her own faith she is determined to marry them to women who will.”
Dr. Cosin’s outraged sovereign was silent for a moment and then laughed loudly. “Dr. Cosin, it is true that I am again courting my cousin, and now for the first time I am doing it in deadly earnest for my situation is deadly. If I am ever to make another attempt to gain my throne I must have money.”
“I understand the necessity, Sir,” said Dr. Cosin grimly, “but I grieve that the happiness of two women must be sacrificed to it. I refer to Lucy and to Mademoiselle herself. Is it possible for Your Majesty to enlighten me as to why you are not legally married to your wife?”
Charles considered Dr. Cosin to be almost as tiresome and prosy as his Chancellor but he could be tolerant with them both for they were among the few whom he could trust, and patiently he told Dr. Cosin the facts of his supposed marriage to Lucy. “My mother told me the truth of it herself,” he said, “and of how she had come by the knowledge. She gave me a few days to get over the shock and then she once more began to discourse upon the charms of Mademoiselle. For years it has been her favourite topic of conversation. It may be that when I am married to the woman her tongue will be silent.”
He had ended on a note of bitterness and in the darkening room despair hung heavily. Dr. Cosin was filled with compassion yet he inexorably brought the conversation back to where it had started. “Lucy Walter,” he reminded Charles. “Does she know that she can now expect nothing from you except that duty which a king owes to a discarded mistress?”
“She knows nothing yet,” said Charles heavily. “After Christmas, I thought. Let her have a happy Christmas with the children.”
“And who is to tell her?” asked Dr. Cosin. “Yourself?”
There was a long silence. “I cannot tell her,” Charles burst out. “I cannot do it. My mother must tell her.”
Dr. Cosin pondered this. “No,” he said at last, with great dignity, “I fear that I do not trust Her Majesty to do it as it should be done. I have daughters of my own, as Your Majesty knows. They were much with me after their mother died. I should understand how to speak to heartbroken young girls of the fact of death. For to Lucy this will be a sort of death. When Christmas is over I will tell her myself.”
Thirteen
1
Christmas came and they tried to be gay. Sir Edward Hyde the Chancellor came from Antwerp, very gouty and irritable but able to hobble into the chapel at the Louvre to watch the King and the Duke of York go up to the altar to make their communion together. They knelt alone, clearly seen, and sitting at the back of the chapel with Jackie enthroned upon her knee Lucy watched too, gazing at her husband as though she had never seen him before. His figure dazzled in sunlight and became more kingly as she gazed, and her love rose in a great tide, she herself lost and dissolved within her love, and carried by it to be intimately with him. Then the tide ebbed and seemed to carry her further and further away, so that his figure became something seen very far off; still infinitely dear, but no longer hers. Her sense of loss was so grievous that when the rest of the congregation went up to the altar she could not join them; she was too far away now even to kneel where he had knelt.
Yet she watched them filing up and kneeling before the altar in line after line. Lord Wilmot was there, a little recovered from his illness, and Lord Taaffe and many others whom she knew, for the celebration was a public one for all the English exiles. Dr. Cosin, who was the celebrant, looked absorbed and happy as he moved through the rituals of his priestly duty, and his voice was strong as he spoke the great words that he adored. Lucy looked often at his consoling face, and back in her own rooms again she regained her self-control and turned to the happy business of making Mary’s first Christmas, and Jackie’s second a thing of joy.
She tried to do the things they used to do at Roch at Christmas. She had coaxed a wonderful yuletide log out of Pierre Latour and had it blazing in her sitting room, and she and Betje had made garlands of evergreens from the garden of the Louvre and hung them round the walls. She had collected all the candles she could find and from the central beam hung a kissing-ring, g
ay with painted nuts and oranges.
Betje’s little millinery establishment had provided the gifts for the children, tiny animals and birds and flowers made out of scraps of velvet, satin and feathers. They were hidden in a basket, waiting for the hour before the children’s bedtime when Lord Taaffe had promised he would try and be with them, if His Majesty could spare him. When the hour struck it appeared that His Majesty had been gracious for the door opened and his lordship came in, carrying his flaming head as though it were a torch of obstinate delight. Lucy had noticed before that he carried his head in this way when times were bad, as though he said, “I will enjoy myself or be damned. And damnation to the man who stops me.”
Laughing he seized his daughter in his great hands and held her up till her own red head touched the rafter beside the kissing-ring. She was so small and young a baby but she was not afraid as another would have been. From her eminence she bestowed upon the world far down below her the little flickering smile that Lucy declared was not wind but genuine pleasure. But the world was a long way away and suddenly her face puckered. Her father lowered her into his arms and held her firmly and she was happy again, her cheek against his chest.
“Christmas,” shouted Jackie. “Somethin’ for me? Somethin’? For me?” Standing up on tiptoe he explored one of Lord Taaffe’s capacious pockets, and finding nothing there but a rag that had been used for polishing His Majesty’s shoes he ignored his mother’s shocked remonstrance and went round to the other pocket, where he found a little horseshoe.
“It is for him,” said Lord Taaffe. “Cast by the pony of the King of France. I begged it from the stables.” He felt in a third pocket. “And this for my daughter.” It was a tiny charm of a shamrock leaf. “Such a useless gift but I had it as a boy,” he explained apologetically.