This extremely fragile girl had a mind like quicksilver, he realized. His own was sound but slow. He did not know how hers had got from the dead to Justus but he moved his after it as well as he could. “I met him once or twice, I think, but I knew your elder brother better.” He looked down at his wineglass. “Perhaps I ought to tell you, Lucy, that I am not a politically-minded man but as far as I have any politics I think like your brother Richard.”
“I do not mind,” said Lucy. “What can we do, any of us, but go where our thinking takes us? Smuts, if you are not a Royalist perhaps you go sometimes to England?”
“Only occasionally,” he said, “and then only on business. I may be going this year.”
“If you do,” said Lucy, “and if you see Richard, give him my love. I never write to him for I am a bad correspondent. I write occasionally to Justus, and he to me, but he is a bad correspondent too and somehow our letters make little contact. But yet we still love each other so much.”
She was suddenly near tears and Smuts was again embarrassed. “If I go to London I will make a point of seeing Richard,” he said, and he meant what he said. He thought Lucy was one of the loveliest girls he had ever seen but she looked delicate and defenceless. Rumour had already told him that the King had tired of her. Richard should come over and look after her, and so he would tell him if he could find him. Justus too, but Justus was a Royalist and might not be granted a permit to leave the country.
It became their duty to talk to their neighbours at the table but later in the evening they found themselves sitting in the window together and Smuts said, “It is an odd thing about one’s childhood memories. They either vanish altogether or they are more vivid than yesterday. I remember every detail of that visit to the Tower of London. Do you?”
“It has come back to me,” said Lucy. “The Tower frightened me; it seemed to menace me in some way and I think I tried to forget it. I don’t want to think of the Tower itself, only the river, and being up on the ramparts and seeing London sparkling in a burst of sunlight. The sun pushed through the mist like a blessing hand with fingers spread out, and everything was made new. You told me something your uncle said about newness, but I don’t remember it.”
Smuts remembered. “That we are made new with every heart beat, as the world with every spring. New birth is the rhythm of the world.”
When they parted that evening he gave her a card with an address on it. “It is my home at Antwerp,” he said. “If you come there at any time my wife and I will be glad to see you and help you in any difficulty. And I would like to say that though I am something of a Puritan I honour and admire our King. I would never take part in any action that injured him and if I could serve him in any way I would gladly do it.” He bowed to her and she curtseyed and drove away in the coach through streets now lit by moonlight, so that she thought again of London and the silver Thames. What I would give to go back and see it again, she thought. I would like to see London again before I die.
3
After that evening thoughts of London seemed coupled in her mind with thoughts of death, and then came a letter from Richard, including a loving little note from Justus, to tell her that her mother had died. It was not the grief that her father’s death had been, for she had never loved her mother as much as her father, but she remembered now the times when her mother had herself been most loving; their times in the bower at Roch, the times when they had clung to each other after Nan-Nan had died, her mother’s selfless farewell to her when she left England. “That was my mother,” she said to herself over and over again, “that was my true mother,” and she was filled with sorrow because their love had lain only in pools and had not spread its living water to refresh their whole life together.
And then she remembered her father and mother standing together after the wheel had come off the coach on the journey to Golden Grove, united in selfless love and fear for their unborn child. She would remember them always so, she told herself, only without the fear that belongs to earth, retaining only the love that is of heaven. She longed for Justus but she knew there was no hope of seeing him because he had told her in his letter that he had applied for a permit to come to her but it had been refused.
Her mother’s death made her feel anxious as well as sad. Her life was one long fight against exhaustion, headaches, dizziness and perpetual backaches, a fight that day by day she always won, but nevertheless she began to worry again about the children. All their security was in her. Jackie in particular clung to her like a limpet. He had been moved from place to place so often in his short life. He had been introduced to his father and loved him and then been taken from him. Sometimes he was treated like a prince and sometimes not. He had no settled home or permanent father as other boys had and it worried him. Why was Shir Da not with them? he kept asking his mother, why did they not go back to that big place with the garden and the trees? He had liked that. She promised him that he would see Shir Da again and said that perhaps one day he would go back to the big house, but he was a sensitive child as well as a nervous and emotional one and he picked up her fears and uncertainties and did not rely upon what she said. But upon his mother herself he relied utterly. She was always there, always loving and always the same. Only with her did he feel safe. If she left him too long he started to scream.
Mary was such a contented, courageous little person that her mother hoped she was unharmed by her uncertain existence. She appeared so. She was one of those who knew how to polish the passing moment and was always absorbed in the practical tasks in which she delighted, washing the faces of her dollies and putting them to bed in the wooden cradle, talking to them and singing them to sleep, trotting after her mother and Anne as they went about their tasks and trying to be helpful, for she was a selfless child. But inside herself she was uneasy too when her mother was away from her. She would try to comfort Jackie when he screamed, patting his wet face and kissing him and trying not to mind when he pushed her roughly away and she fell on the floor. She knew how he felt. Life seemed to hold no real certainty that when a person went out she would come in again. Unlike Jackie she had no memory of her father that could be called a memory, though she had a hole in her somewhere from which a strength had been withdrawn, and perhaps because of this her love for Sir Henry de Vic was even greater than Jackie’s. Both children loved him and Lucy was aware that his grandfatherly figure was without doubt giving them something they badly needed, and she was deeply grateful to him.
4
And then one morning Anne came to Lucy, her cheeks pink with excitement, and said that a messenger had come from the King. His name was Captain Daniel O’Neil and he requested the honour of an interview with Mrs. Barlow. Lucy could hardly control her voice to say with composure, “Ask him to come up, please, Anne.” Daniel O’Neil. She did not know the name. Charles must have a new servant.
A moment later Captain O’Neil was bowing before her. She curtseyed to him, instructed the children to make their bow and curtsey and sent Anne to fetch wine. Then she seated him in her own chair by the window and sat opposite to him, her hands folded in her lap, observing him as carefully as a good hostess can allow herself to do while he laughed and joked with the children, and paid her compliments so carefully balanced between sincerity and fulsomeness that she did not know what to think of them, just as she did not know what to think of the man himself.
He was still young and had lean good looks but his eyes were reckless and his mouth hard. He had charm and knew how to use it but it had become a little tarnished with too much use. He was well dressed and Lucy always slightly distrusted a well-dressed exile, for it costs money to be well dressed and where did he get it from? She remembered Charles without a shirt to his back and Lord Taaffe going hungry to give her a bottle of perfume, and she suddenly did not like this man. As though he read her mind he said, “Of late years I have been principally attached to the Princess of Orange, but His Majesty has now honoured m
e by appointing me one of the grooms of his bedchamber.” That was it, Princess Mary paid her servants well. Lucy was ashamed of herself and asked gently, “Is the King well?”
“Yes, madam, His Majesty is well and he sends you this.” Anne had now taken the children away for their walk and they were alone; he leaned towards Lucy with a smile that suddenly won her heart, laid a heavy purse in her lap and looked tactfully out of the window. He was kind and his face had lighted up at the mention of Charles as though he loved him. It was so much easier for Lucy to trust than distrust that her shame increased.
“Did the King write to me?” she whispered, and she made no attempt to keep the longing out of her voice.
“No, madam, he is much pressed for time, but he sent you a message. He is at this moment travelling by water from Namur to Liège, where he will break his journey before going on to Spa to join the Princess. While he is at Liège he wishes you to bring his son to see him. I have already hired a coach for the conveyance of yourself and the child and I and my servant will ride with you. Can you be ready to leave tomorrow?”
For a few moments Lucy found it difficult to draw breath, she was so painfully and desperately happy. And then so afraid. And then again so happy. But what of Mary?
“My little girl,” she said. “I have never left her. May she come too?”
“No, madam,” said Captain O’Neil firmly. “One child is enough. Your maid looks a sensible girl, able to care for your daughter, and the little girl herself looks sensible.”
“She is,” said Lucy, considering the problem. “And she has a serene disposition and she is fond of Anne. I could not have left Jackie but I think I can leave her. I will come, Captain O’Neil.”
“There is no question about that, madam,” he said with amusement. “The King’s orders have to be obeyed.” He finished his wine and got up. “May I fetch you and your son at eight o’clock tomorrow morning? May I say how greatly I look forward to the journey in your company?”
But he did not enjoy the journey as much as Lord Taaffe had once enjoyed a similar one, for the spectacle of a mother so wrapped up in her son that all other males about her were degraded to the position of mere servants to one small boy did not appeal to his temperament. He and Jackie took a mutual dislike to each other upon this journey. Jackie was quite aware that the man was trying to steal his mother’s attention from him and the man thought the boy a damnably spoilt little brat. And in this opinion he was quite right.
The King was only to be in the town for a short time and Lucy wondered if she would see him at all, for Captain O’Neil took Jackie to the inn where he was staying and she was left behind alone in their lodgings through hours which seemed interminable. Then Captain O’Neil came back. “His Majesty thinks it would be best if you fetched Jackie yourself. The boy is so enamoured of his father that we fear screams if you are not there.”
“Has Jackie already screamed?” she asked anxiously, as they went down the stairs.
“Only alone in the coach with me,” said Captain O’Neil grimly. “He had stopped by the time I delivered him to his father.” He did not tell Lucy that the application of the flat of his hand to the brat’s posterior had so astonished Jackie that his roars had ceased on the instant.
It was only a short drive and then Lucy found herself going up a wide staircase. Captain O’Neil opened a door and they went in to a large sunny room where Charles and Jackie were alone together. “Maman! Maman!” cried Jackie, scrambling off his father’s knee and racing to meet his mother. He was a bilingual child, chattering in French and English, with Welsh and Dutch words stuck in here and there like currants in a cake, but French predominated. Then he took his mother’s hand and pulled her across the room to where the King was now standing silently by the window. Lucy curtseyed and kissed his hand and through the buzzing in her ears and the beating of her heart heard him telling Jackie to go with Captain O’Neil to the next room. “Do as I say, my son. You will see your mother again in a few minutes,” he said with firm gentleness. To her astonishment Jackie instantly did as he was told.
She was a little dizzy when she rose from her curtsey and Charles took her arm and put her kindly into a chair, but he continued to stand, looking down at her. “You are still not strong, Lucy,” he said. “I am sorry,” But when she looked up at him she saw no sorrow. No look of youth had come back to his face and it was already beginning to look as though carved out of dark wood, hard and firm, life in the eyes alone. All the old charm would be there once he laughed and talked, she knew, but she could not win him even to smile at her when she thanked him with all her heart for his gift. “I am in funds at the moment,” was all he said. “My sister has been generous. Lucy, I have only a little time and we must talk of the boy.”
“Are you not pleased with him?” she asked anxiously.
“He is a beautiful boy and you have done well in your care of him. He is healthy, good-natured and loving. But totally ignorant. I find he can neither read nor write.”
“I am trying to teach him,” said Lucy. “But I have never been a good scholar, as you know, and so perhaps I am not a good teacher. And, sir, he is still so small.”
“Old enough to read and write,” said the King. “Lucy, I have a proposition to make to you.”
“Will you not sit down, sir?” pleaded Lucy. “Standing you seem so far away from me.”
He sat, but it seemed to bring him no nearer. It seemed that Dr. Cosin was right and the rumours had reached him. And I do not know even what they are, she thought, so how can I defend myself? It is better to be silent. Defences and excuses are contemptible. It is better to be silent. Her thoughts could get no further for Charles was speaking again.
“Lucy, it is not possible for you to care for our son as you would wish to do. He needs education and discipline and a settled home and you can give him none of these things. The life you both lead is good for neither of you. Lucy, for his own sake let me have Jackie. Leave him here with me now. I join my sister tomorrow and she will help me to look after him. Then we will send him to my mother in Paris, and I will have him with me always as soon as my prospects improve. That I swear to you. Though why should I need to swear it when you know he is the light of my eyes? And you, Lucy, why do you not go home to England to your mother?”
“She is dead,” said Lucy.
There was a silence. “I am sorry,” said Charles. “But you have other relatives. If Mary is a difficulty her father’s home is open to her.”
“Small children should be with their mother,” said Lucy, “and I trust neither of mine to anyone but myself. For Jackie to have a tutor and a settled home it is not necessary for him to be taken from me. If you would give me a small but dependable pension I could provide him with both. Sir, I know your poverty, but until we find ourselves actually in the gutter there is always something we can do without; a horse, perhaps, or a dog or a bottle of wine, or even a woman. Women are expensive. Surely you could deny yourself for your son who is, you say, the light of your eyes?”
She was so exhausted that she had lost control of herself and pent-up bitterness that she did not know she had in her was pouring out. Her face was like marble with the bitterness and obstinacy together. He was very angry. What right had she of all people to talk to him in this way? He knew the truth about her now; Prodgers had made it indisputably clear and it had nearly broken his heart. He had to master the anger before he could speak again. “Lucy, until now I thought I had no right to take your child from you, but I now believe that for his sake it is my duty to command you to give me my son. And as his father I do so command you.”
Lucy had not yet regained control either of herself, or of the bitterness. “Am I owed nothing?” she asked. “Do you ever think how happy my life might have been if I had not met you? My father could see nothing but disaster in our love, and he warned me, but I would not listen. Now I have lost honour and good repute, and hom
e and health.” She paused, and found herself gasping for breath.
Charles was on his feet looking for the silver bell that would stop her tongue and rid him of her presence. Remorse and despair were breaking over him again, the same agony he had felt when he lay sobbing in the woods, reliving the degradation that had brought him to the carnage of Worcester. Was this what it meant to be the King? He felt as helpless in this mess of his own evil as a fly in a spider’s web. He found the bell and rang it wildly. “For God’s sake keep the child, Lucy,” he said. “And go.”
She walked down the stairs with Jackie and O’Neil with perfect composure. She would not have believed it possible but composure was necessary for Jackie’s peace of mind. A group of men were talking in the hall of the inn when they passed through. One detached himself and came to them and greeted her and Jackie. It was Lord Taaffe. He looked at her face with concern, took her arm and went with her to the door of the coach, while O’Neil went tactfully round to the other side to speak to the coachman.
Out in the clear air and the sun with his strong hand gripping her arm she felt better. He had not written her a real letter for a long time, only brief, kind notes with the money for Mary. He would not have failed to hear the rumours and she could neither look at him nor defend herself. Even as a child she had never known how to do it, and now she could hardly control her trembling sufficiently to speak to him of his child. “I would have brought Mary with me if I could,” she said, “but it was not allowed. She is a darling little girl. She has a wonderful character, strong yet loving, and she looks after me.”
“Tell her she must always do that,” said Lord Taaffe, and he helped Lucy into the coach, lifted Jackie in after her and stood back as the coachman came to slam the door. For the first time she looked at him and tried to smile. Their eyes met and his face softened. He smiled back and raised his hand in farewell. Lucy did not know what had been in her own eyes, but looking into his she had looked into the depths of a charity too great and too humble to concern itself with blame or criticism, and she drove away knowing that even if she never saw him again in this world, yet all was well. She leaned back in her corner of the coach and found she was longing for Mary.