A new way of life had come in full-blown on the crimson wings of the Restoration.
It was only a week after her brother’s death that Princess Mary arrived in London. She was twenty-eight, a widow and mother—though she had left her son in Holland—a pretty, graceful gay young woman with chestnut curls and sparkling hazel eyes. She had always hated Holland, that sombre strait-laced land, and now she intended to live in England with her favourite brother and have all the lovely gowns and extravagant jewels for which she longed.
She embraced Charles enthusiastically, but she was cooler with James and only waited until the three of them were alone to speak her mind to him:
“How could you do it, James? Marry that creature! Heavens, where’s your pride? Marrying your own sister’s Maid of Honour!” Anne and Mary had been close friends at one time, but that was over now.
James scowled. “I’m sick of hearing about it, Mary. God knows I didn’t marry her because I wanted to.”
“Didn’t marry her because you wanted to! Why, pray, did you marry her then?”
Charles interrupted, putting an arm about his sister’s waist. “I advised him to it, Mary. Under the circumstances it seemed the only honourable course to take.”
Mary cocked a skeptical eyebrow. “Mam won’t find it so honourable, I warrant you. Just wait until she gets here!”
“That,” said Charles, “is what we’re all waiting for.”
It was not long until the Queen Mother Henrietta Maria arrived—not more than a week, in fact, after Anne Hyde’s son was born. Most of the Court went to Dover to meet her and they stayed a day or two at the great old castle which for centuries had guarded the cliffs of England.
Henrietta Maria was forty-nine but she looked nearer seventy, a tiny hollow-cheeked haunted-eyed woman with no vestige of beauty left. What little she had possessed had gone early, lost in the bearing of her many children, in the hardships of the Civil Wars, in her grief for her husband whom she had loved devotedly.
In repose her face was ugly, but when surrounded by people she was vivacious and gay, with all the superficial charm of her youth and the delightful manners in which she had so carefully schooled her children. She was dressed in the mourning-clothes which she had worn faithfully since her husband’s death and never intended to leave off until her own. The gown was plain black with full sleeves and high neck, broad white linen collar and cuffs, and over her head was hung a heavy black veil. She still wore her dark hair in old-fashioned corkscrew curls; it was her one concession to the love of personal ornament and pretty things which had been so strong in her.
By nature she was domineering and since all her children were stubborn and self-willed there had been continual conflict in the family. Several years before she had quarrelled with Gloucester over his refusal to enter the Catholic Church and had warned him never to see her more; when he died they were still unreconciled. But in spite of her deep hurt over that situation she now accosted James, determined to rule him or to break off their relationship. The Duke and his mother had always been most friendly when apart and he had been dreading this encounter with her, for her tongue could be acid and spiteful when she was angry.
“Well, James,” she said at last, when they were alone in her bedchamber to which she had summoned him. Her voice was quiet, and she had her hands clasped lightly before her, but her black eyes sparkled with excitement. “There’s talk about you in France—talk of which I was, needless to say, deeply ashamed.”
He stood across the room near the door and stared down at his feet, unhappy and ill-at-ease. He said nothing and would not look at her. For a long moment they remained perfectly silent and then he ventured to steal a glance, but instantly dropped his eyes.
“James!” Her voice was sharp and maternal. “Have you nothing to reply?”
With sudden impulsiveness he crossed the room and dropped to one knee at her feet. “Madame, I beg your pardon if I have offended you. I’ve played the fool, but thank God now I’ve come to my senses. Mrs. Hyde and I are not married and I intend to think of her no more—I’ve had proof enough of her unworthiness.”
The Queen Mother bent and kissed him lightly on the forehead. She was relieved and very pleased at the unexpected good sense he was showing—for knowing James she had anticipated a stubborn and bitter struggle. And so a part, at least, of what she had come for was accomplished.
She had two other purposes.
One was to secure a pension which would enable her to live out the rest of her life in comfort and security. She had begged too often from the tight-fisted Cardinal Mazarin, had lived too long in privation and want—sometimes without so much as firewood to heat her rooms. It would mean a great deal to her to have money again. Her other purpose was to get a suitable dowry for Henrietta Anne, who had suffered perhaps more than any of them during the years of exile. For with her father dead, her brother hunted out of his country, she had grown up as the poor relation of the grand Bourbons, a mere neglected little waif lost in the glitter of the French Court.
Now, however, King Louis’s brother wanted to marry her.
Henrietta Anne, whom Charles called Minette, was just sixteen. Her features were not perfect, her figure was too slender and one shoulder was slightly higher than the other—but almost everyone who met her was immediately struck by her beauty. For they attributed to facial prettiness what was really the glow of a warm and tender charm; it was impossible to resist her. And Charles had for her a deep and sincere devotion which he had never felt for any of his numerous mistresses.
His sister’s marriage to Philippe, Duc d’Orléans, would give him a valuable ally in the French Court, because Minette had already shown that she possessed a diplomatic talent which won admiration and respect from the most cynical statesmen. And she loved her brother with a passionate loyalty which would always place his interests first, those of Louis XIV second. Nevertheless Charles hesitated.
“Are you sure,” he asked her, “that you want to marry Philippe?”
They had left the Banqueting Hall to stroll in the Privy Gardens, along the gravel paths which separated the lawns and hedges into formal squares. Though mid-November it was very warm, and the rose-bushes were still covered with leaves; Minette had not even troubled to throw a cloak over her gold-spangled ball-gown.
“Oh, yes, Sire! I do!” She answered him with an eager smile.
He glanced down at her. “Do you love him?” Charles was so eager for his sister’s happiness that it troubled him to think of her marrying, as other princesses must, without love.
“Love him?” Minette laughed. “Mon Dieu! Since when did love have anything to do with marriage? You marry whom you must and if you can tolerate each other—why, so much the better. If not—” She shrugged. But there was no air of precocious cynicism about what she said—merely good common Parisian sense, and a willingness to accept the world for what it was.
“Perhaps,” he said. “But nevertheless you’re my sister, and I want to know. Do you love him?”
“Why—to tell you the truth, I don’t know whether I do or not. I’ve played with him since we were children, and he’s my cousin. I think he’s pretty—and I feel a little sorry for him. Yes, I suppose you might say I love him.” She put up one hand as a quick little breeze ruffled her hair. “And of course he’s mad in love with me. Oh, he swears he can’t live till we’re married!”
“Oh, Minette, Minette—how innocent you are. Philippe’s not in love with you—he’s not in love with anyone but himself. If he thinks he loves you now it’s because he sees that others do and imagines that if he marries you he’ll get some of that affection himself. When he doesn’t he’ll grow jealous and resentful. He’s a mean petty man, that Philippe—he’ll never make you happy.”