“’Tis true I love the boy. He is my own flesh and blood. There are a thousand things to remind me of that each day. He is my son—my eldest son. He is handsome, he delights me. I’ll deny it not. But you too, brother, are our father’s son and you are my heir. Never would I make Jemmy legitimate, while there is one who, it is right and proper, should take my place. If I die childless, James, you are the heir to the throne. I never forget that. Light-minded though I may be, on this point I am firm and strong. But there is one other matter I must settle with you. It is this dabbling with the Catholic Faith.”
“We cannot control our thoughts, brother.”
“Nay, but we can keep them to ourselves.”
“I could not be false to what I believed to be the true religion.”
“But you could keep your thoughts to yourself, brother. Remember our grandfather, Henri Quatre. You’re his grandson no less than I. Think of the control he kept on his religion, and because of this a country, which had known disastrous war, at last knew peace. England is a Protestant country—as firmly Protestant as France in the days of our grandfather was firmly Catholic. England will never again accept a Catholic King. If you would have peace in England when I am gone, you must come to the throne a Protestant.”
“And if my heart and mind tell me the Catholic Faith is the true one?”
“Subdue the heart, dear brother. If you let the mind take control, it will say this: Worship in secret. Remain outwardly what the country wishes you to be. Remember our grandfather … the greatest King the French ever had. He put an end to civil war, because he, who had been Huguenot, professed to be a Catholic. Stop this flirting with the Catholic Faith, James. Show yourself with me in the church when the occasion demands it. Let the country see you as a good Protestant. Then, brother, we shall more quickly put an end to this unhealthy fostering of young Jemmy’s ambitions. Do this—not for my sake—but for your own and that of an England you may one day rule.”
James shook his head gravely. “You know not what you ask, brother. If a man follows the Catholic Faith, how can he go to a Protestant church and worship there?”
Charles sighed wearily.
Then he shrugged his shoulders. James was a fool … always had been a fool and, he feared, always would be. Charles could console himself with the thought that whatever trouble James brought on himself he, Charles, would be in his grave and not concerned with it.
He turned to a happier subject. “How fares your family?”
James’ face lightened. “Mary is solemn as ever. Anne grows plump.”
“Come, take me to them. I would have them know their uncle forgets them not.”
In the Duke’s apartment Charles met Anne Hyde. Anne’s welcome was fond, and not entirely so because her brother-in-law was King. Anne was a clever woman, and she and Charles had ever been good friends. Anne did not forget that, when all had deserted her soon after her marriage and Henrietta Maria was demanding that she be ignored, it was Charles the King who had been her best friend.
“Your Majesty looks in good spirits,” she said.
“’Tis the prospect of talk with you,” said Charles, ever gallant even to the over-fat and ageing. “Od’s Fish! James is a gloomy fellow with his holy problems. Where are these children of yours?”
“I’ll send for them,” said Anne. “They’ll be eager to come, now they know Your Majesty is here.”
Charles, looking at Anne, thought she was more sallow than usual; her very fat seemed unhealthy.
He asked if she had news of her father, Edward Hyde, Earl of Clarendon, who was living in exile in France.
Anne had heard. He passed his days pleasantly enough, she told the King. He was finding compensation for his exile in writing his memoirs.
“They should make interesting reading,” said the King.
Now the little girls were coming into the room: Mary and Anne, the only two who had survived, thought the King, among the seven—was it seven?—which Anne Hyde had borne the Duke of York.
Yet James, with his two girls, had been more fortunate than his brother. Why was it that royal folk, for whom it was so necessary to produce heirs, were usually so unfortunate? Lack of heirs was the curse of royalty.
Mary, the elder, took his hand and solemnly kissed it. Charles lifted her in his arms. He loved children and he was particularly fond of solemn little Mary.
He kissed her affectionately, and she put her arms about his neck and rubbed her cheek against his. Next to her father she loved her Uncle Charles.
Anne was tugging at his coat.
“Anne’s turn,” said Anne stolidly.
“Now, Mary, my dear,” said the King, “you must give place to plump Anne.”
He set Mary down and made as though to lift Anne from the ground. He wheezed and puffed, and both children shrieked with delight.
“Anne is too fat to be lifted,” said Mary.
“I confess,” said the King, “that this great bulk of my niece defeats me.”
“Then give me sweetmeats instead,” said Anne.
“It is because she eats that she is so fat, Uncle Charles,” said Mary. “If she eats more she will become fatter and fatter, and nobody will be able to lift her.”
Anne gave them a slow, friendly smile. “I’d rather have sweetmeats than be lifted,” she said.
“Ah, my dear Anne, you present a weighty problem,” said the King. “And knowing your fancies, and that I should be admitted to your ponderous presence, I came well armed.”
Both little girls looked at his face; for he had knelt to put his on a level with theirs.
“Armed,” said Mary. “That means carrying swords and such things, Anne.”
“Swords made of sweetmeats?” said Anne, interested.
“Feel in my pocket, nieces, and you may find something of interest,” said their uncle.
Anne was there first, squealing with delight, and cramming the contents of the King’s pocket into her mouth.
Mary put her hand in that of the King. “I will show you Papa’s greyhounds. I love them.”
“I love them too,” mumbled Anne as best she could; while the sweet juices ran down her plump chin.
“They are so thin,” said the King, giving her his melancholy smile.
“I like others to be thin,” said Anne. “It is only Anne who must be fat.”
“You fear that if they grow as fat as you they will acquire similar tastes. If we all loved sweetmeats as does Mistress Anne, there would not be enough in the world to satisfy us all.”
Anne was solemn for a while, then she smiled that affectionate and charming smile. “Nay, Uncle Charles,” she said, “the confectioners will make more sweetmeats.”
They went to look at the Duke’s greyhounds. Their father forgot his preoccupation with religious problems and played games with his little girls. Charles showed them how to throw in pelmel.
And, as he guided Mary’s hand when she would throw the ball and as little Anne toddled beside him, Charles thought: If these two were but mine I should end this dangerous rivalry between Jemmy and James; I should not need to feel concerned because I see my brother deep in doubt when he reads Dr. Heylin’s History of the Reformation.
Charles came to see Nell after she had been playing on the stage of the King’s Theater for a few weeks.
He was amused by her return to the stage; but, as he pointed out, everyone knew that the child who was sleeping in the cradle was his son, and it was hardly fitting for that child’s mother to remain an actress.
“It is necessary for that child’s mother to provide food for the King’s bastard,” said Nell characteristically. “And if playacting is the only way she can do it, then playact she must. Should an innocent child starve because his mother is too lazy and his father too poor to feed him?”