There were increasing scandals concerning the Court. That July, Barbara Castlemaine gave birth to a daughter whom she tried to foist on the King, but who everyone was sure was John Churchill’s child. In spite of Barbara’s importuning him, the King refused to acknowledge the girl.
Louise’s son was born the same month. He was called Charles. Louise insisted on the name, although the King mildly protested that this would be his fourth son named Charles, and he feared he might at times be wondering which was which.
“My Charles,” said Louise, “will be different from all the others.”
She was certain of this, and she was furious when she saw the youngest of the King’s Charleses—little Charles Beauclerk—amusing his father with his quaint manners which seemed to belong half to the Court and half to the slums of London.
Louise sighed over her Charles. He would be more handsome, more courtly than any. Only the greatest titles in the land would suit him.
“For I am different,” she told Charles. “I am not your mistress. I am your wife, and Queen of England. That is how I see myself.”
“As long as no others see it so, that is a happy enough state of affairs,” said the King.
“I see no reason why you should not have two wives, Charles. Are you not Defender of the Faith?”
“Defender of the faithless sometimes,” said Charles lightly. He was thinking of Barbara, who, since he had refused to acknowledge John Churchill’s child, was making demands on behalf of those whom he had already accepted. She wanted her Henry, who was nine years old, raised to the peerage without delay. Earl of Euston, she thought, should be the title for him; then he would be fit to marry my lord Arlington’s daughter, a charming little heiress. Charles had reminded her that her eldest was already Earl of Southampton, and young George was Lord George Fitzroy.
“I was never a woman to favor one child more than another,” said Barbara virtuously. “And what of poor dear Anne and Charlotte? I must ask you to allow them to bear the royal arms.”
Charles was beset on all sides.
Louise was less blatant in her demands than Barbara. But Charles knew that they would be no less insistent. Indeed, Louise’s schemes went deeper than those of Barbara ever had. The Queen was ill, and Louise’s small squinty eyes were alert.
It was not easy for her to hide her satisfaction as the Queen grew more languid. If the Queen died, Louise would get her little Charles legitimized at once through her marriage with the King. The little Breton girl, for whom it had been so difficult to find a place at the Court of France, would be the Queen of England.
Charles pointed out to Louise that he could not give her honors equal to those of Barbara’s, for she was still a subject of the King of France, and therefore not in a position to accept English titles, so Louise lost no time in appealing to Louis. She must become a subject of the King of England, for England was now her home. Louis hesitated for a while. He wondered whether the granting of her request might mean the relinquishing of his spy. Louise assured him through the ambassador that, no matter what nationality she took, her allegiance would always be to her native land.
Louise’s hopes were high. She believed she knew how to manage the King. She had shown him that she could bear his sons. She had all the graces which a queen should possess. And the Queen was sick. Once Louis had agreed to her naturalization she would be the possessor of noble titles, and with great titles went wealth. And she would never swerve from the main goal, which was to share the throne with Charles.
One of her minor irritations was the presence at Court of the orange-girl.
She suspected that the King often slipped away from her company to enjoy that of Nell Gwyn. He would declare he was tired, and retire to his apartments; but she knew that he slipped out of the Palace and climbed the garden wall to the house in Pall Mall.
Louise knew that she was often referred to as Squintabella because of the slight cast in her eye, and Weeping Willow because, when she wanted to make some request, she would do so sadly and with tears in her eyes. Both of these names had been given her by the saucy comedienne, who made no secret of the fact that she looked upon herself as Louise’s rival. To Nell Squintabella was no different from Moll Davies or Moll Knight or any low wench to be outwitted for the attentions of the King.
She would call to Louise if their carriages passed: “His Majesty is well, I rejoice to say. I never knew him in better form than he was last night.”
Louise would pretend not to hear.
All the same, Nell had her anxieties. Barbara’s children flaunted their honors; it was said that the King was only waiting for Louise’s naturalization to make her a Duchess; and meanwhile Nell remained plain Madam Gwyn with two little boys called Charles and James Beauclerk.
When the King called on her she indignantly asked him why others should find such favor in his sight while two of the most handsome boys in the kingdom were ignored.
Young Charles, now just about two years old, studied his father solemnly, and the older Charles felt uncomfortable under that steady stare.
He lifted the boy in his arms. Little Charles smiled cautiously. He was aware that his mother was angry, and he was not quite sure how he felt towards this man who was the cause of that anger. Little Charles looked forward to his father’s visits, but his merry mother, who laughed and jigged and sang for him, was the most wonderful person in his world, and he was not going to love even his fascinating father if he made his mother unhappy.
“Are you not glad to see me, Charles Beauclerk?” asked Charles Stuart. “Have you not a kiss for me?”
Little Charles looked at his mother.
“Tell him,” said Nell, “that you are as niggardly with your kisses for him as he is lavish with the honors he showers on others.”
“Oh, Nelly, I have to be cautious, you know.”
“Your Majesty was ever cautious with Madam Castlemaine, I understand. Those whom you fondly imagine to be your children—though none else does—are greatly honored. Yet for those who are undoubtedly your sons you have nothing but pleas of poverty.”
“All in good time,” said the harassed King. “I tell you this boy shall have as fine a title as any.”
“Such a fine title that it is too fine for the human eye to perceive, I doubt not!”
“This is indeed Nelly in a rage. Fighting for her cub, eh?”
“Aye,” said Nelly. “For yours too, my lord King.”
“I would have you understand that this is something I cannot do as yet. If you had been of gentle birth …”
“Like Prince Perkin’s mother?”
Charles could not help smiling at her nickname for Jemmy. He said: “Lucy died long ago, and Jemmy is a young man. There is plenty of time for this little Charles to grow up. Then I think he shall have as grand a title as any of his brothers.”
“Should his mother be so obliging as to die then,” cried Nell dramatically. “Shall I jump in the river? Shall I run a sword through my body?”
Young Charles, vaguely understanding, set up a wail of misery.
“Hush, hush,” soothed the King. “Your mother will not die. She but acts, my son.”
But young Charles would not be comforted. Nell snatched him from the King.
“Nay, nay, Charlie,” she said, “’Twas but a game. Papa was right. There’s naught to fret us but this: You are a Prince by your father’s elevation, but you have a whore to your mother for your humiliation.”
Then she laughed and jigged about the room with him until he was laughing and the King was laughing too.