The young girl was terrified of her new husband. He was forty, and that seemed a great age. She had implored her aunt to marry the Duke of York, instead of her; she would be quite happy, she had declared, to go into a convent; any life would seem better to her than that which included marriage to a man, old enough to be her father, who had a reputation for keeping as many mistresses as his brother.
She was a lovely child; she resembled her mother who had been Laura Martinozzi, a niece of Cardinal Mazarin, and, like all the ladies of that family, noted for her beauty. But to be fourteen and torn from her home to start life in a new country with a man who seemed so old, was a terrifying experience, and she was too young not to show her repugnance.
James was fully aware of what his young bride’s feelings might be and was determined to do all in his power to put her at ease.
He was on the shore at Dover to greet her in person, and he was touched when he saw her, for her youth reminded him of his own daughter Mary, who was not much younger than this child who had left her home and all she loved to come to a new country to be his wife. He took her into his arms and embraced her warmly. But Mary Beatrice had taken one horrified look at her husband and burst into tears.
James was not angry; he could only find it in his kindly nature to be sorry for her. He assured her that although he was old and feared he must seem mighty ugly to one so young and fresh and beautiful, she had nought to fear, as it would be his delight to love and honor her all the days of their lives.
He was fervently wishing that he had Charles’ easy manner, which he was sure would quickly have put the child at ease.
But James’ gaucheries were balanced by his gentle kindness, and he decided that until the child had grown accustomed to his company he would not force himself upon her.
“I would not add to your fears,” he soothed her. “I think of my little Mary and Anne.”
They set out from Dover, and the bride was glad that her mother and the Prince Rinaldo d’Esté travelled with them. They journeyed by slow stages to Canterbury, Rochester, and Gravesend, and the people came out of their houses to watch. The little girl charmed them so much that they were astonished to think that she might bring evil into their country.
At Gravesend they embarked and sailed to meet the royal barges. When they met these James took his bride to meet the King.
Charles was surrounded by the ladies and gentlemen of the Court. The Queen was there, ready to be tender and kind, remembering her own coming into this land to marry the most fascinating of kings only to discover that he was far from faultless, and to learn that it was impossible to fall out of love with him. Louise was beside the King, less flamboyantly dressed than most, yet seeming to be more richly clad; less heavily jeweled so that each jewel which adorned her person seemed to glow with a special luster. It was this lady whom Mary Beatrice took to be the Queen. Louise held herself like a queen, thought of herself as a queen. She had recently become naturalized and this meant that she had been able to accept the titles and estates with which the King had been pleased to endow her. She had now several resounding titles—Baroness Petersfield, Countess of Fareham and Duchess of Portsmouth. She was a lady of the Queen’s bedchamber. She was, in all but name, the Queen of England. Nor did she despair of being entirely so. Her small eyes rested often on the pallid face of the Queen. She hoped the lady would not live long, for indeed what joy could there be in life for one such as Catherine of Braganza who could not adapt herself to her husband’s Court? She could surely have no great wish to live. The Queen’s death was what Louise ardently desired, for she knew the King would never divorce his wife. Louise had discovered something about Charles. Easygoing as he was, ready to make promises to all, once he made up his mind that he would take a firm stand on some point, he was the most obstinate man in the world. She must be continually grateful for his indulgence, but infatuated as she had managed to keep him, she did not forget that all others had a share in that indulgence—Catherine, the Queen, no less than any other. And if the King’s desire was fixed on Louise, his pity went to Catherine his wife.
Mary Beatrice was aware of other ladies and gentlemen. She noticed beautiful Anna Shrewsbury with the Duke of Buckingham, and Lord Rochester, that handsomest of all courtiers, although debauchery was beginning to mar his good looks; and close to him a lively and pretty creature with chestnut curls and bright tawny, mischievous eyes, most flamboyantly dressed, and attracting the attention of everyone. Even the King’s eyes strayed often towards her. Her name, it seemed, was Madam Gwyn. There were gentlemen whose names she had heard mentioned with that of the King: Earl of Carbery, Earl of Dorset, Sir George Etherege, Earl of Sheffield, Sir Charles Sedley, Sir Carr Scrope.
Then Mary Beatrice was aware of a pair of dark eyes watching her intently. She fell to her knees and she was raised by the King’s elegant hands, and he, looking into her face, saw the too-brilliant eyes which suggested tears, noted the trembling lips.
“Why,” he said in that gentlest and most musical of voices, “my little sister. I am mighty glad to see you here. You and I shall be friends.”
Mary Beatrice put her hands in his. She did not care that he was the King; she only knew that his words, his smile, his infinite charm made her feel happy and no longer afraid.
The King kept a hold on her hand, and she felt that while he held it thus she could be almost pleased that she had come.
He kept her beside him during the festivities. He implied that he would be her special friend until she felt quite at home in her new country. He told her that she reminded him of her kinswoman, Hortense Mancini—one of the most beautiful women he had ever seen in the whole of his life. He had wanted to marry Hortense, but her uncle had put his foot down. “In those days I was a wandering exile. No good match at all. But I never forgot beautiful Hortense, and you remind me of her … with pleasure … with the utmost pleasure.”
She was beside him as they sailed to Whitehall. She heard the people acclaim him from the banks, and she knew that they all loved him, that they felt that irresistible charm even as she did.
He pointed out his Palace of Whitehall whither they were bound.
She was relieved to stand beside him. Her mother was delighted to see the King’s easy affability towards her daughter, delighted to see the lightening of her daughter’s spirits.
The courtiers watched them.
“Am I mistaken?” drawled Rochester. “Is it Charles who is bridegroom or is it James?”
“His Majesty but puts the child at ease,” said Nell.
“James has tried to do so,” said Buckingham, “without success. Alas, poor James! It strikes me that in all things our gracious sovereign could, if he would; and his brother would, if he could.”
Louise had strolled towards them. She glanced with some amusement at Nell’s brilliantly colored gown.
Nell’s eyes smoldered. It was galling to be reminded, every time she saw the woman, that she was now the Duchess of Portsmouth while her young Charles and James were merely surnamed Beauclerk and she was plain Madam Gwyn. The Duchess thought Nell scarcely worthy of notice. Yet she was kindly condescending.
“You are grown rich, it would seem by your dress,” she said lightly. “You look fine enough to be a queen.”
Nell cried: “You are entirely right, Madam. And I am whore enough to be a duchess.”
The Duchess passed on; the laughter of Nell, Buckingham, and Rochester followed her.
Louise’s face betrayed nothing. She was thinking that Rochester was a fool, continually banished from Court on account of his scurrilous attacks on all, including the King; his debauchery would soon carry him to the grave; there was no need to think of him. As for the orange-girl, let her remain—buffoon that she was. Moreover, the King delighted in her and would be stubborn if it were suggested she be removed; Nell Gwyn’s attack was with words, an art in which Louise could not compete with her. Those quips never rose easily to Louise’s lips even in her own language. But there was one who should soon feel the full weight of her displeasure. My lord Buckingham should not have long to flaunt his power if she could help it.