When Louis met her he was delighted with her beauty and charm, and she was fêted and honored by him and his Court; he told her that he would be delighted to have her with him forever. These were empty compliments, she was well aware, and now that she realized the inevitability of her fate she had accepted it, but her lovely face was marked with melancholy and those who loved her were very sad on her account.
She would never forget her despair as she saw the coast of France receding; she prayed for a storm which would destroy the vessel and then immediately thought of all the others who would suffer with her. That must not be, she knew. She wanted a storm in which she and she alone would lose her life.
A tragic way for a bride to come to her bridegroom.
A strong wind arose, but that seemed only to mock her, for it carried her vessel to Dover with greater speed than, said the sailors, could have been hoped for.
On the sands she found waiting for her—her husband. He was old—very old, she thought—and there were wrinkles about his eyes; and because she had imagined him to be an ogre he seemed to her like one. He took her hands and then embraced her, and assured her he was very happy to see her. She tried to smile but could not do so; and when he drew back to look at her, he said: “But you are beautiful … even more beautiful than they told me you were.”
His eyes, his warm and passionate eyes, took in each detail of her lovely face.
“Why, my little wife,” he went on, “you are going to be happy. We are going to be the happiest family in the world.”
She was aware of her husband’s attendants standing by; her mother was beside her, so was the Earl of Peterborough, whom she regarded as her enemy because she believed that if he had been less determined the marriage might never have taken place.
There was no turning back now. The quiet of the convent would never be hers. She was aware of her husband’s desire for her; she knew that he was longing for that second marriage, in which there would be no proxy for the bridegroom, with an intensity which matched that of her dread.
Her hand was in his; he held it firmly as though to say she should never escape him. She was shivering, believing that this consummation of which she knew so little but which she dreaded, would be even more alarming, even more shocking than she had feared.
He whispered to her: “You are happy to be here?”
She was too young to hide her feelings. “No, no,” she answered.
He was taken aback, but the desire in his eyes was touched by a certain tenderness. “You are so young. There will be nothing to fear. I will do everything in my power to make you happy.”
“Then perhaps you will send me home.”
Those about them had heard her words. Her mother was frowning, and Mary Beatrice knew she would be scolded but she did not care. She had always been brought up to believe it was wrong to lie. Well, she would tell the truth now.
James smiled whimsically as he broke the horrified silence. “My little bride,” he said kindly, “it is natural that you should be homesick … just at first. Soon you will understand that this is your home.”
The next day the marriage was solemnized in accordance with the rites of the Church of England and Mary Beatrice then wore, as well as the diamond ring which had been put on her finger at the proxy marriage, a gold ring adorned with a single ruby which James gave her during this ceremony.
James had done all he could to pacify her; he sat beside her at the banquet which followed; he expressed concern at her poor appetite; he coaxed her and endeavored to persuade her that she had nothing to fear from him. She wept bitterly and made him understand that no matter how kind and considerate he was, he had torn her away from the life she had chosen and now she would be forced to live in a manner repugnant to her.
James was a practised lover, his experiences in that field being vast, and he used all his powers to lessen the ordeal which he understood faced this young wife of his.
He explained to her the need for them to have sons; their son, he told her, might well be King of England; it was for this reason that marriages were arranged. He was sure she would wish to do her duty.
Mary Beatrice lay shuddering in the marriage bed. She prayed, while she thought he slept, that something would happen to prevent the events of that night ever being repeated. She did not know that James lay wakeful beside her, thinking of the passion he had shared with Anne Hyde before their marriage, asking himself what happiness there was going to be for him and this girl who was nothing but a child, nearer to his daughters than to him.
The bride must surely be one of the most beautiful girls in the world. Anne Hyde was far from that. Yet what a travesty of his first marriage was this. He believed that she dreaded his touch, loathed him for the loss of her virginity; she had made him feel ashamed, a raper of the innocent.
This was not the union for which he had longed.
The wedding party did not stay long in Dover, but were soon on their way to London. All along the route people came from their houses to see the Italian bride. She was viewed with curiosity, admiration, and suspicion. She was after all a Catholic and the Duke was suspected of being one; and although her youth and beauty enchanted all who beheld her, there were murmurs of “No popery.”
The Duke rode beside his bride and in spite of his misgivings he could not disguise his pride in her, and as he watched her acknowledging the acclaim of the people with grace and dignity in such contrast to the frankness in which she had shown her dislike of him, his spirits lifted a little. She was after all a Princess, and would know what was expected of her.
He began to think with pleasure of his latest mistress. How differently she would welcome him! A man could not make continual love to a woman who was repelled by the act. But Mary Beatrice would change—and when it had ceased to become a matter of duty, when she could respond with ardor, then would be the time to build up that idealistic relationship for which he, being a sentimental man, longed.
They slept at Canterbury the first night where the citizens welcomed them with affection. Pageantry was always a delight in Restoration England; the people had been too starved of it during puritan rule, not to find pleasure in it, whatever the cause; but Mary Beatrice could find none in the beauty of the Cathedral City; she felt bruised and bewildered and there was nothing for her but the thought of past horror and the dread of more to come. And the second night in Rochester her mood had not changed.
And so they came to London and at Gravesend, amid the applause of the spectators, the Duke of York took his Duchess aboard his barge, which, decorated with evergreen leaves, was waiting for him.
James had successfully hidden his disappointment in his marriage and appeared to be quite delighted with his bride. As they stepped aboard, to the accompaniment of sweet music which was being played by the barge musicians, he told her that somewhere on the river they would meet the royal barge and he was sure that his brother would be on board.
“The King will wish to greet you in person at the earliest moment,” he told her, and when he saw the look of fear cross her face, he smiled grimly. The reputation of Charles had in all likelihood reached her, as his own no doubt had, and she was going to be as repulsed by the King as by the Duke. He hoped she would not be as frank with Charles as she had with him; but he ruefully accepted the fact that Charles would doubtless know how to deal gracefully with the situation whatever it should be.