“You will have nothing to fear from the King,” he told her. “He has a reputation for kindness and he will be kind to you.”
Her expression was stony; he thought ruefully she would be almost unbelievably beautiful if she would smile and be happy.
Down the river sailed the barge; the bells were ringing, and sounds of revelry came from the banks; there were cheers, and shouts for the bride and groom to show themselves. This they did, waving to the people as they sailed along. James was once more pleased to notice that his wife did her duty in this respect. How different it might have been, sailing down the river on this November day, if he had had a happy young girl beside him who was prepared to love him as he was her.
At length they met the royal barge, and a messenger boarded the Duke’s with a command from the King. His Majesty was eager to greet his brother’s bride and he wished the Duke to bring her to him without delay.
James smilingly reassured her, saw the fear in her face, and thought it was a pity she, being so young, was unable to hide her feelings. He was dreading that moment when she came face to face with her brother-in-law—the rake of rakes, the man whose reputation was known throughout the whole of Europe—Charles, King of England, whose mistresses ruled him and the only comfort in that situation was that they were so numerous.
Poor little Mary Beatrice! They should never have made such a little nun of her.
Charles was waiting on deck, and taking his wife’s hand James led her forward. He saw the lovely eyes lifted to that dark humorous face, already marked with debauchery yet losing none of the charm which had been there when Charles was a young man of twenty. Perhaps there was a deeper kindliness in the lazy, yet shrewd eyes, perhaps the charm increased with the years which was nature’s special concession to one who loved life—as he loved his mistresses—passionately while he refused to take it seriously.
Mary Beatrice bowed low but Charles took one look at her lovely face, her graceful body, and with an exclamation of delight lifted her in his arms.
No one could dispense with ceremony more naturally and gracefully than Charles and whatever he did, he had the gift of making the action seem acceptable and charming.
“So I have a sister!” he cried. “And what a delightful one! I trust my subjects have been giving a good account of themselves.” He glanced quickly at James and his eyes said: You fortunate devil! Would I were in your place.
Mary Beatrice was surprised at the complete revolution of her feelings. She had come on board prepared to hate this man; she had been fighting her feeling that she might not betray the aversion she felt for him. Instead, she was smiling, glad to put her hand in his, finding it a pleasure to be led to the rail to be seen standing side by side with him by the watchers on the bank.
“Why, my dear,” he said in that soft tender voice he invariably used for attractive women, “you are very young, and you have come a long way from home. It is a trying ordeal, I understand full well, for I remember when I was young I was forced to leave my home … under very different circumstances than those in which you have left yours. The homesickness … the yearning … my dear sister, they have to be lived through to be understood. But remember this, that although you suffer from leaving your home, you bring great pleasure to us because you have come to live among us. Now you shall sit beside me and tell me what you have left. I have a fondness for your mother, of which I shall tell her soon. I remember how desolate she was when you lost your father and how she brought up you two children. A bit stern eh? Soupe maigre? Ah, I have heard of that! Rest assured, little sister, we shall not force you to eat soupe maigre while you are with us.”
Mary Beatrice was smiling, and James looked on in astonishment. What power was this in his brother to charm? How could he, in his careless way, in a few short moments put at ease this girl whom he himself had tried so hard to please.
He could not answer that question. All he knew was that from the moment Mary Beatrice met the King she became a little less unhappy, a little more reconciled to her marriage.
When the party arrived at Whitehall the bride was conducted into the palace and there the King presented her to his Queen.
Mary Beatrice was greeted by the quiet Catherine with affection, while the King and the Duke looked on benignly. Mary Beatrice’s mother had told her that the Queen of England would be her friend because, like herself, she was a Catholic living in a country where the recognized religion was that of the Reformed Church.
“We will have much in common,” Catherine told her; the Queen’s voice was a little sad, for she was wondering how this young and clearly spirited girl would deal with her husband’s infidelities. She, Catherine, had been bewildered, humiliated, and deeply wounded by those of the King. She hoped that Mary Beatrice would not have to suffer as intensely as she had. “I trust,” went on Catherine, “that we shall be friends and that we shall have informal hours together.”
Mary Beatrice thanked her and then turned her attention to the two young girls who were being brought forward.
These were her stepdaughters—the Princess Mary and the Princess Anne. She studied them eagerly for the elder was not so many years younger than herself. Mary was about eleven years old—tall, graceful, with long dark eyes and dark hair. Her manner was serious and because Mary Beatrice guessed she was as apprehensive as she was herself, she felt a longing to show her friendship for this girl, and for the second time her spirits were lifted and the prospect of her new life seemed a little less grim.
It was possible to have a little informal conversation with her stepdaughters and then she realized that neither of them resented her and were anxious to be friendly.
“My father tells me that you will be as a sister to us … just at first,” Mary told her. “But you are in truth our new mother.”
“I will do my best to be all that you wish of me,” answered Mary Beatrice.
She looked at Anne who gave her her placid smile; and she knew at once that they would help her to bear her new life.
Charles smiled knowledgeably at his brother.
“I trust you are taking advantage of your new state, brother?” he asked lightly.
James frowned. “She is beautiful, but very young.”
“It is rare that men complain of the youth of their mistresses or wives.”
“She is but a child and they have brought her up with a craving to be a vestal virgin.”
“I trust for the honor of our house she can no longer aspire to such folly.”
James was moodily silent and the King went on: “Some of your enemies are suggesting that, having made this Catholic marriage, you should for the sake of peace retire from Court. It was hinted to me only the other day. How would you like, James, to leave Court and take your little beauty into the country?”
“My place is at Court.”
“So think I,” said Charles. “But methinks also, brother, that if you were as successful at courting your wife as you are at courting trouble you would by now have persuaded her that the life of a vestal virgin is not nearly so exciting as that of Duchess of York.”
“I do not propose to leave Court.”
“Nor do I propose that you should. I have already said so. But the people are not pleased with you, James. You stand for popery and the people in these islands do not like it.”
“What am I to do?”
Charles lifted his shoulders. He too secretly stood for the Catholic Faith; he had even made a bargain with Louis to bring his country back to Catholicism—yet he dealt with these matters shrewdly, graciously, and secretly. Why could not James do the same?