“Charles,” said Mary. “Are you there, Charles?”
“I am here, Mary.”
“You should not be. It is dangerous.”
“I am a tough fellow, Mary.”
“Oh, Charles … my favorite brother …”
“Don’t talk,” he said. “Keep your strength to fight for your life.”
“It is too late. The fight is over. You are weeping, Charles. Pray do not. We are an unlucky lot, we Stuarts. We don’t live long, do we? Elizabeth, Henry, and now Mary. Only three left now. Three and poor Mam. Father went … long ago.”
“Mary, I beg of you, save your breath.”
“I’m not afraid of death, Charles. I regret dying only because of my boy. Charles, be a father to him.”
“I will, to the best of my ability.”
“My little Dutch William. He is a solemn boy.”
“Have no fear. All shall go well with him.”
She lay breathless on her pillows. Her glazed eyes looked up at him. “Charles … Charles … you should not be here. And you the King!”
“I have seen so little of you, Mary. I cannot leave you now.”
“There will not be long for us to be together. I was cruel to James’ wife, Charles.”
“Do not think of that now.”
“I cannot help it. I wish so much that I had been kind. She was my maid of honor. She was a good girl and I … in my pride, Charles …”
“I know. I know. You thought no one good enough for royal Stuarts.” “You are fond of her father, Charles.”
“Aye! A good friend he has been. I am fond of his daughter too.”
“You will have her recognized. Charles … you will make our mother understand how I feel now. Any day her time may come too. Don’t let her feel as I do now. It is a terrible thing to have wronged someone and to come to your deathbed without setting that wrong right.”
“I’ll set it right, Mary. Think no more of it. I shall speak to Mam. I’ll set that matter right. And Anne Hyde shall know that at the end you were her friend.”
“Thank you, Charles. Thank you, my favorite brother.”
He could not bear to look at her. He dashed the tears from his cheeks. They were giving her the sacrament, and she took it eagerly.
Afterwards she lay back on her pillows and quietly she died.
That Christmas at Whitehall was a sad one, and arrangements were made for the return to France of Henrietta Maria and her daughter, for Philippe was urgently requesting that his marriage should be delayed no longer.
The King sought his mother in private audience soon after Mary’s death; his face was stern, and Henrietta Maria was quick to notice the lines of obstinacy about his mouth.
“Mam,” he said without preliminary ceremony. “I have come to ask you to accept James’ wife as your daughter-in-law.”
The Queen set her lips firmly together. “That is something I find it hard to do.”
“Nevertheless you will do it,” said the King.
She looked at him, remembering the stubborn boy who had taken his wooden billet to bed and refused to part with it, not with tears of rage, as most children might have done, but with that solemn determination which made him hold the piece of wood firmly in his small hands and look at those who would take it from him as though he was reminding them that he would be their King one day. He was looking at her like that when he said: “Nevertheless you will do it.” She remembered that he had settled her yearly allowance and that she depended upon him for much. She knew that she would have to give way.
He was ready, as ever, not to humiliate her unduly. He did not want acknowledgment of his triumph. He merely wanted peace in his family. He said: “The rumors concerning poor Anne have been proved to be false. James loves her. They have a child whom I have proclaimed heir-presumptive to the crown. There remains one thing; you must receive her.”
Henrietta Maria still did not speak.
“In view of all that has gone before,” Charles continued, “it will be necessary for you to make public recognition of her. We are too unlucky a family not to be happy when we can be together. Fate deals us enough blows without our dealing them to each other. Mary realized that. On her deathbed she wept bitterly for the hurt she had done Anne Hyde. There will be a farewell audience at Whitehall before you leave, and during it James shall bring his wife to you. You will receive her, and do so graciously. I would have it seem that there has never been ill feeling between you.”
Henrietta Maria bowed her head; she was defeated.
But she knew how to accept defeat graciously—in public at least, and when Anne Hyde was brought to her, she took her into her arms and kissed her warmly, so that it was as though there had never been aught amiss between them.
The next day they left for France. As their ship tossed on the stormy seas, Henriette grew frightened—not of the death which the roaring winds and the angry waves seemed to promise, but of marriage with the Philippe who had become a stranger to her.
The visit to England had been a connecting bridge between childhood and womanhood. She had known it, and she was afraid of what was waiting for her.
Tossing in her cabin, she felt that her body was covered in sweat as she lay there, and suddenly it seemed to her that she was not in a boat at all. It seemed that she was flitting from one scene to another, and always beside her were the two brothers, Louis and Philippe. Philippe was embracing her, laughing slyly at her because she had believed he loved her; and Louis was turning away from her, looking with eager eyes at Madame de Soissons, Madame de Beauvais, Olympia and Marie Mancini—and dozens of others, all beautiful, all voluptuous. He was turning away from her, refusing to dance, and she was afraid because Philippe was waiting to seize her.
“Charles!” she cried. “Charles, save me, and let me stay with you.”
Charles was somewhere near, but she could not see him, and her cries for help could not reach him.
Her mother was calling to her. “Henriette, my dearest. They have turned the ship. Thank God we have come safely in. You had a nightmare. We are back in England now. The Captain dared not continue the journey. My child, are you ill?”
Henriette closed her eyes and was only vaguely aware of being carried ashore. For fourteen days she lay at Portsmouth close to death.
But she did not die. She refused to be bled as her brother and sister had been, and her malady proved not to be the fatal smallpox but only measles.
As she grew well she seemed to come to terms with life. She must marry. All royal persons must marry, and Philippe was a good match. The real Philippe was quite unlike the creature of her nightmare.
As soon as she was well enough to travel, they crossed the sea on a calm day, and on the way to Paris they were met by a royal party, at the head of which rode Philippe.
Henriette was received in Louis’ welcoming embrace without betraying her feelings. She knew that her visit to England had not changed her love for him; growing up had but strengthened that.
She overheard him mention to his mother that poor Henriette was thinner than ever.
To her he said: “Now that you are in Paris, we shall soon have you strong, Henriette. We have some royal entertainments ready for you. I have a new ballet which I myself prepared for your return. Would you like to know the title?”
He was like a boy, she thought—youthful, eager to be appreciated, hoping that on which he had spent so much pains, would give her the enjoyment he had intended it should.
“Your Majesty is gracious to me,” she told him with tears in her eyes.
“Well, you will be my sister in a few short weeks. It is fitting that I should welcome my sister on her return. The ballet is about lovers who have been separated too long and yearn for reunion. I have called it L’Impatience des Amoureuxl.”