He was a boy of sixteen, very young to marry; yet Princes married young. Henrietta Maria’s illogical mind darted hither and thither, taking up one idea, rejecting it for another, and then returning to the first. If young Charles were to remain an exile, he would need a very rich wife; if he were to be King, he would need a royal wife. But riches were always useful; she had not thought of that until she found herself an exile from her adopted country. What would have happened to her, she wondered, if, instead of being the daughter of the fourth Henri of beloved memory, she had been the daughter of the despised third Henri. Who could say?
Now she studied the young woman before her, for she had decided on Mademoiselle as the most fitting bride for her son Charles, and she had received reports that Charles was on his way to Paris.
Mademoiselle de Montpensier, known throughout France as the Mademoiselle of the French Court, was Henrietta Maria’s own niece, being the daughter of her brother, Gaston, Duke of Orléans. Mademoiselle unfortunately had a great opinion of herself. She was the richest heiress in Europe; she was a cousin of the young King Louis XIV; she believed herself to be peerless in charm and beauty and, although she was willing to be wooed by the Prince of Wales through his mother, she would give no assurance that she would even consider his suit.
Now she smoothed the folds of her rich brocade gown about her beautiful figure, and Henrietta Maria knew that she was thinking what a charming picture she made with her pink and white complexion and her abundant fair hair; the Queen knew that she considered herself not only the wealthiest heiress but the most beautiful young woman in France. Henrietta Maria’s fingers itched to box her ears; Henrietta Maria’s small foot tapped impatiently; there was a great deal of hot temper bottled up in the diminutive body of the Queen of England.
“My son will soon be with us,” said the Queen. “I live for the day.”
“Ah, my dearest Aunt, it must be wonderful for you—an exile from your country in a foreign land—to have your family escape from those villains.”
“A foreign land!” cried the Queen. “Mademoiselle, I was born in this country. I am my father’s beloved daughter.”
“A pity he died before he could know you,” said the malicious Mademoiselle.
“Aye! His death was the greatest tragedy this country ever suffered. I burn with indignation every time I pass through the Rue de la Ferronnérie where that mad monk pierced him to the heart.”
“My dearest Aunt, you upset yourself for something that happened years ago … when you have so many present troubles with which to concern yourself.”
Henrietta Maria flashed a look of irritation at her niece. Mademoiselle was clever; she granted her that; she knew how to make those little thrusts in the spots where they hurt most. There she was, the arrogant young beauty, reminding her aunt that she, Mademoiselle, cousin to the King, daughter of Monsieur de France, was really being rather gracious by spending so much of her precious time with her poor exiled aunt.
Henrietta Maria could subdue her anger when great issues were at stake.
“My son is of great height, already a man. They say he bears a striking resemblance to my father.”
“In looks only, I trust, Your Majesty. Your father, our great King, Henri Quatre, was France’s greatest King, we all know, but he was also France’s greatest lover.”
“My son will love deeply also. There is that charm in him which tells me so.”
“Let us hope, for the sake of the wife he will marry, that in one respect he will not resemble your great father whose mistresses were legion.”
“Ah! He has his father’s blood in him as well as that of my father. There never was a more noble man, nor a more faithful, than my Charles. I, his wife, tell you that, and I know it.”
“Then, dear Aunt, you were indeed fortunate in your husband. When I choose mine, fidelity is one of the qualities I shall look for.”
“Beauty such as yours would keep any man faithful.”
“Such as your father, Madame, would never be faithful to Venus herself. And as your son is so like him …”
“Tush! He is but a boy!”
“So very young that he need not think of marriage yet.”
“A Prince is never too young to think of marriage.”
“Mayhap while his affairs are in a state of flux, it would be wise to wait. A great heiress would more readily accept a King whose crown is safe than one who may live through his life with only the hope of regaining it.”
Mademoiselle was smiling absently to herself. Her thoughts were of marriage, but not of one between herself and the young Prince of England. Henrietta Maria fumed silently. She knew what was in the minx’s mind. Marriage, yes! And with her royal cousin, the King of France. And Henrietta Maria had already decided that Louis XIV was for her own Henrietta.
The Princess Henriette—she had been Henriette from the moment she passed into her mother’s care—loved her brother immediately she set eyes on him. He came into the nursery where she was with her governess, poor pale Lady Dalkeith, who had just risen from her sickbed to find herself fêted as the heroine of the year. Lady Dalkeith, serious-minded and conscientious, found little pleasure in the eulogies which came her way; she had discovered the Queen’s determination to bring up the child in the Catholic faith, which was against the wishes of the King of England and his people; and this disturbed her so much that she could feel only apprehension in contemplating the fact that she, having successfully conducted the child to her mother, was indirectly responsible.
But the little Henriette was unaware of the storms about her; all she knew was that she had a brother, and that as soon as she saw him, and he held her in his arms and told her that he had known her when she was a very tiny baby, she loved him.
“Charles!” she would cry in her high-pitched baby voice. “Dear Charles!”
And he would call her his baby sister. “But,” he said, “Henriette is such a long name for such a small person, and now I hear they are to add Anne to it out of respect for King Louis’ mother. It is far too long. My little puss … my little love, you shall be my Minette.”
“Minette?” she said wonderingly.
“It shall be my name for you. It is something we share, you and I, dear little sister.”
She was pleased. “Minette!” she said. “I am Minette, Charles’ Minette.”
He kissed her and let her pull his long dark curly hair.
“I wondered when I should see you again, Minette,” he told her. “I thought mayhap I never should.”
“You are so big to be a brother,” she said.
“That’s because I’m the eldest of the family. I was fourteen years old when you were born.”
She did not fully understand, so she laughed and clasped his arm to her little body to show how much she loved him.
He held her tightly. It was wonderful to be with one of his own flesh and blood. He wondered whether all his family would ever be together again. He was only a boy but he had been with his father in battle, and he knew that events were moving against his family. He was quiet and shy; he enjoyed the company of women, but they must not be haughty ladies like his cousin Mademoiselle de Montpensier; he liked humbler girls, girls who liked him because he was young and, although not handsome, had a way with him. He was particularly shy here in France because he knew that they laughed at his French accent; and although he himself was ready to laugh at it—for he knew it to be atrocious, and he never tried to see himself other than the way he was—he was too young, too unsure of himself, to be able to endure the ironic laughter of others. He remembered continually that he was a Prince whose future was in jeopardy, and that made him cautious.