With All My Heart (5 page)

Poor Catherine sank to the floor, dissolved in tears. Her women came running to her and, not having been trained in any kind of independence, she sent for don Francisco and donna Elvira and was so foolish as to pour out her private wrongs before them all.

“To condone his Britannic Majesty’s way of life would be to lower the standard of your own,” her Confessor told her.

“That it should come to this — after ceding Tangier and Bombay!” bemoaned her harassed godfather, smoothing the single strand of hair he wore so strangely across the shining baldness of his pate.

“And the heartless fiend probably gone straight to that Jezebel’s bed!” shrilled donna Elvira. “Did I not tell Queen Luiza how it would be if we came to this immoral country?”

Between them they bolstered up Catherine’s indignation and inflamed her self-pity. Not one of them had the tolerance or wit to try to mend matters, instead of ranting about the prestige of Portugal. Only the half-blind and ageing donna Maria Penalva, who had been allowed to come because she had had the care of Catherine when she was small, had one word of sense to say. “Far better not to spoil your lovely eyes which the King so much admires, Madame,” she advised, sending for warm water and lamb’s wool with which to bathe her mistress’s red and swollen face, and staying with her long after the others had gone to bed, their tongues ceasing to wag only for want of further invective.

“Do you suppose that he will come here any more?” asked Catherine, when they were alone.

“A man needs a wife to come home to,” answered donna Penalva.

“When he has nothing more exciting to do? I do not want to be needed like that.”

“It is, perhaps, the best way in the end.”

Long after the candles were extinguished Catherine clung to the old lady’s kind, thin hand. Her sobs were small and desolate now because she no longer made pretence that they were anything to do with pride and anger. “Do you believe what donna Elvira said — that he went straight to that awful woman’s bed?” she brought herself to ask.

There was no love lost between the two old women, and donna Penalva sniffed disparagingly. “When Lady Castlemaine has not yet risen from childbirth?” she scoffed. “He is probably much disturbed himself, and if he goes to bed anywhere it will be with those everlasting yapping spaniels of his.”

“What,
here
you mean? In Hampton?” Some of her natural animation had come back into Catherine’s voice.

“I made it my business to ask one of those pert pages. They will tell me things sometimes because I get them to help me across the courtyards and I have the gratitude to talk to them about the way the English ships saved Portugal. They are not bad lads at heart. And they assure me that His Majesty never left the Palace, but was still in shirt and breeches at midnight acting midwife to his favourite bitch.”

“Dear donna Maria!” For the first time the little Queen, tired out, relaxed comfortably against her pillows.

“That is right. Go to sleep, my poppet, and things will look more hopeful in the morning,” soothed donna Maria Penalva. “I am not managing and capable like donna Elvira, but at least I have been married to a man who was not always faithful to me, and borne his babies and in the end been desolately widowed. And I can tell you that the first grasping, romantic years are by no means the whole of marriage.”

CHAPTER V

THINGS SCARCELY seemed more hopeful in the morning. Standing in proud dudgeon at her window, Catherine saw the State barge pull away from the Palace water stairs bearing Charles down river to Westminster. He was ever an early riser. She looked at the French chiming clock he had given her and the hours of the day lay as heavy as lead before her. Without his gay teasing and his varied interests the galleries and gardens she had loved so much seemed dead. He had been teaching her to dance and she loved it, and already the charm of English music was spoiling her for the crude pipes and harps of the few musicians she had brought with her.

Now that Charles was gone there seemed nothing to do.

She sat down and wrote a long, unhappy letter to her mother and then retired in tears to her oratory. “Oh, Mother of Sorrows, why must this have happened to me when I was so happy?” she cried aloud in bewildered desolation. “Is it to punish me because I am wicked enough to find joy with a heretic and for drinking too greedily of earthly happiness?” And then, persuaded by her Confessor, she prayed with simplicity. “Help me, dear God, to turn my husband to the true faith, so that if evil doers take him from me now I may find him hereafter!”

Then calmed and fortified, she drew her dignity about her and walked with her ladies in the garden chatting and admiring the water lilies as if nothing had happened; though her eyes were always covertly upon the winding reach of the river watching for the return of the King’s barge. But she knew that they were whispering together about the night before; and then some busybody amongst them must needs tell her that as soon as Lady Castlemaine could rise from her bed she had taken all the best furnishings from her husband’s house and moved to Richmond.

“And where is Richmond?” enquired Catherine.

“A few miles down the Thames, between here and London,” they told her.

So no wonder Charles tarried. No doubt, even now, his barge lay moored there. Complaining that she felt chilled in this inhospitable climate, Catherine went indoors. During the long tedious evening while her priests read aloud from the Saints she persuaded herself that Charles must have arranged for the Castlemaine woman to go there. So that he could lodge there every night, no doubt. No use to sit up and wait for his return, donna Elvira declared. Since the Queen rightly refused to have his paramour brought under her roof, Hampton would see him no more.

But Charles gave them the lie. He was now a married man and his good resolutions, if frail, had been sincere. Whatever his private differences with his wife, he would not have the world point scorn at her. So when Catherine had at last fallen into an uneasy doze she was awakened by his step and felt him clamber into the great bed beside her. Supposing her to be still asleep, he did not speak. They lay in silence back to back, and although Catherine lay fuming for many hours, Charles, who had had an extraordinarily busy day, slept soundly; and although she was furious with him for disturbing her, she dared not speak of it, for at least his coming had put a stop to the busy tongues which she herself, in hasty indiscretion, had set wagging.

During the ensuing wretched week never once did he sleep anywhere else; yet they always rose to wrangle, or, worse still, to sulk in silence. More than once he tried to fondle her back to reconciliation, but always her hurt pride rose like a barrier between them. She wanted no other woman’s leavings, she told him. And as life became more and more unpleasant at Hampton so he began to spend yet more time away from home. And even though he might have come straight from working with his cousin Rupert in his fine new laboratory, or from an evening at the theatre, Catherine was always firmly persuaded that he had come from Richmond.

But there came a day when, outwardly at least, they were forced to smile and speak each other fair, showing a united front to the world. For. the summer months were drawing to a close and, since the Court would soon be moving to Whitehall, plans must be discussed for the new Queen’s state entry into the capital and all the various dignitaries and new members of her household must be presented to her.

Being so sore at heart, poor Catherine was very much on her dignity for the occasion. Flaunting her foreign patriotism, she had arrayed herself in one of her bejewelled farthingales so that, sitting upon the dais of the Great Hall — that most English of all places — she blazed bizarrely beside the more sombre sartorial perfection of her husband. She would show these arrogant islanders, with their long established line of kings, that Portugal, for all her struggles, was not unaccustomed to the etiquette of state occasions. But when her brother-in-law James presented his new, ill-chosen wife, Catherine’s dignity dissolved into natural kindness.

Because Anne of York was plain and frumpy, and only Chancellor Hyde’s daughter, Catherine went out of her way to set her at ease, inviting her to sit upon a stool at her side. For the Yorks, she supposed, must be beneath the King’s displeasure too because James had married a commoner — hastily, and probably of necessity.

“Did he not even ask your Majesty’s consent?” she asked in a conjugal aside, forgetting their estrangement.

Charles smiled wryly. “James has a genius for doing the most tactless thing at the most inopportune moment,” he said.

“He might have waited until I — until we —” floundered Catherine, realizing the importance of the lady’s progeny, since the Duke was still Heir-Presumptive to the Throne.

“I scarcely think so, judging by the promptness with which their daughter Mary made her debut,” observed Charles; but to Catherine’s surprise he treated his bourgeois sister-in-law with every kindness.

With Rupert, the Bavarian cousin, Catherine could never find anything in common; but she was glad to meet again her old friend, Admiral Montagu, Earl of Sandwich, and she was graciousness itself to Chancellor Hyde, remembering how loyal a friend he had been to Charles throughout his exile. Much as she had valued the seclusion of Hampton during the first halcyon weeks of her honeymoon, she was now thankful to see the Hall packed with guests because their presence eased the strained relations between her husband and herself.

After the rural life they had been leading, the rambling old Tudor palace seemed alive with a foretaste of the brilliant formality of Whitehall; and Charles appeared to be particularly anxious to make the proceedings a success. With his happy blend of unconventionality and dignity he made a point of presenting the more important of their guests to her himself, helping her to say the right thing by giving her a brief thumbnail sketch of each. But, except for those whom she knew personally, their strange foreign, names sounded all alike to Catherine; and, following a succession of sleepless nights, the difficulties of the language and the seemingly endless line of bowing men and curtsying ladies began to weary her. Their jewels sparkled dazzlingly in the pools of candlelight and many of them were so elegant in the French fashion that, while still smiling automatically, she fell into an inward reverie, regretting that she had not worn one of the charming dresses which Charles had given her. It would have pleased him, and he was being so particularly pleasant to her tonight.

“My friend since boyhood, George Villiers, Duke of Buckingham,” he was prompting, as he stood tall and debonair beside her. “And milord Albemarle who, as General Monk, of the Parliamentary Army, considered me preferable to Cromwell’s snivelling son and invited me back to take again mine own.”

“The Dowager Countess of Shrewsbury, who stood firm for my father.”

Catherine made a yet more determined effort to concentrate on what he told her and to take in all the ramifications of the British aristocracy, and had the satisfaction of knowing that she was pleasing him by receiving all his subjects so graciously. Somehow she felt that it must be very important, for all present were looking in her direction and she was aware that the little social sounds of discreet conversation and daughter and the coming and going of the servants were no longer breaking the silence of the proceedings. Although the casements of Henry the Eighth’s great oriel windows stood open the evening seemed very airless, and either the warmth from the tall wax candles was becoming oppressive or the guests were crowding closer. Even Charles’s voice seemed to be trailing off, mumbling the names, and he was no longer making pleasantries or bothering to explain who the various people were. Perhaps even he, the indefatigable, was tiring too. Or wanting his supper, more likely.

“Lady Wymess.”

“Sir Charles Berkeley.”

Each of them in turn kissed the new Queen’s hand.

“Lady Barbara Palmer.”

The lovely, auburn haired creature who curtsied before her rose so gracefully that Catherine smiled at her with real warmth, murmuring her carefully conned words of formal welcome. But at the same moment she felt someone from behind tugging urgently at her elbow. “
That
is
the
infamous
Lady
Castlemaine!
” hissed donna Elvira’s shocked and penetrating voice.

Too late, Catherine snatched away her extended hand. In spite of herself she turned from English guests to her own people. “But he said — Par-mer — or some such name,” she gasped.

“It is her husband's name,” explained Don Francisco grimly.

No wonder Charles had mumbled and purposely omitted the notorious title! No wonder his whole Court had been watching so intently! He had tricked her — before them all. And now the brazen beauty was grinning at him triumphantly ...

It was true that Charles ignored her intimate glance. He was frowning, and motioning her impatiently to join the other ladies who had been presented. And he looked supremely ill at ease.

But realizing what had happened was like a sudden foul blow upon poor Catherine’s heart. As through a mist she saw the next approaching figure — a large dowager in a plum coloured gown — dissolving into a series of plum coloured dowagers: as through a thundering of waves she heard Charles’s voice announcing the lady’s name. She felt her face flame and the blood beating in her ears. With an instinctive effort born of royal discipline, she tried to extend her hand again, only to find it groping for help. Her godfather was beside her, supporting her. “I must make no scene in public. Charles will be furious”, was the last coherent thought in her reeling mind. Mercifully the tension of her brainstorm had snapped; but to her horror she saw great gouts of blood splashing down onto the silver brocade of her dress. Of all ignominies, her nose began to bleed violently. “Charles!” she moaned, calling upon him in the very shame and extremity which he had brought upon her. Diamonds and candles were all running together into one shimmering pool of light, and the great square tiles of the floor were rising up to meet her. Her women began to scream as don Francisco caught her.

Catherine did not know until afterwards that it was Charles Stuart himself who, shamed and furious, waived aside Portuguese and Englishmen alike and carried her through the long galleries and laid her abruptly on their bed. But when she recovered consciousness, although he had sent his own physician with orders to care for her, she took the prescribed sleeping draught without protest, knowing full well that her husband would come no more to disturb her.

And his physician was not the only man Charles sent. A few days later a very reluctant Lord Chancellor waited upon her, and it was a very pale, obstinate Queen who received him.

“Do not imagine, milord, that because this shameful trick has been played upon me I will ever receive that woman into my household,” she warned, as soon as ever he was come into her audience chamber.

“And do not suppose, Madame, that I am come to excuse it,” countered Edward Hyde, Earl of Clarendon, with that downright honesty which sometimes made him appear more like a plain country squire than a politician.

Catherine was a little taken aback. She was not to know how unwillingly the poor man had come, or that he had been arguing with Charles on her behalf far into the night. Or that in common with the bulk of the nation he hated the King’s grasping mistress, and deplored the influence she exerted over him. Nor could Hyde in loyalty let her know how he, who seldom took advantage of the old intimate relationship born in cheap lodgings abroad, had told Charles bluntly that making Lady Castlemaine a Lady of the Bedchamber was putting an indignity upon the Queen with which flesh and blood could not comply.

“Then you appreciate my indignation in the matter?” she cried eagerly.

But whatever Hyde’s personal opinion, Charles Stuart was the
raison
d’
ê
tre
of his life, whereas this new Portuguese wife was merely a pawn in the political game — a useful pawn serving to increase the West Indies trade and to curb the power of Spain. “I appreciate that it lies in your Majesty’s power to do much for both your country and my own by means of a successful marriage,” he answered drily.

“But surely, in the circumstances, you do not hold me responsible for its success?”

“Our King is not a difficult man to live with,” pointed out Hyde, remembering how often Charles’s cheerfulness had been the one bright spot throughout infinitely more depressing circumstances.

“As a man, no. doubt you find him so,” countered Catherine, “But I have good reason to resent an affront to our virtuous affections!”

“Good reason? My dear lady, let me remind you that when the Queen Dowager of France, as a bride, complained to Cardinal Mazarin about her husband’s mistresses, there were
five
of them in her procession, all in the same carriage! Not that I uphold such immorality. But I would ask you — when your esteemed brother gets him a queen do you really suppose that she will find your Court at Lisbon full only of ‘virtuous affections’?”