He was certainly not going to put a stop to the friendship; he would consider it extremely unfair to do so since he enjoyed so many friendships with the opposite sex.

Catherine, seeing his indifference to her relationship with her handsome master of horse, made another of those mistakes which turned the King’s admiration for her to indifference.

Catherine’s great tragedy was that she never understood Charles.

It so happened that, when she alighted from her horse and he took her hand, Montague held it longer than was necessary and pressed it firmly. It was a gesture of assurance of his affection and sympathy for her, and Catherine knew this; but when, longing for Charles’ attention and desperately seeking to claim it, she artlessly asked what a gentleman meant when he held a lady’s hand and pressed it, she was feigning an innocence and ignorance of English customs which were not hers.

“Who has done this?” asked the King.

She answered: “It is my good master of horse, Montague.”

The King looked at her with pity. Poor Catherine! Was she trying to be coy? How ill it became her!

He said lightly: “It is an expression of devotion, but such expressions given to kings and queens may not indicate devotion but a desire for advancement. Yet it is an act of insolence for Your Majesty’s master of horse to behave thus to you, and I will take steps to see that it does not happen again.”

She believed she had aroused his jealousy. She believed he was thinking: So other men find her attractive; and she waited to see what would happen next.

Alas, Charles’ attention was still on his mistresses and Catherine merely lost her one admirer.

Edward Montague was dismissed his office; not on account of the King’s jealousy, but because Charles feared that Catherine’s innocence might betray her into indiscretion if the man remained.

The King’s love for Frances did not diminish.

He was subdued and often melancholy; a listlessness—so unusual with him—crept into his behavior. He had accepted her reluctance at first as the opening phase in the game of love; but still she was unconquered; and he began to believe that she would never surrender.

His feelings were more deeply stirred than they had ever been before. For the first time in his life the King was truly in love.

Sometimes he marveled at himself. It was true that Frances was very beautiful, but she completely lacked that quick wit which he himself possessed and which he admired in others. Frances was just a little stupid, some might say; but that seemed to make her seem more youthful than ever. Perhaps she provided such a contrast to Barbara. She never flew into tantrums; she was invariably calm and serene; she rarely spoke in an ill-natured fashion of anyone; she asked for little—the affair of the calash was an exception, and he believed she may have been persuaded to that, possibly by Buckingham whose head was, as usual, full of the most hare-brained schemes; all she wished was to be allowed to play those games which delighted her. Frances was like a very young and guileless girl and as such she deeply touched the heart of the King.

It was Frances who now adorned the coinage—a shapely Britannia with her helmet on her charming head and the trident in her slender hands.

He brooded on her constantly and wrote a song to explain his feelings.




“I pass all my hours in a shady old grove,


But I live not the day when I see not my love;


I survey every walk now my Phyllis is gone,


And sigh when I think we were there all alone;


O then, ’tis O then, that I think there’s no hell


Like loving like loving too well.


While alone, to myself I repeat all her charms,


She I love may be locked in another man’s arms,


She may laugh at my cares, and so false may she be


To say all the kind things she before said to me;


O then, ’tis O then that I think there’s no hell


Like loving too well.


But when I consider the truth of her heart,


Such an innocent passion, so kind without art;


I fear I have wronged her, and hope she may be


So full of true love to be jealous of me;


And then ’tis, I think, that no joy be above


The Pleasures of love.”

And while the King brooded on his unfulfilled passion for Frances, state matters were not progressing satisfactorily. He would be called to hasty council meetings and there were long consultations with Clarendon, whose dictatorial manner was often irritating. But, like Clarendon, Charles was alarmed by the growing hostilities on the high seas between the Dutch and the English.

The Duke of York, who had won fame as an Admiral of the Fleet, was growing more and more daring. He had the trading classes of the country behind him; and it was becoming clear that these people were hoping for a war with Holland. The Duke had captured Cape Corso and other Dutch colonies on the African coast, a matter which had caused some concern to the Chancellor which he had imparted to Charles. These conquests, insisted Clarendon, were unjust and were causing bad blood between the two countries. The Duke’s retort to Clarendon’s warnings was to capture New Amsterdam on the coast of North America and immediately rename it New York. He declared that English property in North America had been filched by the Dutch, and it was only seemly that it should be filched back again. Meanwhile there were frequent hostile incidents when the ships of both nations met.

Charles could see that if events continued to follow this course there would indeed be war, for it seemed that he and the Chancellor were the only men in the country who did not wish for it. He himself was very much bound by his Parliament, and Clarendon was fast becoming the most unpopular man in the country. The Buckingham faction had set in progress rumors damaging to Clarendon, so that every difficulty and disaster which arose was laid at his door. It was now being whispered that the selling of Dunkirk to the French had been Clarendon’s work, and that he had been heavily bribed for his part in this, which was untrue. Dunkirk had been sold because it was a drain on the expenses of the Exchequer which was in urgent need of the purchase money. Clarendon had only helped set the negotiations in motion once it had been decided that the deal should go forward.

So these were melancholy days for Charles. State affairs moving towards a climax which might be dangerous; Charles for the first time in love and denied the satisfaction he asked.

Mary Fairfax, the Duchess of Buckingham, was giving a ball.

While her maids were dressing her she looked at her reflection in the Venetian mirror with a fearful pride. Her jewels were of many colors, for she liked to adorn herself thus and she knew she wore too many and of too varied colors, but she could never decide which she ought to discard. She was too thin, completely lacking the slender grace of Frances Stuart; she was awkward, and never knew what to do with her large hands, now ablaze with rings. She feared though that the jewels she wore did not beautify; they merely called attention to the awkwardness of those hands. Her nose was too large as was her mouth; her eyes large and dark, but too closely set together. She had always known she was no beauty; and she could never rid herself of the idea that brightly colored gowns and many jewels would help her to hide her deficiencies; it was only when she was in the company of some of the beauties of the Court—ladies such as Lady Chesterfield, Miss Jennings, Lady Southesk, Barbara Castlemaine and, of course, the most beautiful Mrs. Stuart—that she realized that all of them, including Barbara, had achieved their effects by less flamboyant means than she had employed.

She was neglected by her husband, the great Duke, but she never resented this; she was constantly aware that she, Mary Fairfax, was the wife of the handsomest man she had ever seen; not only was he handsome, but he was witty, amusing, sought after by the ambitious; and she continually told herself that she was the most fortunate of women merely to be his wife.

She was remembering, as her maids dressed her, that happy time immediately following her marriage, before the King’s return to England, when the Duke had played the faithful husband, and her father had told her so often that he rejoiced in her marriage.

Mary’s husband was a strange man. He was brilliant, but it seemed that always there must be some plot forming itself within his mind. What joy when that plot had been to marry Mary Fairfax; and afterwards, when he had planned to make Mary a good husband! They had lived quietly in the country—she, her dearest George and her father. How often had she seen them, her father and her husband, walking arm in arm while George talked of the book he was planning to write on her father’s career. Those had been the happiest days of her life and, she ventured to think, of his. But the quiet life was not for him; and with the Restoration it was only reasonable that he should become a courtier and statesman. At Court it was natural that he should become the King’s companion and the friend of those profligate gentlemen who lived wildly and consorted with women whose reputations were as bad as their own.

“Marriage,” he had said, “is the greatest solitude, for it makes two but one, and prohibits us from all others.” A different cry that from the words he had so often spoken immediately before and after their marriage. Nor did he accept this “solitude” nor did he “prohibit himself from all others.”

Life had changed, and she must accept the change; she was grateful for those occasions when she did see him, when, as on this one, he needed her help. It was rarely that he did so and it was not often that they were together.

Her father worried a great deal about the change in their relationship; he complained bitterly of the way in which George treated her. She was fortunate to be so loved by a great man like her father, but now he blamed himself because he had brought about this marriage; and again and again she soothed him and assured him that he had not wished for the marriage more than she had. All knew that Buckingham neglected her, that he had married her when his fortunes were at a low ebb and it had seemed as though the Monarchy would never be restored, but that marriage with the daughter of an old Parliamentarian was the best a man could make. She was glad that she had turned from Lord Chesterfield to Buckingham; she would never regret it, never, even though those who wished her well were sorry for her. Only recently one of the Duke’s servants had made an attempt on his life when they had spent the night at the Sun Inn at Aldgate after returning from the Newmarket races. George had quickly disarmed the man. But the affair became widely known; and it was disconcerting that the point of the story should not be that the Duke was almost done to death by a mad servant, but that he should have been about to spend the night with his own wife.

Such slights, such humiliations, she accepted. They were part of the price which a plain and homely woman paid for union with one of the greatest Dukes in the country.

Now she asked her maids: “How like you my gown?”

And they answered: “Madam, it is beautiful.”

They were sincere. They really thought so.

“Ah,” said Mary quickly, “if I could but get me a new face as easily as I get me a new gown, then I might be a beauty.”

The maids were excited because they knew that this was to be a very grand ball, and the King himself was to be present.

They did not know the purpose of the ball.

George had explained it to his wife. It was one of his plots and in this his conspirators were Lord Sandwich and Henry Bennet—who was now Lord Arlington.

“We cannot,” George had said, “allow the King to become morose. He neglects his state business and he is not so amusing as he once was. The King wants one thing to make him his merry self again; and we are going to give it to him: Frances Stuart.”

“How will you do this?” she had asked. “Is it not for Frances Stuart to make the necessary decision?”

“We shall be very, very merry,” said the Duke. “There will be dancing and games such as Frances delights in. There shall be drink … potent drink, and we must see that Frances partakes of it freely.”

Mary had turned a little pale.