I was shocked to hear someone in the palace singing: “Full forty men a day provided for the whore, Yet like a bitch she wags her tail for more.”

These lines on Barbara were attributed to the Earl of Rochester, who was a great favorite with the King. He was a wild rake, noted for his wit, and he and Charles were often together. He was related to Barbara Castlemaine, and he spared no one in his verses…not even the King.

Buckingham, of course, was in the center of the scene, more outrageous, impulsive and wilder than any. He behaved very badly to his long-suffering wife. I often wondered what Mary Fairfax thought of marriage to a grand duke; I imagined she longed for the dignity of her father’s Puritan home. Buckingham, whose morals could be compared with those of Lady Castlemaine, was quite shamelessly carrying on an amorous intrigue with the Countess of Shrewsbury. He had brought her into his house and expected his wife to accept the presence of his mistress.

It was reported that Mary Fairfax had confronted the Countess, saying there was not room for both of them in the house and she must therefore ask the Countess to leave at once. At which time Buckingham had come upon the scene and declared that she was right. There was not room for the three of them, therefore he had ordered his carriage to conduct Mary to her father’s house.

Such stories, even in the immoral climate of London at that time, were considered by most people to be outrageous.

The Earl of Rochester had abducted the heiress Elizabeth Malet, married her and taken possession of her fortune.

There was a great scandal when the Duke of Buckingham fought a duel with the Earl of Shrewsbury and one of Buckingham’s seconds was killed on the spot and Shrewsbury died from his wounds a few weeks later. Lady Shrewsbury, the cause of the dispute, stood by dressed as a page holding Buckingham’s horse while the duel was in progress.

Buckingham continued to live in blatant adultery with Lady Shrewsbury.

It seemed that however outrageously people behaved, it was acceptable. What could be expected, some of the more serious-minded asked, when the King showed such contempt for moral standards?

“There is a new actress at the Theatre Royal,” said Lettice, “who, they say, can outshine Moll Davis. She should be seen in this Beaumont and Fletcher piece. Pilaster, I think it is called.”

I said I should be interested to go one evening.

When I went to the theater, it was considered fitting that I should be in the company of the King, so we went together. The people liked to see us there. Charles was affable to everyone, even the humblest orange girls.

Tom Killigrew, the manager, to whom Charles had given the grant to open the theater, was on terms of familiarity with the King, who had lately been frequenting the Duke’s Theatre because Moll Davis had been there.

I settled down to enjoy the play, and as soon as I saw the actress I realized that she had some special quality. She was small yet dainty with abundant reddish hair, rather wild and curly, framing a piquant face. There was saucy mischief in that expression and an unmistakable vitality.

She played the part of Bellario, a girl so much in love that she goes off to follow her lover, disguising herself as a pageboy. I might say that it was no disguise at all. She was completely feminine and could never be mistaken for anything else, and she had the kind of face which would be recognizable anywhere.

But it was an appealing piece. The King laughed and clapped his hands with pleasure. He was very intent on the stage and the actress was obviously aware of it. She gave the impression that she was playing for him.

All the young men in the house — and they were prominent among the audience — appreciated her, and when the play was over they demanded that she dance a jig, which she obligingly did with great animation.

The audience began to chant verses which some poet must have written about her. There were always verses, for many of the young men who haunted the theater believed themselves to be young Shakespeares waiting to be recognized.


She is pretty and she knows it

She is witty and she shows it

And besides that she’s so witty

And so little and so pretty

She’s a hundred other parts

For to take and conquer hearts

But for that suffice to tell ye

She’s the little pretty Nelly.


Lady Suffolk was beside me, so I said, “Who is this actress?”

“Her name is Nell Gwynne, Your Majesty. She is a great favorite, as you see.”

“The audience seems to like her,” I replied.

I turned to the King. His eyes were still on the girl. He seemed to like her too.


* * *

I WAS NOT SURPRISED when I heard that the King had invited Mistress Eleanor Gwynne to sup with him.

It was impossible to keep secret the fact that the King was sending for pretty little Nelly, but she did not replace Moll Davis immediately. Charles liked variety and apparently Moll Davis was a pretty little creature also. So Moll lived in her fine house and continued to flaunt her six-hundred-pound ring and Nell Gwynne was just the King’s casual playmate.

There were times when I felt dejected. The whole of London — and perhaps beyond — would be talking about the King’s latest mistresses — and the rivalry between Nelly and Moll.

Nell was a madcap who did wild things. A story was in circulation that one day Moll was boasting that the King had sent for her and she would be with him that night. Poor Nelly, she said, when had she last seen the King? Moll could sympathize. It must be maddening for her dear friend to be sent for so rarely.

Nell said that there was no ill feeling, and to show this, she would like to drink to her friend’s success. Moll agreed to this and Nell laced her rival’s drink with a strong purge so that Moll was unable to visit the King that night. Nell coolly presented herself to take Moll’s place.

It was said that when the King heard what had happened, he was greatly amused and soon after that Nell began to gain ascendancy over her rival.

I thought often of the romantic love which I had believed in before I came to England. What an innocent I had been! But perhaps not. Perhaps it did exist. Queen Henrietta Maria had found it when she came to England. But she had come in fear, most reluctantly and had discovered a faithful husband who had grown to love her as she had him. And I had come in joy and expectation and even for a short time believed I had found perfection. At least I had had that. And in this London of the Restoration, faithful husbands were rare indeed. Promiscuity, infidelity, adultery…that was the custom of the day.

So…I must not brood on my misfortune. I must hide my jealousy. I must adjust myself to this careless cynical age; I must be part of court life…enjoy the wit of those who crowded round the King, and try to be one of them.

I could not do that, but at least I had little to fear from actresses such as Moll and Nell and could forget the humiliation I had suffered through Barbara Castlemaine and the fear when I thought Charles would set me aside for the sake of Frances Stuart.

I must be grateful that that had passed.


* * *

IT WAS EARLY SEPTEMBER when the news came.

I was at Hampton Court. Charles, with his brother James, had gone off to hunt in the New Forest when a courier arrived from France. He came in great haste and said he would speak only to the King.

Messengers were immediately dispatched and Charles and James very soon arrived at Hampton.

I was with them when the courier told them the news.

“Your Majesty and my Lord Duke,” he began, “I have sad tidings. Queen Henrietta Maria expired on the last day of August.”

Charles was shaken. “How, how? She was well…”

“Your Majesty, she suffered frequently from sleeplessness. She had to take pills each night in order to sleep. On that morning…she did not wake up.”

Charles fired questions at the messenger. James stood by dazed.

All we could discover was that the Queen had suffered from various ailments since her return from England.

“She took the baths at Bourbon, Your Majesty. They helped but could not cure her. She was very brave and always said she did not wish to be like those ladies who lamented when they had an aching finger. King Louis sent his first physician, Monsieur Valot, to her.”

“Louis was fond of her, I know,” said Charles. “He would have done anything to help her.”

“He was very sad when he learned of her death, Your Majesty. He said a courier must be sent to England immediately.”

“It was good of him,” said Charles.

“Monsieur Valot is now a very unhappy man, for it was he who prescribed the grains to make Her Majesty sleep.”

“She was always averse to taking such things,” commented Charles. “And Dr. Mayerne, who attended her when she was here, agreed with her that such aids to sleep could be dangerous. Tell me, how was she before she died?”

“She suffered a cough, Sire.”

“Had she taken to her bed?”

“Oh no, Your Majesty. She was at supper as usual. She talked and laughed. She took her grains and went to sleep at once, her ladies said. When one of them went in to awaken her she could not do so and the doctor came. They said she was not dead but some vapor had touched her brain and prevented her from speaking. However, the priest had the ceremony of extreme unction performed. They said she revived a little but only for a few moments, and then she expired. There is great sadness at the court of France, Your Majesty. The King deeply mourns his beloved aunt, and the Princess Henriette is prostrate with grief.”

“My poor Henriette…she would be,” murmured Charles. “The Queen loved her more than any of us…even James.”

I felt as though I had lost a friend. I had not seen a great deal of her but there had sprung up a warm relationship between us.

I could grieve with them.


* * *

THE COURT WENT INTO MOURNING and Charles seemed a little closer to me then. I think he wanted to talk about his mother and he could do that with me more easily than with Lady Castlemaine or one of his actresses.

“Dear Mam,” he said. “I was never a favorite with her. She was disappointed in me from the day I was born. ‘What an ugly child!’ she said. ‘Can it belong to me and my handsome Charles?’”

“They say you were very like her father and she admired him greatly, I believe.”

“Like him in my ways…at least in the worst of them.” He looked at me with that half-amused, half-apologetic smile. “He was a great king, that Henri — one of the best the French have had. I should do well to emulate him in that respect…instead of others. I think of my dearest sister, Henriette. I would I could be with her. She was the closest to Mam. She is more French than English. She was only a child when she ran away from this country, and Mam…she was all French…she would never be anything else. That is why the English did not like her. They blame her for my father’s death.”

“The people must always blame someone.”

“Oh yes, it is comforting to pick a scapegoat. But I fear my dear Mam may not have helped matters. In the first place they did not like her religion.”

I flinched and he put a hand over mine.

“You are not like her. Mam made her opinions known and she believed she was always right. I think that was where she went wrong. She was indiscreet; she talked when she should have been silent. She went marching through life…blundering, you might say…taking action when she should have been passive…bringing disaster to her husband whom she wanted to help more than anything on earth. That was Mam, quick to rage…effusive in her affections…everything she did was done with the utmost enthusiasm. Perhaps that was why we loved her. I wish I could see my little sister.”

“You love her best of all your family, I think,” I said.

“Little Minette. Yes, she was my favorite. It is sad that we never meet. I do not think she is happy over there. The French court is different from ours. Perhaps what people here resent about our court is that it is too like the French, but, as I say, the difference is there. It is as free as ours…but shall I say less blatant. Our characters differ. I am half French, Catherine, so I know. Perhaps that is my misfortune.”