When the Duke of York expressed his desire to hear Arran play the Sarabande on his sister’s guitar, Arran immediately invited the Duke to his sister’s apartments.

Chesterfield, hearing what was about to happen, stormed into his wife’s chamber and accused her of indulging in a love affair with the Duke of York.

Elizabeth, laughing inwardly, and remembering that occasion when she had first discovered that the husband she loved was in love with the King’s mistress, merely turned away and would neither deny nor admit that the Duke was her lover.

“Do you think,” cried Chesterfield, “that I shall allow you to deceive me … blatantly like this?”

“My thoughts are never concerned with you at all,” Elizabeth told him.

She sat down and took up the guitar, crossing those plump legs encased in green stockings for which the Duke had displayed public admiration.

Chesterfield cried: “Is he your lover? Is he? Is he?”

Elizabeth’s answer was to play the first notes of the Sarabande.

She looked at him coolly, and she remembered how she had loved him in the first weeks of their marriage, how she had sought to please him in every way, how she had dreamed of a marriage as happy as that enjoyed by her parents.

And then, when she had known that Barbara Castlemaine was his mistress—that woman of all women, that blatant, vulgar woman of whom there were so many stories current, that woman who had lost count of her lovers—when she had allowed herself to imagine them together, when she had seen how foolish she had been to hope for that happy marriage, quite suddenly she had ceased to grieve, she had come to believe that she would never care about anything anymore. It had seemed to her that in loving there could only be folly. The Court was corrupt; chastity and fidelity were laughed at even by the kindly King. Her feeling for her husband died suddenly. She had stood humiliated as a simple fool; and she would be so no longer.

Then she had discovered that there was much to enjoy in the Court; she had found that she was deemed beautiful. Gradually this understanding had come to her, and it was amusing to dance, to flirt, to astonish all by some extraordinary costume which, on her beautiful form, was charming. Like any other beautiful woman at Court she could have her lover. The King’s brother now sought her; mayhap soon the King himself would.

As for her husband, she could never look at him without remembering the acute humiliation he had inflicted on a tender young spirit which had been too childlike to bear such brutality.

One of her greatest joys henceforth would be to try to inflict on him a little of the torture he had carelessly made her suffer. She had never thought to accomplish it; but now the perverse man was, in his stupidity, ready to love a wife who would be cold to him forever more, although he had turned slightingly away from her youthful love.

That was life. Cynical, cruel. The Sarabande seemed to explain it far better than she could.

“I ask a question!” cried Chesterfield. “I demand an answer.”

“If I do not wish to answer you, I shall not,” she said.

“So he comes to hear the Sarabande! What an excuse! He comes to see you.”

“Doubtless both,” she said lightly.

“And that brother of yours has arranged this! He is in this plot against me! Do you think I’ll stand aside and allow you to deceive me thus?”

“I told you I do not think of you at all. And I do not care whether you stand aside or remain here. Your actions are of the utmost indifference to me.”

She was very beautiful, he thought, insolent and cold, sitting there with her pretty feet and a green stocking just visible below her gown. He often wondered how he could have been such a fool as not to have recognized her incomparable qualities; he had been mad to prefer the tantrums of Barbara to the innocence of the young girl whom he had married. He remembered with anguish her jealousy of his first wife. If he could only arouse that jealousy again he would be happy. Yet he knew that he would never arouse anything within her but cold contempt.

There was no time to say more, for at that moment the arrival of the Duke of York with Arran was announced. The Duke was flatteringly attentive to Lady Chesterfield and it was clear that he was far more interested in her than in her guitar.

Chesterfield refused to leave the little party to themselves, and stood glowering while Arran instructed the Duke in the playing of the famous Sarabande.

But, before the lesson had progressed very far, a messenger arrived to say that Chesterfield’s services as Lord Chamberlain to the Queen were required in the royal apartments, as the Muscovite ambassadors were ready to be conducted to her.

Furious at being called away at such a time, Chesterfield had no choice but to comply with instructions and leave Arran as chaperone for Lady Chesterfield and the Duke. When he arrived in the Queen’s presence chamber, to his complete horror, he found that Arran was there. The Duke and Lady Chesterfield must be alone together, in her apartments!

A mad fury possessed Chesterfield. He could scarcely wait for the audience to end. He was convinced that a trick had been played on him and that he had been cunningly removed that the Duke might be alone with his wife.

So great was his jealous rage that he went straight to his apartments. Neither the Duke nor Lady Chesterfield were there; and the first thing his eyes alighted on was the guitar; he threw it to the floor and jumped on it again and again till it was broken into many pieces. Then he set about searching for his wife, and the first person he found was George Hamilton, his wife’s cousin and admirer; and to him Chesterfield poured out the story of his miserable jealousy.

Hamilton, believing with Chesterfield that the Duke must certainly have succeeded with Lady Chesterfield where he had failed, nursed his own secret jealousy. He could not bear the thought of anyone’s enjoying those favors for which he had long sought; he would prefer to lose sight of the lady rather than allow her to enjoy another lover.

“You are her husband,” he said. “Why not take her to the country? Keep her where you will know that she is safe and entirely yours.”

This seemed good sense to Chesterfield. He made immediate arrangements and, by the time he saw his wife again, he was ready to leave with her for the country; and she had no alternative but to fall in with his wishes.

So they disappeared from the Court and, in accordance with the light-hearted custom of the time, witty verses were written about the incident, and what more natural than that they should be set to the tune of the Sarabande and sung throughout the Court?

The Duke of York began pushing notes into another lady’s muff. But Barbara could not forget that yet another lover had deserted her.

Catherine was happier during those months than she had been since the days of her honeymoon. At last she was to bear a child; she saw in this child a new and wonderful happiness, a being who would compensate her for all she had suffered through her love for the King. She pictured him; for, of course, he would be a boy; he would have the manners of his father; yes, and the looks of his father; the kindliness, the affability and the good nature; but he would be more serious—in that alone should he resemble his mother.

She saw him clearly—the enchanting little boy—the heir to the throne of England. She built him as firmly in her imagination as, in the days when she was awaiting her marriage, she had pictured Charles. She found great happiness in daydreams.

And indeed the King was charming to her. He seemed to have forgotten all their differences. He declared she must take the utmost care of herself; he was solicitous that she should not catch a chill; he insisted on her resting from arduous state duties. It was pleasant to believe that he cared, for her sake as well as for that of the child.

They rode hand in hand in the Park, and the people stood in groups to watch and cheer them. She was quite pretty in her happiness, and she heard the people confirm this to one another—for they were not a people to mince their words—as she rode forth in her white-laced waistcoat and her crimson short petticoat which was so becoming, with her hair flowing about her shoulders. Behind her and the King, rode the ladies, and of course Lady Castlemaine was there, haughty and handsome as ever, but just a little out of humor because she had not been invited to ride by the side of the King; and surely a little subdued, for previously she would have pushed her horse forward and made sure that she was seen riding near the King and Queen.

Her face under her great hat with its yellow plume was sullen; and, when she was ready to alight, she was very angry because no gentleman hurried forward to her aid but left her own servants to look after her.

Barbara’s day is done, thought Catherine. Had this something to do with her own condition? Or was it because of the meek little beauty who rode with them and was even more lovely than haughty Castlemaine, determined that the people should not see her riding side by side with the King when his wife was present, and looking so charming, in her little cocked hat with the red feather, that everyone gasped at such beauty.

Good news came from Portugal of the defeat of the Spaniards at Amexial. The battle had been fierce, for the Spaniards were led by Don John of Austria, but the English and the Portuguese Allies had won this decisive battle on which hung the fate of Portugal. The English had fought with such bravery and resource that the Portuguese had cried out that their allies were better to them than all the saints for whose aid they had prayed.