Chief of Hyde’s critics had been Henrietta Maria, the King’s own mother, who traced all the disagreements—and they were many—which existed between herself and her son, to this man.

Still Charles supported Hyde; and only now, when the man declared himself to be so desolate because his daughter was the wife and not the mistress of the Duke of York, did Charles begin to doubt the sincerity of his Chancellor.

He made him Baron Hyde of Hindon, and had decided that at his coronation he would create him Viscount Cornbury and Earl of Clarendon, to compensate him for his years of loyal service; but he had decided he would not be quite so trusting as hitherto.

Poor James! Charles feared he was not the most courageous of men. He was afraid of his mother. Odd how one, so small and at such great distance, could inspire terror in the hearts of her grown-up children. Henrietta Maria had made a great noise in Paris concerning this marriage—weeping, assuring all those about her that here was another instance of the cruelty of fate which was determined to remind her that she was La Reine Malheureuse. Had she not suffered enough! Was not the whole world against her! Charles knew full well how the tirades had run, and who had borne the brunt of them—his beloved little sister Henrietta, his sweet Minette. So James had trembled in Whitehall although it was so far from the Palais-Royal or Colombes or Chaillot or the Louvre, wherever his mother had been when calling those about her to weep for her sorrows, and the saints to bring vengeance on those who persecuted her. Then there had been his sister, Mary of Orange, who was furious that James could so far forget himself, and who had blamed herself because it was while Anne Hyde was in the retinue that she had first met the Duke.

Poor James! Alas, no hero. Alas, possessing no true chivalry. Terrified at what he had done in bringing upon himself the wrath of his formidable mother and strong-minded sister, he had declared his mistake to the world; he had lent his ears to the calumnies, which those who hated the Hyde family were only too ready to pour into them. Anne was a lewd woman, he declared; she had trapped him; the child for whose sake he had rushed into marriage was after all not his.

And so poor Anne, deserted by her family and by her husband, would have been in a sorry state but for one person.

Charles shrugged his shoulders. He did not believe the calumnies directed against the poor girl, but he suspected that if he had, his reaction would not have been very different, for he could never bear to see a woman in distress.

So the one who had visited the Duchess at her lying-in, when all the world seemed against her, was the King himself; and it was the royal hand which had been laid upon her feverish brow with, as he said, the tenderness of a brother, and it was Charles who whispered to her to have no fear for all would come right for her, since it was the envious enemies of her family who, denigrating its special talents and good fortune, had sought to harm her.

Whither the King went so must the Court go too. How could the courtiers neglect one whom the King chose to honor? “Come, man!” he cried to Hyde. “This business is done with. ’Tis a fool who makes not the best of what cannot be mended!”

To James he said: “You shame me! You shame our family. The Duchess is your wife. You cared enough for her to make her that. Is your love for her then less than the fear you have for our mother? You know she is innocent of these calumnies. For the love of God, be a man.”

Thus had that most unhappy matter been satisfactorily settled, and it was then that Charles had given Hyde his peerage to show where his sympathies lay.

The next disaster had been the death of his brother, Henry of Gloucester, the younger of his brothers, and the best loved. Death had come swiftly in the guise of the dreaded smallpox; and young Henry, strong and healthy one week, had been gone the next.

Such a tragedy coming so soon after his restoration—Henry had died in September, a few weeks after the trouble with James had blown up, and little more than three months after the King’s return to England—dampened all pleasure, and even the sight of his beloved sisters could not entirely console him.

Minette he loved dearly—perhaps more dearly than any other person on Earth—and it was delightful and gratifying to receive her in his own country, which had now acknowledged him its King, to do honor to the lovely and sprightly girl who had suffered such humiliation as a poor relation of the French Court for so long. But with Minette came her mother; Charles smiled now at the thought of Henrietta Maria, the diminutive virago, eyes flashing, hands gesticulating, longing to give James a piece of her mind and assuring everyone that she would only enter Whitehall when Anne Hyde was ordered to leave it.

And to Charles had fallen the task of placating his mother; this he did with grace and courtesy, and some cunning. For she was dependent upon his bounty for her pension, and she had been made to know that the obstinacy of her eldest son still existed beneath the easy-going manners, and that when he had made up his mind that something should be done, he could be as firmly fixed in his purpose as that little boy who had refused to take his physic and who had clung to the wooden billet which it had been his custom as a small boy to take to bed with him each night.

So he had triumphed over his mother as gently as he could. “Poor Mam!” he told his little Minette. She has a genius for supporting lost causes and giving all her great energy to that which can only bring sorrow to herself.” He had insisted on her receiving James’ wife in public.

And then almost immediately the dread smallpox, which had carried off his brother Henry, had smitten his sister Mary, and in the space of a few short months, though he had regained his throne, he had lost a beloved brother and sister.

How the family was depleted! There was now his mother—but they had never really loved each other—his brother James—and James was a fool and a coward, as was obvious from his treatment of Anne Hyde—and Minette, his youngest sister, the best loved of them all; yet she was rarely met and the water divided them. He had said farewell to her but a few days ago, but how did he know when he would see her again? He would have liked to bring her back to England, to have kept her with him. Dear Minette! But she had her destiny in another country; she had a brilliant marriage to make; he could not ask her to forsake her affianced husband and come to England merely to be the King’s sister. There was scandal enough concerning them already. Trust the malicious tongues to see to that!

So it was small wonder that he felt melancholy at times, for he was a man who liked to surround himself with those he loved. He could remember happy days when he had been the member of a family; and it had been a happy family, for there was affection between his parents, and his father was a noble man and loving father; but that was before he had found it necessary to oppose his overbearing mother; he remembered her from then as ever demonstrative, quick to punish but full of an affection which was outwardly displayed by suffocating embraces and fond kisses. Yes, Charles was a man who needed love and affection; he longed to have his family about him. He suffered their loss deeply as one by one they left this life.

He remembered now, as he bent to examine a herb in his Physic Garden, the terrible anxiety he had suffered when he had believed that Minette herself was about to die. Stunned by the loss of a brother and sister he had thought that life was about to deal him the most brutal blow of all. But Minette had not died; she had lived to return to France, where she would marry the brother of the French King and every week there would be, as in the old days, loving letters from her to remind him of the bond between them.

Yes, he still had Minette, so life was not all melancholy; far from it. He had his crown and he had his beloved sister, and there was much merriment to be had in the Court of Whitehall. A man could not have pleasure all the time, for if he became too familiar with it he would be less appreciative of it. The loss of his dear brother Henry and sister Mary had made him all the more tender to his sweet Minette.

There were other matters which gave him some uneasiness. Were the people a little disappointed? Had they hoped for too much? Did they think that with the King’s restoration all the old evils would be wiped out? Did they look upon the King as a magician, who could live in perpetual royal state and give his people pageants, restore estates, abolish taxes—and all because he had found some magic elixir in his laboratories? Oh, the many petitioners who hung about in the stone gallery of Whitehall which led to the royal apartments! How many there were to remind him that they had been loyal supporters during the years of exile! “Sire, it was due to me … to me … to me … that Your Majesty has been restored.” “Sire, I had a great house and lands, and these were taken from me by the Parliament….” “Sire, I trust that Your Majesty’s restoration may be our restoration….” It was easy—too easy—to promise. He understood their different points of view. Of course he understood them. He wished to give all they asked. It was true that they had been loyal; it was true that they had worked for his restoration and lost their estates to the Parliament. But what could he do? How could he confiscate estates which were now the property of those who called themselves his loyal subjects; how could he restore property which had been razed to the ground?

It was his habit almost to run through the stone gallery to avoid these petitioners. They would drop on their knees as he passed, and he would say quickly: “God bless you! God bless you!” before he strode on, taking such great paces that none could overtake him unless they ran. He dared not pause; if he did, he knew he would be unable to stop himself making promises which he could not fulfil.