“It isn’t flattery, madame. You’ve truly never looked handsomer in your life.”

Her voice and eyes were almost passionately sincere. Behind them Boynton whispered to Wells that something must be a-brewing between Stewart and the King—they were both so uncommonly kind to her Majesty. Winifred retorted that she was a prattling gossip and that his Majesty was always kind to his wife.

The weather was cold and the roads even worse than usual, but the Court was going to a play. Charles offered his arm to Catherine and she took it, giving him one of her quick shy smiles, grateful for the attention. They started off and for one swift passing instant Frances’s eyes met the King’s. She knew then, without a doubt, that while Catherine lived she, Frances Stewart, would never be Queen of England.


It was late in the afternoon, nearly six o’clock, and the overcast sky had long since made it necessary to light candles. Charles, in his private closet, the one room to which he could retire for some measure of seclusion, sat at his writing-table scrawling off a rapid letter to Minette. Her own most recent one was opened before him and from time to time he glanced at it. Beside him on the floor two long-eared little spaniels sat and chewed at each other’s fleas, and farther away there were others at play, romping and growling.

From the next room came the murmuring voices of men—Buckhurst and Sedley, James Hamilton, half a dozen others—waiting for him to come out and change his clothes before they went to supper. They were discussing the afternoon’s play—finding fault with the author’s wit, the scenery and costumes and actors—and comparing the prostitutes who had been in the pit. From time to time someone laughed loudly, all their voices went up at once, and then they grew quieter again. But Charles, absorbed in his letter, scarcely heard them at all.

All of a sudden a commotion rose outside and he heard a familiar feminine voice cry out, breathlessly, “Where’s his Majesty! I’ve got important news for him!” It was Barbara.

Charles scowled and flung down his pen, then got to his feet. Ods-fish! Did the woman’s impertinence know no bounds at all? Coming to his chamber at this hour of the day, when she knew there would be a roomful of men!

He heard Buckhurst answering her. “His Majesty is in his closet, madame, writing a letter.”

“Well,” said Barbara briskly, “the letter can keep. What I have to say can’t.” And promptly she began rapping at the door.

Charles opened it and there was obvious displeasure and annoyance on his face as he leaned against the door-jamb, looking down at her. “Well, madame?”

“Your Majesty! I must speak with you in private!” Her eyes glanced suggestively into the room behind him. “It’s a matter of the greatest importance!”

Charles gave a slight shrug and stepped back, admitting her, while the gentlemen exchanged amused glances. Ye gods, what next! Even when she had been most in favour she had not dared be so bold. The door swung shut.

“Now—what is this great business that can’t keep?” His voice was frankly skeptical, and impatient—for he thought it only another scheme of hers to create an impression of being in high favour.

“I understand that your Majesty has just paid a visit to Mrs. Stewart.”

“I have.”

“And that she sent you away with the plea her head was aching furiously.”

“Your information seems indisputable.”

Charles’s tone was sarcastic and his whole expression betrayed cynicism and the unbelief in his fellow-beings which had characterized him almost since boyhood, growing steadily stronger as the years passed. He was wondering what sort of trick she was trying to play on him, waiting to discover the inevitable flaw in her scheme.

But all at once Barbara’s face took on a look of mock coquetry and her voice dropped to a soft low pitch. “Well, Sire, I’ve come to console you for her coldness.”

He lifted his eyebrows in frank surprise and then scowled quickly. “Madame, you have become insufferable.”

Barbara flung back her head and began to laugh, a wild high abandoned laugh that was peculiarly her own, full of contempt and mocking cruelty. When she spoke her voice was low again, but intense, and excitement showed in the straining cords of her throat, the bright glitter of her eyes, the poise of her muscles as she leaned slightly toward him, like a cat set to spring.

“You’re a fool, Charles Stuart! You’re a stupid ridiculous credulous fool and everyone in your Court is laughing at you! And do you know why? Because Frances Stewart has been carrying on an intrigue with Richmond right under your nose! He’s with her at this moment—while you think she’s in bed with a headache—” She paused breathless, triumph shining from her face and showing in every line of her body, triumph and satisfied vengeance.

Charles answered her swiftly, without thinking, his habitual easy self-possession deserting him. “You’re lying!”

“Lying, am I? You are a fool! Come with me then and see if I’m lying!” And while he hesitated, as though half afraid of finding that she was telling the truth, she seized hold of his wrist. “Come with me and see for yourself how chaste she is—your precious Frances Stewart!”

With sudden resolution Charles jerked his hand free and started from the room, Barbara—grinning broadly now—hurrying at his heels. He wore only his white linen shirt and breeches. He had left his periwig in his closet hanging on a chair-back. Two courtiers leaped abruptly back from the door and all faces looked solemn and guilty, trying to pretend they had not listened. Charles ignored them and rushed on, half running along the maze of rooms and hall-ways that led to Frances’s apartments, leaving a trail of staring eyes and open mouths behind him. Barbara’s heels pounded at his side.

But outside Stewart’s rooms he stopped, his hand on the knob. “You’ve come far enough,” he said curtly. “Go back to your apartments.” And then as she stared with disappointment he flung open the door.

Frances’s pretty little serving-girl was in the entrance room and at the King’s appearance she gave a horrified gasp, leaped to her feet and ran toward him. “Oh, your Majesty! How did you—Don’t go in—please! She’s been so sick since you left—but now she’s sleeping!”

Charles did not even glance at her, but he reached out one arm to ward her off. “That remains to be seen.” He went on, striding through the antechamber and the drawing-room, and without hesitating an instant he flung open the door of the bedroom.

Frances was sitting in bed wearing a white-satin jacket with her hair tumbled over her shoulders, and beside her was a young man who held her hand in his. Both of them looked around in astonishment to find the King looming there in the doorway like a great and angry avenging god. Frances gave a nervous little scream and Richmond gaped, horror-struck, unable even to take off his hat or get to his feet.

Charles walked slowly toward them, his lips drawn tight against his teeth. “I didn’t believe her,” he said softly. “I thought she was lying.”

“Thought who was lying!” cried Frances defensively. She understood his anger and knew what he was thinking and it made her suddenly furious.

“My Lady Castlemaine. It seems she’s known some things about my affairs of which I was ignorant.” His black eyes shifted from Frances to Richmond, who had now got to his feet and stood twisting his hat round and round in his hands, while he looked like a whipped pup. “What are you doing here?” demanded Charles suddenly, his voice strained and harsh.

Richmond gave an unhappy apologetic little laugh. “Heh! I’m paying Mrs. Stewart a visit.”

“So I see! And by what right, pray, do you visit her when she’s too sick to see her other friends?”

Richmond, suddenly aware that he was being made to appear a helpless fool before the woman he loved, answered stoutly: “At least, Sire, I am prepared to marry her. Which is more than your Majesty can do.”

Charles’s eyes blazed in sudden rage and he started toward the Duke with clenched fists. One hand went to Frances’s mouth and she gave a piercing scream as Richmond, who did not want a beating at the competent hands of his sovereign, turned suddenly and leaped out the window. Charles, who had already reached it, saw him land awkwardly not far below in the low-tide river mud, and then scramble to his feet, give one terrified backward glance and rush off into the fog. For a long moment he stood there and stared after him, contempt and hatred on his face; then he turned to Frances.

“I never expected anything like this from you.”

Frances stared at him defiantly. “I’m sure I don’t understand you, Sire! If I can’t receive visits from a man whose intentions toward me are wholly honourable—then I am indeed a slave in a free country!” She passed one tired nervous hand quickly across her throbbing forehead, and without waiting for him to speak again she cried passionately: “If you don’t want me to marry, Sire, it’s your privilege to refuse me permission! But at least you can’t prevent me from crossing to France and entering a nunnery!”

Charles stared at her with sick incredulity. What had happened to the Frances Stewart he had known and loved for four years? What had happened to turn her into this cold brazen woman who flaunted her faithlessness, daring him to object to it, as though pleased to have made him a fool in the eyes of his friends? He found himself learning again at thirty-six what he thought he had learned well enough twenty years ago.

Now he spoke to her slowly, with sadness coming through his anger. “I wouldn’t have believed this of you, Frances, no matter who had told me.”