I sometimes wished that I could go right away to Oatlands with the children and Charles and live like a simple noblewoman. Should I really want that for long? I was not sure. My frivolous nature did enjoy the masques and balls and all the beautiful clothes and jewels that seemed part of them. I was by nature an intriguant, I suppose. I loved to be in the thick of adventure. I had so enjoyed Panzani’s visit and that enjoyment had been greater because of the secret understanding between us which I knew would be against the wishes of those serious puritanical people who were springing up everywhere.

A new baby was an additional expense. She was put into the care of the Countess of Roxburgh, who was already looking after her elder sister Mary; but she had to have her suite of attendants befitting a royal child—her dresser, her watchers, her nurses, her rockers and quite a number of minor servants. Moreover, Charles’s nephews—the sons of his sister Elizabeth—came to visit us and that meant lavish entertainments. Charles Louis, the elder, was a little dull, but Rupert was a very attractive young man of about seventeen. Charles took a great fancy to him and he to Charles. It was fun to have the young men at Court and there was one entertainment which stands out in my memory. Lady Hatton gave a wonderful show at her place in Ely Court, and the masques, plays and balls and firework displays lasted for a whole month. Lady Hatton closed her entertainment with a ball for the citizens of London. It was not for people of the Court, she said.

It was Henry Jermyn who suggested that we go incognito and I thought it was an excellent idea.

“But how?” I asked.

“We shall have to dress as citizens,” said Henry. “I’ll be a merchant. Your Majesty can be a shopkeeper’s wife.”

What fun we had! I instructed one of the seamstresses to make me a suitable gown and a bonnet which hid my face to a certain extent because it was just possible that someone might recognize me. I sent for my lace woman who kept a shop somewhere in the city and let her into the secret. She promised to take us in with her.

It was so amusing dancing with the citizens and interesting to listen to their talk although a little disconcerting that there were some who had harsh things to say about the way in which Catholics were getting a footing in the country. There were even one or two comments against me, but I didn’t take them very seriously. They only seemed to add to the fun as I was intent on enjoying the evening and Henry Jermyn was so amusing posing as a merchant and Lord Holland—always good for adventure—was excellent company.

Charles was at this time in good spirits, for to celebrate the birth of the new baby, Louis and Rupert had brought with them presents from Charles’s sister Elizabeth and the Palatine her husband, and these happened to be four paintings of great beauty and nothing could have pleased the King more. He was delighted to add the two Tintorettos and Titians to his collection, and I often found him gloating over them. The Arab horses—snow white in color—which had accompanied the paintings, Charles had presented to me.

“I am sure you will enjoy them more than I would,” he said fondly. “And I have my pictures.”

It was hardly likely that with a new addition to the family making us the proud parents of four healthy children and all the merrymaking we were going to worry ourselves about the depleted state of the exchequer.

It was certainly not in my nature to do so.

I was a little saddened to hear that Lady Eleanor Davys, who had prophesied that my first child would be born, christened and buried on the same day, had become a widow. She had prophesied Sir John’s death, which she had said would take place within three days of her prophecy and it did. It was reported that when she had looked somber and worn something dark in mourning for him, he had said: “Don’t weep while I am alive and I will give you leave to laugh when I am dead.”

There was a great deal of talk about her and her prophecies at the time of Sir John’s death. I should have liked to consult her again, but I knew that Charles would not be pleased if I did and I was so happy in this wonderful relationship which was growing between us and which was becoming stronger every day, that I did my best not to upset him now.

Only recently Lady Eleanor had been committed to the Gate House Prison and fined three thousand pounds. I don’t know exactly what she did but she had been accused of some crime through her writings. She did not care about this but continued to write. Whether she was in league with the Devil I cannot say, but she sincerely believed in her prophecies and that it was her duty to make them.

A new Papal agent had arrived in England. This was George Conn. He was a Scotsman of great charm and good looks who had been sent to the Scots’ College in Paris and Rome and gone on to complete his education afterward at Bologna, where he had become a Dominican friar.

His mission, I learned later, was to mingle with the people of the Court and persuade them—with the utmost subtlety of course—to embrace the faith of Rome. Panzani had been too ambitious. He had planned to convert the whole country. The new idea, which came with George Conn, was to convert the important people of the Court; and this was what George was setting out to do.

Having traveled a great deal he was possessed of a sophistication which made people forget he was a priest. Charles enjoyed his company very much indeed—almost as much as I did; and he was very soon popular at Court. He had some rooms in the house he had acquired made into what he called the Pope’s Chapel, and Catholics from all over the neighborhood went there to worship. George Conn told me that the Pope was delighted with what I was doing in England and as a symbol of his approval sent me a beautiful gold cross studded with exquisite gems. I wore it proudly and told my friends that I regarded it as my most precious possession.

One day George Conn showed me a beautiful picture of St. Catherine which he said he was going to have framed for me. I loved it on the spot and asked if I might see to the framing myself. I then decided that I would not have it framed after all but have it attached to my bed curtains so that the first thing I saw on opening my eyes was the beautiful serene face of St. Catherine.

George Conn was very pleased with me but he pointed out that as there was a great deal of work to be done we must not be complacent. I was so delighted that Charles enjoyed talking to George almost as much as I did.

Once Charles said: “I think I am a Catholic at heart.” And George and I exchanged glances of triumph for I at last believed victory was in sight. I suppose George was too wise to think so.

But there was no protest when one of the preachers said in a sermon which he gave for the King and the Court that the people who had brought about the English schism were like tailors who cut out garments and find themselves unable to piece them together and become so bemused that they do not know what they are doing.

I began to feel very proud of myself for there I was, a happy wife and mother, and upon my shoulders had descended the great task of leading the country of my adoption back to salvation. I was seeing myself at that time as one of the great figures of history. I should be remembered as that Bertha of whom some people were fond of reminding me.

There were setbacks of course. I was sure Charles wanted to become a Catholic. There was nothing of the Puritan in him, but he had at his coronation vowed to uphold the Reformed Faith as all anointed sovereigns must do and which was one of the reasons why I had refused to be crowned with him.

I had made a habit of taking my son Charles to Mass. It had, after all, been one of the clauses of the marriage settlement that I was to have charge of the children’s religious education until they were thirteen. Charles was only six years old but he was very interested and asked a great many pertinent questions as he did about everything, and he happened to mention something of this when he was with his father.

Charles was taken aback. “Surely,” he cried, “you did not take the boy to Mass?”

“But, of course, he must go to Mass,” I said. “He is six years old. I want…”

Charles laid his hands on my shoulders and looked at me with that half-exasperated, half-tender look which I seemed to inspire so often.

“My dearest,” he said, “you cannot take the Prince of Wales to Mass.”

“But why not?”

“Because, my love, he will one day be King of this country. He will take his oath, as I have, to adhere to the Reformed Faith.”

“But I am to have charge of his education until he is thirteen.”

“You must not take him to Mass.”

“And if I insist?”

“I hope you will not, my dearest, because if you do I shall have to forbid you and you know how it grieves me to forbid you anything.”

So of course I had to obey, but in my heart I knew that Charles leaned toward the Faith and, if he had not been the King who had sworn to adhere to the Reformed Faith, I am sure he would have admitted it.

It was only later that I realized that all these small incidents were like a smoldering pile in which the smoke is only seen in occasional escaping wisps. But the fire is there waiting to break out. I could not see it then though. I was foolish and frivolous, congratulating myself on the work I was doing.

Quite a number of the ladies of the Court were becoming involved with religion. George Conn was so persuasive and he never talked religion openly, only in the most subtle manner. I had the greatest admiration for him.