My little Henriette was almost in tears to see the brother whom she adored. There was complete devotion between those two. I envied it in a way. I should have liked to be on such terms with Charles but I really could not completely forgive him for taking Henry’s side and I knew he could not forgive me for my behavior toward the boy.

But it was too great an occasion for resentments.

He was excited. He was receiving letters from General Monck. The people were tired of Puritan rule. They looked for the color and gaiety of a Court. They yearned for the old days. In fact they wanted the King to come home.

I dismissed all my attendants and sent them to make as grand a meal as they could for this most honored arrival; and when I was alone with Charles and Henriette, Charles talked of the state of affairs.

“I do not wish to say too much about this just yet,” he said, “in case it fails as so many attempts have before. But this is different. This is not war. This is peace. It is not a challenge. It is an invitation. I have a very good friend in General Monck. He was a supporter of Cromwell at one time, but I don’t think he ever took to the way of life the Roundheads established. Oliver Cromwell did not trust him…and rightly so. Monck is a great character, a rough soldier perhaps, but with a love for royalty. He shall be rewarded when I am back. He married his washer-woman….” He gave me an odd look when he said that. “Ah, that shocks you, Mam, but I believe the lady had many desirable attributes and one of these was that she was always an ardent royalist.”

“Do you mean he will help you regain your kingdom…this General?” I asked.

“He is the General, the Head of the Army. He does not like the Roundheads’ rule since Oliver died. He endured it then he said because Oliver was a good ruler and a strong man. Now it is different. I will have to be asked to go back. I have no intention of making a false start. I promise myself that when I go home it will be to stay. I have no intention to go wandering again.”

We were too excited to eat. I was glad we were at Colombes so that we could be alone…just a family…to talk and talk…and wait.

And so, after all our abortive attempts, all the selling of precious possessions to raise money for arms, all the tragedies and defeats and disappointments, it had happened in a totally unexpected manner.

Charles was invited to go home and on that glorious May day of the year 1660 he landed at Dover where he was greeted by General Monck, and all the way to London the people assembled in their crowds to throw flowers at his feet, to cheer him, to welcome him home from his exile.

This was the happiest day I had known since our troubles began.

The Restoration was truly here and I knew that life would be different for us all from now on.

HENRIETTE

Oh yes, life had changed. My dream had come true. My son was now the King of England. I knew it could not be all joy and happiness but the great tragedy was at an end. I had no doubt that Charles would be able to hold the throne. He was not like his father. He lacked the strong moral attitudes; he had shown more than once that he would never cling rigidly to controversial doctrines if by doing so he endangered himself and his throne. He had said he had no intention of wandering again and he meant it. The people adored him already as they never had his father. How strange life was! The good man—moral, religious, virtuous in every way—failed to win them, and yet my son with his ugly looks and excessive charm of manner, his easygoing acceptance of whatever life had to offer, won their hearts in a matter of days. They loved him for his sins—for his love affairs were notorious—as they had never loved his father for his virtues.

It was wonderful for me and for Henriette to hold up our heads again.

Henriette was longing to go to London but I held off for a while as a very interesting situation had arisen.

I had greatly enjoyed the entry into Paris of Louis and his bride Marie Theresa—a rather insipid girl who made me feel how much happier it would have been for everyone if Louis and Anne had not been in such a hurry and had waited until Charles’s restoration which would have made my Henriette an acceptable bride.

However, in spite of that disappointment it was a great joy to be no longer a poor supplicant.

Henriette and I sat with the Queen on a balcony of the Hôtel de Beauvais, the canopy of crimson velvet over us—completely royal now. I was proud to be of a similar rank to Anne—mothers, both of us, of reigning sovereigns and nothing to choose between us.

What a magnificent procession it was—magistrates, musketeers, heralds and the grand equerry holding the royal sword in its scabbard of blue velvet decorated with the golden fleurs-de-lis. And then there was Louis—a king for any country to be proud of, looking magnificently regal seated on his bay horse with a brocaded canopy held over him.

The people cheered him wildly. I felt proud of my nephew and I was thinking of course of that other King who had made such another entry into his capital city a short time ago. Louis looked like a god in silver lace covered with pearls, the elegant plumes in his hat—which was pinned on by a large diamond brooch—falling over his shoulders. Behind him rode Philippe and I could not look at him without speculation. He was not the first prize, of course, but he was a worthy second. He looked very handsome; he was in fact better looking than his brother though he lacked Louis’s manliness. He was also in silver most beautifully embroidered with jewels scintillating from his person. I looked sharply at Henriette. She was gazing ahead at Louis. Perhaps a little wistfully. I was not sure.

The bride came next—not nearly beautiful and elegant enough for Louis. And to think it might have been Henriette riding there, Queen of France! If only they had had the good sense to wait. My Henriette was not such an undesirable proposition now.

Marie Theresa’s coach was covered in gold lace and she herself was dressed in material which looked like gold. She looked quite beautiful—and who would not, so attired and in such a setting?—but a little coarse if one looked closely. And how elegant and ethereal my little one would have looked. I should not have dressed her in gold either. It was faintly vulgar and the bride wore too many jewels of contrasting colors. I should have dressed Henriette in silver and her only jewels would have been diamonds.

But what was the use? The prize had gone to that little Spanish Infanta. They would regret it, I knew.

Now I was laughing to myself for behind the bride’s coach came that of the Princesses of France and there sat the Grande Mademoiselle. She glanced up as she passed so that we were able to exchange glances. I smiled at her sardonically and managed to infuse a certain condolence into the smile. She would have interpreted it and not been very pleased, I knew. I was implying: “My poor dear niece, so you have missed again. Dear, dear, are we ever going to find a husband for you?”

I guessed now that she would have her eyes on Philippe. Oh no. That must not be. The daughter of a king is of far greater standing than the daughter of the brother of a king—particularly one who had disgraced himself by becoming involved with the Fronde.

The King was on a level with the balcony now and he paused to salute us. I noticed that his eyes lingered on Henriette and hers on him. They smiled at each other almost tenderly.

I was filled with chagrin.

Too late, I thought angrily. This is another mocking trick which fate has played on me.

Queen Anne embraced me warmly. It was the day after Louis’s entry with his bride. She was smiling as she did when she had something pleasant to convey.

She said: “I have been made so happy. My son Philippe has been talking to me. He is in love and wishes to marry.”

My heart started to bounce about in a most uncomfortable way. It must be Henriette. If it were not she could not look so happy.

I tried to steady myself and she went on: “He wishes to marry Henriette.”

I was wildly happy. If it could not be Louis—and that was now quite out of the question—then Philippe was the next best chance. My little Henriette would be the third lady in France and if Louis were to die without heirs—but that little Spaniard did look as though she might be fertile—my Henriette could still be Queen of France.

“I am so delighted,” Anne was saying, “and he is so much in love.”

It was hard to imagine Philippe’s being in love with anyone but himself, although he might spare some affection for that close friend of his, the Comte de Guiche, a young and extremely handsome nobleman, who had been married at a very early age to the heiress of the House of Sully though he had never shown much interest in his bride, except with regard to her fortune, and was delighted to be Philippe’s close friend.

However he was the brother of the King—next in line to the throne at the moment, and Henriette had known him for most of her life. When she married she would not have to go away. I should not lose her. To say the least I was delighted with the prospect.

Anne knew I should be and rejoiced with me.

“Louis has given his consent to the match and the Cardinal is in favor of it.”

Of course he would be, the old fox, I thought. Close ties with Spain through Louis’s marriage and with England through that of Henriette and Philippe.

It was what I wanted though, what I had angled for, and I had learned most bitterly through the latter part of my life that if you cannot get your heart’s desire you must settle for the next best thing.