Henriette looked into his face and saw the difference which the restoration of his kingdom had made to him. He was jauntier than ever; but the cynicism with which the years of exile had endowed him would be with him forever; he was very affectionate with his dearest Minette, warning her that, even as a King returned to his throne, he would not tolerate too many “Your Majesty”s from her.

To his mother he was graciously polite and showed all that affection which was demanded of him. The people, who had gathered to watch the royal meeting, were a little cool in their reception of Henrietta Maria; the population of Dover was largely composed of Puritans and Quakers, and they looked with distrust on the King’s Catholic mother; but the young Princess they thought charming, and they cheered her loudly, much to the delight of Charles.

“You see how my people wish to please me in all things,” he whispered to her. “It seems they know that their appreciation of you pleases me far more than that which they have for any other.”

He led his mother and sister into Dover Castle, where a great banquet was prepared for them. Charles placed his mother on one side of him, his sister on the other.

“This gives me great happiness,” he whispered to Henriette. “Soon Mary will join us and then we shall all be together.”

Later Henriette expressed the wish that Henry could have been with them.

“If he were here,” said Charles, “we should have Mam turning her back on him.”

“How did he die, Charles?” she asked. “Was he heartbroken? Did he long to speak to Mam before he died?”

“I was with him, Minette. I persuaded him not to grieve. You see, I am a profane man, and I said to him: ‘If you side with Mam, you break your word to our father; if you do not break your word you are banished from our mother’s favor. Side with yourself, brother. Do nothing that can offend yourself, and then, surely, in God’s eyes, you have taken the right side.’”

“You are a good man, Charles—the best in the world.”

“You joke, Minette. I am the world’s biggest rake—or one of them. I doubt whether there is a man living who could compete with me. Now were my grandfather alive …”

“You are the world’s kindest man, and it seems to me that kindness is one of the greatest virtues.”

“If I am kind it is due to my laziness. That can scarcely be called a virtue. Nay, I beg of you, sister, do not see me as a better man than I am, for one day there may be disillusionment. Love me for my faults; for that is the only way in which a man such as I may be loved.”

“What of James’ trouble?”

“Trouble? James is in love, and his wife loves him. Can that be called trouble?”

“Mam will make trouble of it.”

Charles groaned.

“She always hated Chancellor Hyde,” went on Henriette. “She says if his daughter enters Whitehall by one door, she will leave by another.”

“Poor Mam!” said Charles. “So she is bent on making trouble. Does she never learn? Have the years of exile taught her nothing then?”

It seemed not, for while they were at Dover—in that Puritan stronghold—she insisted that High Mass be celebrated in the great hall by Père Cyprien de Gamaches, whom she had brought with her.

Charles was in a dilemma. To forbid it would mean trouble; to allow it would be to offend the people.

Henrietta Maria, that diminutive virago, opposed to the Puritans of Dover! He smiled wryly. He feared his mother more, and hoped that in the excitement of the royal visit, in the pageantry so new to them after the years of Puritan rule, the people would overlook his mother’s tactlessness. So he decided that it would be wiser to risk offending the people of Dover than to cross his mother, who must somehow be reconciled to James’ marriage.

In spite of the death of Henry, which cast a shadow over her pleasure, in spite of the apprehensive fears of the marriage which lay before her, this period seemed to Henriette the happiest of her life. In the grand entertainments which her brother had prepared for her she endeavored to forget the past and shut out thoughts of the future.

She discovered that she was like Charles; she could banish unpleasantness from her mind. She was very sorry for the Duchess of York, whose father was keeping her a prisoner in his house because the King’s mother had been so furiously enraged every time her name was mentioned. But she was able to forget her in the joy she found in her brother’s company.

Mary, the Princess of Orange, had arrived in England, and there were special balls and fêtes to honor her. She was almost as fierce in her denunciation of Anne Hyde as Henrietta Maria was; and Charles, although his sympathies lay with his brother, was too lazy to enter into long arguments with his strong-minded mother and sister. It was easier to shelve for a while the matter of the Duchess’s banishment and give himself and his family the pleasure he had always promised this reunion should bring them.

Scandal spread about the Court concerning the Duchess. She was a harlot, it was said; the Duke was not the father of her child; it seemed there was nothing too bad that could be said of the Duchess. Henriette shuddered; but she did not know that there was scandalous gossip concerning herself and Charles. She had no idea that sly gossips were asking each other: “What is the nature of this affection between the King and his sister? Is it not a little too fond to be natural?”

There would always be scandals where there were Stuarts to provoke them.

If the King knew of these rumors he did nothing to refute them. He was too lazy for one thing, too wise for another. He often said that one could not alter people’s thoughts, and to protest too strongly was often construed as evidence of guilt.

Henriette was fast passing out of childhood. One of those who hastened her steps in that direction was George Villiers, Duke of Buckingham. Almost as profligate as the King, he declared his infatuation for the young Princess and did all in his power to seduce her. He was sixteen years her senior, well versed in the art of seduction—having had plenty of practice—as cynical as his master, though lacking his lazy tolerance. Buckingham immediately recognized in the Princess that which had attracted de Guiche and so guided the attention of Philippe towards her.

She was not plump like most Court beauties, who looked so much alike, who were ready with the catchwords of the moment; she was ethereal, dainty and slender; her laughter was gay yet innocent; her wit was growing sharp. All the Stuart charm, which had been latent, was suddenly apparent. She danced with enthusiasm; she was as gay as any; she had grown vivacious and amusing. This was a new Henriette.

“By God’s Body!” declared Buckingham. “She is incomparable, this little Princess. Having seen her, I find it difficult to see perfection in other women.”

But all his practiced gallantry, all his polished charm, failed to move Henriette. She saw him as a rake and a libertine; Charles was as bad, she knew; but Charles was her beloved brother, and nothing she discovered about him could alter her love for him. But she was not ready to fall in love with a pale shadow of her brother. In love she demanded different qualities. There was one who possessed all that she would demand in a lover. He must be good to look upon, but he must be of high integrity; he need not be supremely witty, but he must be good-natured and kind at heart. She had met such a one, but she must not think of him, for he was not for her.

So she amused herself by listening to Buckingham’s protestations of affection, flirting with him while making it perfectly clear that his desires concerning her would never be fulfilled.

“‘Od’s Fish!” said her brother in high amusement. “You are leading poor old George Villiers a merry dance.”

“Then it will do him much good to dance, as he has doubtless made others dance.”

“I am sorry for poor George.”

“I am sorry for his wife.”

“I doubt not that Mary Fairfax can look after herself.”

“To think it is only three years since she married him! How sad she must be to see him pursuing other women!”

“Three years!” cried Charles. “It is an eternity … in marriage.”

“Would you not ask for three years’ fidelity in a wife?”

“Dear Minette, I would not cry for the moon!”

“You are all very cynical here, and you, Charles, set the pace.”

“That may well be. But don’t fret for Fairfax’s daughter. She was promised to Chesterfield, you know, and after the banns were published she eloped with Buckingham. We might say ‘Poor Chesterfield!’ There were those to say it once. Nay! Do not waste pity on others in this game of love, Minette. Only take care that there is none to say ‘Poor Henriette!’”

“Charles, I am reminded that I must marry soon.”

“It is a good match, Minette. There is none I would rather see you marry, now that you cannot have Louis.”

“I am unsure.”

“We are all unsure at such times, dearest.”

“I cannot understand why Philippe so suddenly should want to marry me.”

“You are very attractive, Minette, as well as being the sister of a King—one who has now a throne. You are a worthy match for Philippe, as he is for you.”

“I wish I could love Philippe.”

“Some would say ‘That will come.’ But we do not allow fictions to exist between us, do we, Minette? No. You should not think of love in conjunction with husbands. I do not, in connection with wives.”

“You are being cynical again, Charles.”

“There are some who turn from the truth when it is not pleasant and call it cynicism. Do not let us be of their number, Minette. Face the truth and you will find that if you study it well you may discover that there is some part of it which is not as unpleasant as you thought it.”