Girl on the Golden Coin: A Novel of Frances Stuart Page 2

  I suppressed a smile. The Queen Mother was notoriously headstrong, thoroughly French, and supremely Catholic. England was the last place she wanted to go.

  “She wishes to see Princess Henriette Anne settled into her marriage before she leaves,” said my mother. “The prospect of leaving one’s child is heart-wrenching, you know.”

  I tensed at her hint that she wouldn’t want to part with me, either. Buckingham turned to me. “I believe this lovely creature is your child, Mrs. Stuart?”

  My mother made no move to present me. “One of my children, Your Grace, yes.”

  I held my breath. She had to introduce me so I could talk to him.

  St. Albans intervened. He gestured toward me and said, “Your Grace of Buckingham, may I present Frances Teresa Stuart, daughter of the late Honorable Walter Stuart.” My mother looked stunned but joined him as he stepped aside. When my father died, St. Albans was the man my mother turned to as an advocate. She deferred decisions to him—apparently she believed him to be the most suited at court to protect a penniless widow and her three children related to the Stuart crown.

  I dipped into an expert curtsy, just as I’d rehearsed.

  “I’ve long wanted to meet you, Frances,” Buckingham said. “Everyone praises you as the most beautiful girl at the Queen Mother’s court.”

  I felt the blush creep up again. Then I wondered how much beauty might add to the value of my Stuart blood. “Thank you, Your Grace. Though our princess, Henriette Anne, is the prettiest.” My mother relaxed, satisfied with my response. Buckingham had declared himself my cousin’s champion. Everyone said he was devoted to her, even in love with her.

  Buckingham grinned. “I have a secret for you, if St. Albans and Mrs. Stuart would excuse us.”

  Mother stepped in front of me. “What could you say to a girl near four-and-ten that you wouldn’t say in front of her mother?”

  Buckingham frowned, and St. Albans took her arm. “What Mrs. Stuart means is, remain in the hall while you talk to her eldest daughter.”

  My mother shot a furious glare at me, and I tried not to look too happy. She did not protest as St. Albans steered her away.

  When I turned to Buckingham, he was grinning again.

  I opened my mouth to speak, then closed it. What, exactly, was I going to say? Do you know any unmarried English noblemen willing to wed me and so save me from my miserable life? I shifted, toes pinched in my secondhand boots. “Tell me of England,” I said instead.

  “Have you never been?”

  “No, I was born in Scotland. My family escaped the Civil War by joining the Queen Mother here in France when I was a babe. I know little of my homeland.”

  He shrugged. “The wars took their toll on her, and Oliver Cromwell’s Puritan rule drained her spirit for a time. But King Charles is reviving her with all the enthusiasm of youth.”

  I knew all this, of course, but nodded my head trying to think of what else to say.

  “Aren’t you going to ask about the secret? Princess Henriette Anne is not the prettiest.”

  “Wh—I thought you declared yourself her champion?”

  “That was before I met you.”

  Me? I couldn’t respond.

  “Surely you’re used to people complimenting your beauty?”

  “Well, no. I live within the Queen Mother’s court … we are but a small household.”

  “The princess told me what a dear friend you are to her. Now that she is married to the French prince she shall have a court of her own, and you will have ample opportunity to meet gentlemen. They will fall at your feet.”

  This was my chance. “French girls are entitled to every official position, and my mother won’t permit me to accompany her court. I must continue serving the Queen Mother.”

  His lips turned down in an exaggerated frown. “Oh, but how dull that will be.”

  I thought of my mother’s scorn when I’d made that very complaint. “It is positively beyond dull, Your Grace.”

  “Think of the balls you’ll miss.” His expression seemed almost mocking now.

  I hesitated, wondering if he was teasing me. “It is more than that. I am tired of being in captivity.”

  “Of course.” He nodded. “But you can endure it a short while longer. Surely your mother has plans for you to marry soon?”

  “She does not. She desires me to stay with her for several more years. She married young herself, you see.”

  “How unfair.” He clicked his tongue. “You should be allowed to embrace life, enjoy England’s return to favor.”

  “Your Grace, I agree.” I cleared my throat. “That brings me to a point I hoped to discuss with you this day.” I was trying my hardest not to look embarrassed. “If you know a decent man from a noble English family, would you consider recommending me to him as a possible bride? I have no dowry, but I am a Stuart, and that must be worth something now.”

  “Forgive me.” He bit his lip, suppressing a laugh. “Why leap from one captivity to another?”

  “My other choice is to live in the Queen Mother’s convent. Chaillot is no release at all.”

  He stepped closer. “There is another possibility you haven’t considered.” I leaned in, willing to hear his wisdom. “Come back to England with me. I’ll make you my mistress.”

  I gasped so hard my head lurched back. He was more than twice my age. “Your Grace,” I said as calmly as I could, “you must think I care nothing for honor and virtue. You insult me, and you do your wife no credit.”

  He leaned back on his heels, frowning sincerely this time. “I take that as a no.”

  “I’m not so foolish that I’d sell myself, sir!”

  This time he didn’t try to suppress his laugh. “You’re sure you won’t run away with me?”

  I glanced around, looking for someone else to talk to, refusing to look at him.

  “Perhaps I have a better offer. Frances, you know I am King Charles’s most favored friend?”

  I made no reply.

  “He trusts my advice, and in some matters, I can speak for him. Your royal cousin has excellent taste in women and a … fondness for them.”

  I faced him again with astonishment. “You wouldn’t dare suggest—”

  He held up his hand. “I guarantee he will take you as his mistress at first sight. You could have a house of your own, jewels, silk gowns, money, horses, carriages. He might even grant you a title. And you’d escape from here.” Buckingham grabbed my arm, enthusiastic. “I should have thought of it before. Your beauty, your poise, you are exactly what he’d want.”

  I shook my arm free, not believing a word. “No.”

  “Suit yourself. Stay in captivity with your mother and St. Albans. Your secretive little family.”

  The doors of the great hall opened, and everyone turned. A herald presented the newly wed couple, Monsieur Prince Philippe, duc d’Orléans and Princess Henriette Anne of England. They proceeded in, followed by the groom’s brother, the French King Louis XIV and his queen, Marie-Thérèse of Spain. King Louis and Philippe’s mother, Anne of Austria, entered next, followed by the English Queen Mother. The bride, my cousin, smiled and waved when she saw me. She was beautiful. She loved me, and now she must leave with her husband and I would be alone. I dipped to curtsy, slipping into misery, as Buckingham bowed beside me.

  I caught my mother’s eye. She watched me with a cold expression. The royal family took their places at the banquet table and signaled for us, the court, to be seated. “You hold rank,” I said to Buckingham, barely moving my lips. “Command St. Albans and my mother to allow me to join court with the princess.”

  “Why? You will capture the heart of every man there—including the man the princess is in love with. You will unknowingly heap disaster upon your head.”

  How did he know whom the princess really loved? And what made him think I could attract men of such high status? I saw my mother marching toward us. “How hurt do you think the princess will be,” I said quickly, “if she
learns your affection for her is all pretend?”

  He narrowed his eyes, registering my threat, then glanced at my mother fast approaching. “I will do it only on this account, that you repay me in one way: when disaster befalls you, you will ask me to introduce you to King Charles. No one but me.”

  I nodded just as my mother gripped my arm. She stared at Buckingham’s back as he headed to his table. “He looks displeased. What did you do?”

  I lifted my free arm in a helpless gesture. “Nothing, Mother. We were only talking.”

  “I could see you were talking.” She moved us gracefully to our seats. Even with a bear’s-jaw grip on my arm, my mother’s steps were light and elegant. “You should never talk with someone so highly ranked. You could embarrass us all.”

  Ranked. My cousin’s marriage now ranked her the second-highest woman in France. Permission to stay with her would bring freedom enough. We sat at our assigned table, but I was lost in thought. She can help me find a suitable husband, and a French marriage is as good as an English one …

  “Frances, sit up.” Mother jabbed me with her elbow.

  But I was already sitting perfectly straight. I tried not to watch Buckingham and St. Albans as they conversed at the high-ranking English table and glanced at me from time to time. Oh, please let him keep his word.

  * * *

  Tradition dictated that the royal couple be escorted from their wedding banquet to bed by their families, Catholic officials, and the most important wedding guests. I was not included in this group; instead I was sent to my family’s tiny chamber.

  “Tell me of the bride,” said my sister, Sophia, pulling our quilt up to her shoulders.

  “A beautiful flower.” I kissed her good night. “She must be the happiest girl in the world.”

  “Frances, you won’t wed, right?” said my little brother, reaching for me. “You won’t leave us, will you?”

  “Shhh,” I soothed, mussing his hair. He was the youngest, they were both under ten years, and I could hardly bear the thought of being without them. “You know I’ll always love you both. Now climb up, time for sleep.” He crawled into the bed he still shared with our sister and curled up, yawning, and I drew the bed curtains.

  Mother returned hours later.

  “How was the princess?” I asked anxiously as I unlaced her bodice.

  “We did not see the couple to bed. She had her monthly flux and felt unwell. Monsieur went home to the Palais des Tuileries without her.” She eyed me suspiciously. “I don’t want you talking to the Duke of Buckingham again.”

  “I said nothing to embarrass us, I promise.”

  “It isn’t that. He—the Villiers family—I fear they think they have the right to take you from me. To use you in some way. They aren’t … honorable.”

  I was stunned. “Why? Why would they think they have such a right?”

  She turned away, stepped out of her petticoat and smoothed the front of her linen chemise. “Just stay away from him.”

  I sat on our old wooden chest. Battered and worn, it was one of the only items of furniture my family owned. Every bed we slept on, every table we ate upon, belonged to the Queen Mother or the French royal family who housed us. Mother once told me that this chest had belonged to her family. It was a vivid memory because it was the only thing she’d ever told me about them. I traced the little scrolling V adorning the front.

  “Mother, are you a Villiers?” I pointed to the initial.

  “That initial isn’t mine. Don’t ask personal questions.”

  This was the cage that closed me in. I was told nothing, allowed to ask nothing, and expected to achieve nothing with my life. If my mother were a Villliers, why wouldn’t she tell me? “Well, I’m a Stuart.” I stood. “I’ll talk to whomever I please, for they’ve no rights to me at all.”

  “Stop acting so foolhardy. The chest isn’t from my family. It—it’s from your father’s.”

  “Wouldn’t my father have an S painted on the chest?” I countered brashly. Then it slowly sank in. “You mean my father wasn’t…”

  “Stop pushing, Frances. It will only humiliate us both.” She stepped into her bed and let the curtain fall upon my shock.

  CHAPTER 2

  He is unable to resist the temptation of showing himself in clothing which, by displaying all of his graces, makes him appear one of the prettiest people at court.

  —DUCHESSE DE MONTPENSIER,

  describing the younger brother of King Louis XIV

  Two nights later the princess summoned me to stay the night in her chamber. I crept over the freshly beaten carpets to her bed. “What’s the matter?”

  “Ma cousine,” she said in French, the only language this English princess knew after a lifetime of exile. She reached for my hand. Puffy blond curls framed her rosy face, but I could see she’d been crying, and I crawled under the coverlet with her. “My flux has ended. I can’t bring myself to go to Monsieur. I can’t do it.”

  “You must stop pining for King Louis. You knew you would marry his brother.”

  “King Louis might have chosen me as his queen if my brother had been restored one year earlier.” She wiped her eyes. “He might have chosen me if I were pretty like you.”

  “Nonsense.” The princess was generous. She’d taught me how to dance, how to ride, and every stitch of my clothing had once belonged to her. But this was a subject about which I’d learned my place. “Only a man in a blindfold would think me beautiful.”

  “Men were blind to me until my brother’s Parliament granted my dowry.”

  “Blindness enhances a man’s other senses.” I poked her ribs. “They can smell money.”

  She giggled, then fell quiet. “My new husband has an affinity for men.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “He beds them. His mother encouraged his effeminate ways so he wouldn’t be inclined to usurp his brother as he grew older. You remember the Fronde wars, when the people tried to limit the French king’s power? If Monsieur were to join forces with the noble frondeurs, France would have more civil war. So he is not man enough to be a king. But is he man enough to be a husband?”

  I was shocked. I’d never heard of such a thing. “You should talk to Father Cyprien, he would know whether this is acceptable.” The Queen Mother’s old priest had been our confessor and tutor for as long as I could remember.

  “He’s the one who warned me. He called it the Italian vice, and of course it’s not acceptable. The priests know, the court knows, my mother knows, and they ignore it. He advised me to ignore it, too.” She looked at me sheepishly. “By any chance, do you have your monthly flux?”

  How could Father Cyprien know and accept it? “I’m sorry, not right now.”

  She held up her arm and rubbed her wrist. “I thought about cutting myself enough to put it off one more night—”

  “No!” I grabbed her arms and pulled her close. I would have cut myself for her if I’d had the courage. My blood. Which may not be Stuart blood after all.

  * * *

  The Queen Mother entered her daughter’s chambers without the courtesy of an announcement early the following morning. I scrambled out of bed and curtsied. She frowned at me. “Your mother has changed her mind. You will go with my daughter.”

  Buckingham kept his word! I laughed aloud, then quickly lowered my head. “Excuse me, Your Majesty.”

  She turned to her daughter, still abed. She whipped the coverlets back and yanked my cousin’s chemise up. “Not a bloodstain in sight. Monsieur will come before supper and take you to the Tuileries.” The Queen Mother touched the crystal on her bracelet, which contained a lock of her late husband’s hair. The White King. The Stuart Martyr. The father who’d only held his infant daughter once before his execution. “Your father would be ashamed at how you shirk your duties.”

  My cousin covered herself and remained silent.

  “Remember how important your union to the French royal family is to your brother the king. You can be usefu
l to us only by being above reproach in this marriage.” She turned to me. “You have always been a good child, Frances. Remember all I’ve taught you and remind my daughter of her duties when she forgets.”

  I wondered why she used the word “when,” but nodded. “I promise.”

  The Queen Mother pulled her prayer book from the folds of her skirt and turned, pacing slowly toward the door. “You must always retire early and rise early. You must not speak too freely with any man. You must report useful information to me. You must seek my counsel before making any major decision. You must devote your free time to prayer. And above all…”

  Henriette Anne and I shot each other a look and mouthed the next words as her mother spoke them. “… you must never drink too much wine in the presence of men.”

  Henriette Anne’s voice was honey. “Your instruction will guide me every moment,” she called to her mother’s departing back. She reached to me, and I clasped her hand. “Go, see to your things now, Frances, for tonight we shall have our supper at the Tuileries.”

  As I left, the Queen Mother’s maids bustled in to prepare the princess for departure.

  * * *

  I fetched morning bread from the kitchens and broke it with my family. We spent the day playing marbles, sewing, and packing the old wooden chest with my few dresses. It seemed to mock me. You’re not who you thought you were. Mother didn’t look at it, and she didn’t speak much, beyond murmuring over her rosary. She had shattered my heritage. Would she ever tell me of her family? Did she miss them? Would she miss me when I left?

  When the time came, Sophia embraced me. “The maids say Monsieur plans to spend winter here,” she said with hope. “We shall see you again soon.”

  I hated to release her, but our mother would never carve a place for us outside of the Queen Mother’s service. If she or my brother were to have a better life, I would have to make it for them. Walter was upset. I squatted down to memorize his boyish face framed with red curly hair. “I’ll still be in Paris, only one palace away.”