Rochester began to read his poem, a long half-idyllic, pseudo-serious rambling tale of a shepherd and his love. The virgin was reluctant, the swain over-ardent, and when at last he brought her to consent he found himself powerless to satisfy either of them—and so it pointed a moral to laggard young maidens, like Frances, perhaps. Winifred Wells and Sedley were much amused, but though Frances could follow the trend of thought the subtleties escaped her. When at last he had finished he suddenly crumpled the paper and flung it into the fireplace. None of the gentlemen would let it be thought they had any regard for their scribbling.
“You write well on that subject, my lord,” said Sedley. “Can it be you’ve had the misfortune yourself?”
Rochester was not offended. “You always seem to know my secrets, Sedley. Is it possible you’re lying with my whore?”
“And will you be angry if I am?”
“By no means. I say a man who won’t share his whore with his friends is damned ill-natured and deserves the pox.”
“Well,” said Sedley, “I wish you’d treat your ladies with more kindness. She complains to me constantly that you’re unfaithful and use her barbarously. She swears she hates you and never wants to see your face again.”
Rochester gave a sudden laugh. “Ye gods, Sedley! You’re out of the fashion! That’s my last whore!”
At that moment a quick change came over Rochester’s face; his blue eyes darkened and an odd smile touched his mouth. The others turned curiously to see that Barbara Palmer had just appeared in the doorway. For an instant she paused, and then she swept in upon them, gorgeous, sultry, impressive as a tropical storm. She was dressed in green satin and she glittered everywhere with the darting shafts thrown from her jewels.
“By God,” said Rochester softly, “she’s the handsomest woman in the world!”
Frances made a face and turned her back. The King’s attention had accustomed her to the flattering notion that she was the most beautiful creature alive and she did not like to hear others praised; and Winifred and Castlemaine, rivals for the same man, had never been more than superficially polite to each other. While they watched, Barbara crossed the room and went to take her place at one of the card-tables.
“Well,” said Sedley, “if you have a mind to lie with her you must cure yourself of your nervousness. She’d have no patience with a man who found himself in such a predicament. Anyway, I don’t think your Lordship is the type she admires.”
They gave a hearty burst of laughter at this, for no one would ever forget how Barbara had given Rochester a blow that had sent him reeling when he had once tried to snatch a kiss.
The Earl joined in the laughter but his eyes had a malicious gleam. “No matter,” he shrugged. “Another five years and I warrant she’ll be willing to pay even me a round sum.”
The two women looked pleased, if a little surprised. Had Barbara actually begun to pay her lovers? Sedley, however, was frankly skeptical.
“Come now, John. You damned well know her Ladyship can have whatever man she sets her mind to, with no more than the lift of an eyebrow. She’s still the handsomest woman at Whitehall—or in all London, for the matter of that—”
Frances, now thoroughly hurt, gave a wave of her hand at someone across the room. “Your servant, madame—gentlemen—I must speak a word with my Lady Southesk—”
Rochester and Sedley and Winifred exchanged smiles. “I still hope,” said the Earl, “that some day that little milksop Stewart will come to blows with Castlemaine. Gad, I could write an epic on it!”
Several hours later Frances and Charles stood beside an open casement window above the garden, and the soft night breeze carried to them a faint smell of roses and the waxen sweet scent of potted orange-trees. It was almost midnight and many of the ladies and gentlemen had left already. Others were counting up their losses, arranging loans, grumbling about bad luck or exulting if it had been good.
Queen Catherine was talking to the Duchess of Buckingham and pretending not to notice how engrossed her husband was in Mrs. Stewart. She had learned her lesson well three years before, and though she loved Charles sincerely and hopelessly, she had never again objected to his interest in another woman. Now she played cards and danced, wore English clothes and dressed her hair in the latest French mode; she was as much an Englishwoman as her early training would allow. Charles always showed her the most perfect courtesy and insisted that the members of his Court do likewise. She was not happy, but she tried to seem so.
Frances was saying, “What a beautiful beautiful night! It doesn’t seem possible that only twenty miles away there are thousands of men and women—sick, and dying.”
Charles was quiet for a moment, and then he spoke very softly. “My poor people. I wonder why this has happened to them. They can’t deserve it—I can’t make myself believe in a malignant God who would punish a nation for the faults of its ruler—”
