“Oh, Sire!” protested Frances. “How can you talk like that! They’re not being punished for
Charles smiled. “You’re loyal, Frances. I think you must be my loyal subject—But of course you’re not my subject at all. I’m yours—”
At that moment the high flaunting voice of Lady Castlemaine interrupted them. “Lord, what wretched cards I held tonight! I lost six thousand pound! Your Majesty, I swear I’m stark in debt again!”
She gave a gurgling laugh, staring up at him with her great purple eyes. Barbara was not so docile as the Queen. Charles visited her in private; she was then carrying his fourth child, and she did not intend that he should slight her in public. Obviously resenting her intrusion, he looked at her coldly with something of the forbidding hauteur he could so well assume when he had a use for it.
“Are you, madame?”
Frances now took up her skirts, with a gesture which delicately conveyed her distaste. “Excuse me, Sire. Your servant, madame.” She scarcely looked at Barbara, and then she started away.
Quickly Charles touched her arm. “Here, Frances—I’ll walk along with you, if I may. You have an escort, madame?” His question to Barbara did not demand or want an answer.
“No, I haven’t! Everyone’s gone.” Her lips pouted and she had an injured air which was probably the beginning of a crackling tantrum. “And I don’t see why I should shift for myself while you—”
Charles interrupted. “With your leave, madame, I shall see Mrs. Stewart to her chamber. Good-night.” He bowed, very politely, offered Frances his arm, and the two of them walked off together. They had gone only a few feet when Frances turned her head and looked up at him; suddenly she burst into a gleeful giggle.
They walked back to her apartments and at the door he kissed her, asking if he might come in while she made ready for bed—which he often did, sometimes with a herd of his courtiers. But now she gave him a wan little smile and a look of pleading.
“I’m tired. And my head aches so.”
He was instantly alarmed, for though there had been no plague at Court the slightest sign of an indisposition was enough to set up unpleasant fears. “Your head aches? Do you feel well otherwise? Have you any nausea?”
“No, Your Majesty. Just a headache. Just one of my headaches.”
“You have them often, Frances.”
“All my life. Ever since I can remember.”
“You’re sure they’re not just a convenience—for putting off unwelcome visitors?”
“No, Sire. I really have them. Please—may I go now?”
Quickly he kissed her hand. “Certainly, my dear. Forgive my thoughtlessness. But promise me that if it gets worse or if you have any other symptoms you’ll send for Dr. Fraser—and let me know?”
“I promise, Sire. Good-night.”
She backed into the room and closed the door gently. It was true that she had always had violent headaches. Her gaiety and high spirits were part nervousness, for she had none of Castlemaine’s robust hearty vigour.
In her bedroom the long-tailed green parrot which she had brought from France was sleeping, his head tucked under his wing, but at her entrance he woke instantly and began to dance up and down on his perch, squawking with delight. Mrs. Barry, the middle-aged gentlewoman who had been with Frances since babyhood, had also been dozing in her chair; now she too woke, and came hurrying forward to help her mistress undress.
Alone now and off her guard, with no need to impress anyone, she looked frankly tired. Slowly she got out of her gown, unfastened the laces of her busk and with a sigh of relief sat down while Barry began to unpin the jewels and ribbons twisted in her hair.
“Another headache, sweetheart?” Mrs. Barry’s voice was worried, soft and maternal, and her fingers worked with loving tenderness.
“Terrible.” Frances was close to tears.
Barry took a cloth now and wrung it out in a bowl of vinegar which was kept on a shelf nearby, convenient for frequent use. She laid it across Frances’s forehead and held it with her fingers at either temple, while Frances closed her eyes and let her head rest gratefully against the cushion of Barry’s bosom. They continued silent for a few moments.
Suddenly there was a sound of commotion from outside. A little page spoke, quietly, and an angry feminine voice answered; the door of the bedroom burst open and there stood Barbara Palmer. For an instant she glared at Frances and then she slammed it closed, with such violence that the noise seemed to reverberate in Frances’s brain, making her wince.
“I have a crow to pluck with you, Madame Stewart!” declared the Countess.
Frances’s pride rose, ready to do combat, and sweeping the weariness from her face she stood up, lifting her chin. “Your servant, madame. And what can I do for you, pray?”
