Catherine blushed slightly. The pinkness was very becoming to her sallow complexion; her lashes moved like hesitant black butterflies, and then she looked him full in the eyes. For all her sheltered and stiff upbringing she was learning some of the tricks of a coquette herself, and they became her very well.
“It’s kind of you to flatter me,” she murmured, “when I’m condemned to this unbecoming black.”
The ladies were trooping into the room after her, most of them chattering and unconcerned—though one or two quick pairs of eyes had caught the wistful look on Frances’s face as she watched their Majesties together. Then with a little toss of her head Frances came toward the Queen and one hand reached out impulsively to touch hers.
“It isn’t flattery, madame. You’ve truly never looked handsomer in your life.”
Her voice and eyes were almost passionately sincere. Behind them Boynton whispered to Wells that something must be a-brewing between Stewart and the King—they were both so uncommonly kind to her Majesty. Winifred retorted that she was a prattling gossip and that his Majesty was always kind to his wife.
The weather was cold and the roads even worse than usual, but the Court was going to a play. Charles offered his arm to Catherine and she took it, giving him one of her quick shy smiles, grateful for the attention. They started off and for one swift passing instant Frances’s eyes met the King’s. She knew then, without a doubt, that while Catherine lived she, Frances Stewart, would never be Queen of England.
It was late in the afternoon, nearly six o’clock, and the overcast sky had long since made it necessary to light candles. Charles, in his private closet, the one room to which he could retire for some measure of seclusion, sat at his writing-table scrawling off a rapid letter to Minette. Her own most recent one was opened before him and from time to time he glanced at it. Beside him on the floor two long-eared little spaniels sat and chewed at each other’s fleas, and farther away there were others at play, romping and growling.
From the next room came the murmuring voices of men—Buckhurst and Sedley, James Hamilton, half a dozen others—waiting for him to come out and change his clothes before they went to supper. They were discussing the afternoon’s play—finding fault with the author’s wit, the scenery and costumes and actors—and comparing the prostitutes who had been in the pit. From time to time someone laughed loudly, all their voices went up at once, and then they grew quieter again. But Charles, absorbed in his letter, scarcely heard them at all.
All of a sudden a commotion rose outside and he heard a familiar feminine voice cry out, breathlessly, “Where’s his Majesty! I’ve got important news for him!” It was Barbara.
Charles scowled and flung down his pen, then got to his feet. Ods-fish! Did the woman’s impertinence know no bounds at all? Coming to his chamber at this hour of the day, when she knew there would be a roomful of men!
He heard Buckhurst answering her. “His Majesty is in his closet, madame, writing a letter.”
“Well,” said Barbara briskly, “the letter can keep. What I have to say can’t.” And promptly she began rapping at the door.
Charles opened it and there was obvious displeasure and annoyance on his face as he leaned against the door-jamb, looking down at her. “Well, madame?”
“Your Majesty! I must speak with you in private!” Her eyes glanced suggestively into the room behind him. “It’s a matter of the greatest importance!”
Charles gave a slight shrug and stepped back, admitting her, while the gentlemen exchanged amused glances. Ye gods, what next! Even when she had been most in favour she had not dared be so bold. The door swung shut.
“Now—what is this great business that can’t keep?” His voice was frankly skeptical, and impatient—for he thought it only another scheme of hers to create an impression of being in high favour.
“I understand that your Majesty has just paid a visit to Mrs. Stewart.”
“I have.”
“And that she sent you away with the plea her head was aching furiously.”
“Your information seems indisputable.”
Charles’s tone was sarcastic and his whole expression betrayed cynicism and the unbelief in his fellow-beings which had characterized him almost since boyhood, growing steadily stronger as the years passed. He was wondering what sort of trick she was trying to play on him, waiting to discover the inevitable flaw in her scheme.
But all at once Barbara’s face took on a look of mock coquetry and her voice dropped to a soft low pitch. “Well, Sire, I’ve come to console you for her coldness.”
He lifted his eyebrows in frank surprise and then scowled quickly. “Madame, you have become insufferable.”
