Girl on the Golden Coin: A Novel of Frances Stuart by Jefferson Marci

Author:Jefferson, Marci [Jefferson, Marci]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Publisher: St. Martin's Press
Published: 2014-02-11T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER 27

Whitehall

Early August

I was still tired from the recent journey as I stood in the queen’s presence chamber, while the king and queen sat head to head chatting with each other. Buckingham swept me an exaggerated bow. He always wore charm like a jewel, and now he turned it just right to catch the best light. “La Belle Stuart. The prettiest girl in all England.”

“It’s been so long since I last saw you.” I frowned. “And yet, not long enough.”

“Save your bitterness for the queen. I’m not to blame for the king’s change of heart.”

I watched King Charles pat Queen Catherine’s belly. He hadn’t visited my chambers since our return from Tunbridge.

“Come now,” he said. “Make peace with me. I’m giving a banquet tonight in my Whitehall apartments. A grand feast! Join us. King Charles will be there. His first supper away from the queen since her return from Tunbridge.”

I eyed him. “Truly?” Could this be the plot my mother had tried to warn me about?

He grinned, showing his teeth. He looked like a smiling wolf.

* * *

I settled into my seat that evening, glanced at the ordinary banquet table setting, and wondered what was so grand about it. Buckingham’s silver plate and Venetian glassware glittered across the tabletop, but no flowers decked the walls, and the only music came from a musician plunking away at a lone virginal.

Buckingham’s sister made an effort to stir the stilted conversation. “I lost a wager of ten pounds last month when the Duke of Richmond’s footman beat that famous runner in a race at Banstead Downs.” But no one replied.

Buckingham’s duchess tried to help, too. “You should have known better than to bet against the Duke of Richmond! Don’t you remember when he beat that earl in a horse chase this spring at Newmarket? I thought he’d surely break his neck when he almost fell at the end.” When no one replied again, she tried a joke. “He must have been drunk!” But everyone just stared at one another.

“The king! The king!”

I jumped at the herald’s call and stood with everyone else. Lords and ladies bowed and curtsied as the king entered and took his seat at the head of the table, spaniel dogs scampering at his feet. As he passed, he gave me a searching look: warm, familiar, and somewhat questioning. What did it mean?

Conversation in the room remained stilted and slow as servants filed in and placed mutton before us. A feast? I stared at the food, and then at Buckingham.

He attacked his meat with zeal, talking with his mouth full. “I cannot stomach the idea of a Dutch ship not lowering its flag to the English when they meet in the Channel.”

“They ought to concede those are our waters,” was someone’s muttered reply.

King Charles forked the bland food into his mouth, then raised his hand. The footman behind him presented him a fresh goblet of wine. The king downed it, glanced at me, then eyed the goblet of wine by my plate.

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