The French Mistress by Susan Holloway Scott

Author:Susan Holloway Scott
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Publisher: Penguin USA, Inc.

Chapter Thirteen

ON THE ROAD TO DIEPPE

September 1670

Ten days after Madame’s funeral, I found myself in the Duke of Buckingham’s lavish traveling coach on my way to the port at Dieppe, where we would be met by a royal yacht, and carried thence to England. With me I’d a half dozen trunks with all my belongings, including the new gowns I’d acquired before Dover and several others, even more lavish, from the same seamstresses, which had been ordered without my knowledge.

I hadn’t questioned the sudden appearance of this new finery, any more than I’d questioned how, for the first time in my life, I’d acquired my own lady’s maid, a plain, quiet young woman named Bette. Since my private audience with the king, I’d learned to accept things like these without questioning them. It was all part of the same grand plan that was sending me to England. If what Madame had negotiated was called the Secret Treaty, then surely I’d become the most secret clause attached to it.

A secret I might be, yes, but I was no longer ignorant of the circumstances of my new situation. Though the king had given me only the most basic facts, others among his ministers had been more forthcoming. From them I learned that the king himself had suggested I be trusted with my new role, based largely on what Madame had confided to him. I was flattered, of course, but I also wondered what exactly Madame, who’d always been so protective of me, had told him, and now, sorrowfully, I’d never be able to ask her myself. The French ministers believed the English king to be a clever, crafty man, but entirely vulnerable where women were concerned. Over and over they congratulated themselves (but not me) on having found a Frenchwoman suitable for their purposes, until I wearily began to feel like the wooden horse of ancient Troy, being drawn to the gates of Whitehall Palace.

The English gentlemen were no better. The English ambassador, Mr. Montagu, fair crowed, convinced his reports regarding my grace and beauty had brought about my appointment, and would soon also result in an extra measure of royal favor cast his way. I’d letters from Lord Arlington and Sir Thomas Clifford, as well as from their ladies, remembering themselves to me with agreeable welcomes, and doubtless hoping I’d remember them to the king, too. As unfamiliar as I was with the English Court, I doubted that every new attendant there received this amount of attention from ministers of the privy council. In truth it seemed that everyone in London must consider me already at least a royal mistress, as if neither I nor the English king had anything to say in the matter.

It was, of course, that same royal gentleman whose letter I most desired, just as I realized full well I’d be disappointed. Even in the less formal English Court, His Majesty could scarce be expected to take time from ruling to write to me. For now I must content myself with my memories of Dover, and my heady dreams of the future.

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