His Last Mistress: The Duke of Monmouth and Lady Henrietta Wentworth Page 8

  Mary was plumper and older now, and faint creases were now evident in her face, though she remained as great a beauty as she had ever been, with her tall Stuart body, elegant mannerisms, and exquisite face. But despite her lovely, comfortable surroundings, the Princess of Orange now carried an air of melancholy about her, which she contrived to mask with gaiety. She had known great sorrow in her time since leaving her homeland and settling in the Dutch Republic, mainly because she could not bear any children. It was a terrible blow to someone so maternal, so loving and warm, that Henrietta could empathise fully with her distress. Moreover, Mary loved William with such a passion, and she longed desperately to give him an heir to continue his Orange-Nassau line.

  William, on the other hand, was a shrewd military man of sound principle, able to control his appetites in everything. His physical attributes were few in contrast to those of his cousin, the Duke of Monmouth’s. He was shorter than his wife, suffered from chronic asthma, and his face vaguely resembled an eagle with his hooked nose and piercing dark, intelligent eyes. There could be no doubt that they loved each other, though William was reserved and cold in contrast with his demonstrative, gregarious wife. They could have hated each other, as had many arranged couples before them, but they had developed a strong bond that was evident throughout their court.

  There were rumours that William had taken Mary’s lady-in-waiting, Betty Villiers, as his mistress; but if he had, Henrietta noticed nothing of the kind, for he never once looked at the Villiers woman. If there was any truth to the rumours, William conducted his liaisons with extreme secrecy, thus making him very different from his Stuart family.

  At the court of William and Mary, nevertheless, Monmouth and his lady were housed in the glorious Mauritshuis, in The Hague and lavishly entertained with balls, parties. At other times, Monmouth spent his time with William, and William’s best friends, Hans Bentinck and Willem Zuylestein.

  Henrietta was amazed by the difference between Charles II’s court in England, and the Stadtholder’s court in the Dutch Republic, the former, noisy, debauched, and dirty; the latter, organised, calm, and clean. William firmly declared that everyone should treat Monmouth with the utmost hospitality and consideration, for he was their cousin.

  Chapter 20

  Another autumn came, and slowly brushed away the summer sunshine. Days grew colder, and the winds howled across Holland. As the rain clattered and trickled down the windowpane beside Henrietta, tears fell upon the ink of the letter in her hands.

  Monmouth opened the door and found her weeping quietly.

  “Whatever is the matter?” he asked, flying to her feet at one, and taking her beloved hand in his own.

  “I have just received a letter from my mother. She states that Richard, the Earl of Thanet has died.”

  “Oh, I am sorry to hear that.” He was in earnest. Thanet had nobly denied himself in order to allow Henrietta and Monmouth their happiness. For that, he was truly appreciative. Henrietta had brought more sunshine into his life than he could ever have imagined.

  “He was so young,” she continued, “He never married anyone in the end, did you know? I broke his heart, broke my word, and now he is dead. It’s my fault; I made his life a misery. What a wretched, evil woman I have become.”

  Monmouth had her in his arms in an instant. “Hush, my dearest Harriet, do not fret so. You fell in love – is that now a crime?”

  “It is indeed a crime – you are married, my love, and I am hurting your wife just as surely as Nell Gwynn and Louise de Kérouaille have hurt Queen Catherine.

  “I adore Queen Catherine – she is very different from the Duchess of Monmouth. Anna is cold, possibly the coldest woman I have ever known; Queen Catherine, however, is the warmest of souls, and I have pitied her position. Thanet could have married someone else if he had chosen to.”

  She wept into his chest, gripping onto his shirtsleeves. “I can’t help but think that he and I would have been married by now, have a home, and a family, and honour…”

  With those words, he thought again of his wife, Anna, and their children back in England – whom he hadn’t seen in some time now. Did they love him? Did he even deserve their love now?

  He gently brushed the damp tendrils that had stuck themselves to her flushed cheeks with her tears, and raised her face up to face his own. “Then, do I take it that you are unhappy with me?”

  “No, I have been happier than ever with you, but I feel something strange inside me. I feel as though I shall have to pay for this happy time, as though I have stolen it. I feel as though…” She stopped speaking, unable to say, I feel as though I will one day pay for our happiness.

  “What is it?”

  “God will seek retribution for my actions! If Dante was right, I will be cast into the second circle of Hell for lust.”

  “Why would you say such a thing? How can an angel descend into Hell?”

  “Don’t you see? I have not only loved you here,” she said, breathily, placing her hand over her heart, “but I have wanted you here,” she moved her hand down towards her sex. “I have lusted after you, I have committed adultery with you…I could not stay away. I cannot stay away. Oh Lord, help me!”

  He enfolded her in his arms tightly, “Come now, Harriet, we have spoken of this before. Why are you troubling yourself with such horrid thoughts? Why do you torment yourself? Are we two not happy? Is happiness a sin in God’s eyes? Surely not.”

  “Forgive me, I…I’m afraid of losing you. I feel as though this surely cannot last, something shall happen, I feel it in my very bones.” She sighed, “Oh, Jemmy, being with you has been the realisation of a glorious dream. Oh, please God do not let me awaken from it.”

  “This is reality, we are together, bound by the most sacred vows in the world. Our signs are perfect for each other. I never would have believed in that if not for you. As for honour…” he broke off, “that is what we have given up to be together.”

  ***

  Monmouth began to feel homesick and missed his father terribly. To alleviate his feelings, he left Henrietta with William and Mary and secretly went back to England.

  His journey had been in vain.

  Charles, incensed that his son should return from exile without his permission, stubbornly refused to see him.

  Chapter 21

  Monmouth, dejected by not being able to see his father, returned to the Dutch Republic and once again threw himself into the carefree days of merrymaking and bliss. He flirted with the court ladies, especially his cousin, perhaps because he felt she was not receiving as much attention as a woman with her charms ought to have. The winter was treacherously cold, but they again went skating upon the frozen lakes, and in the evening, they feasted upon Dutch delicacies, and sampled Dutch entertainments. Upon occasion, Monmouth would ice-skate with Princess Mary. Henrietta would watch them, for she did not wish to skate, and spent the time chatting with Mary’s ladies-in-waiting, some of whom she had remembered from her service with the former Duchess of York.

  The gaiety of this time was but short-lived.

  The winter of 1685 came bringing both its icy wrath and unimaginable sorrow for the Duke. In London, many flocked to the Frost Fair upon the mighty River Thames, which had frozen over, and entertained with bull-baiting, music, and racing. Some devoured roast meats that were for sale, the mouth-watering smell of which spread throughout the tents upon the ice. To this enchanted icy world King Charles gaily had come, accompanied by his royal entourage. Everything seemed well, the King fit and merry.

  ***

  One day, Henrietta had stayed behind in her rooms with nausea whilst Monmouth played cards with Mary and some courtiers when William summoned them both to join him in his closet.

  Prince William gestured for them both to take a seat, which they did.

  “Brace yourselves for a blow. I loathe whipped cream, as you know, so I will simply tell you: King Charles is dead. I am sorry to be the bearer of such tidings.”

  “No.
No, this cannot be,” replied Monmouth, dumbstruck. “He was in excellent health when I last saw him. No, you must be mistaken.”

  William shook his head, and put his hand on Monmouth’s shoulder. “I am sorry but I am not mistaken. Here, read the letter yourself. He died from a fit of apoplexy.” Monmouth reluctantly took the letter from William’s hand.

  Mary began to weep, “Poor uncle…I can scarce believe it, for he was ever so full of life. And now my father is King...”

  “Aye,” responded her husband, grimly, whilst he comforted her. They all knew what the reign of James the Second would bring. They had all feared it, and now it had come.

  Monmouth, deathly pale, his lips quivering with emotion, rose up and gave a great howl of pain. “He did not send for me!”

  “Please, Jemmy, it must have happened so quickly that he was not able to send for you,” said Mary, knowing how much Monmouth loved his father.

  After a few moments, Monmouth whispered, “Please excuse me, cousins, for I have no wish to weep in front of you both.”

  But weep he did. He ran blindly through the corridors of the Dutch palace, his heels tapping across the black-and-white tiles as he went. He burst through the doors to Henrietta’s chamber, and flung himself into his lover’s embrace where he sobbed, his tears flowing down his beautiful face.

  “What has happened, my love?” she asked, shocked by his pale, anguished face.

  “He’s dead! He’s dead!” he sobbed, “And I was not there by his side! I was not there for my father. I loved him so, my poor father! I am not worthy of being his son, I never was. We hadn’t even been able to reconcile. He refused to see me! Now, he’ll never know how much I loved him, how I love him still.”

  “Oh, my dearest, I am so sorry. Please, I pray thee, do not torment yourself,” she said, gently wiping away some of his ever-flowing tears. For the first time in their relationship, she saw him not as a confident man, but a lost little boy, vulnerable, in need of nurturing and protecting. “Your father could never be in any doubt to the extent of your love and devotion to him.”

  “But the Rye House Plot…” he moaned.

  “That was not your doing. Those who were involved were justly punished. There can be none to cast blame for that at your feet.”

  “And Shaftesbury – my father never forgave me for supporting Shaftesbury!”

  “You did what you thought best, and your father knew this.”

  Chapter 22

  Within days of his death, Charles the Second had been buried in Westminster Abbey, and William received word from his uncle and father-in-law, the new King James II from England, pressuring him about housing and entertaining someone whom James perceived to be a threat. He would not tolerate his nephew hosting Monmouth.

  And so, William, ever cautious with diplomatic matters, informed his cousin that he could no longer have him stay at their court.

  “I must apologise for this, Monmouth, you know I have no choice. James is unduly sensitive to perceived slights against him, so I must tread carefully.”

  “Naturally. He is, after all, not only your uncle but your father-in-law as well.”

  “He and I have not seen been in agreement on many things – I fear he still loathes me for taking away his favourite daughter when he wished her to marry the Dauphin of France.”

  “He’s a Catholic. Did you expect him to be joyful that his daughter married one of the Protestant champions of our time?”

  “No,” he answered in his usual blunt manner. “If I may, I would give you some advice. I pray you will avoid returning to England, it will not go well. My informants tell me that people are reluctant to enter into any kind of uprising, even against a Catholic King. At least not yet.”

  “I’m perfectly capable of knowing what to do, William. I am not a fool.”

  “I never said as much. Farewell, then, cousin.”

  ***

  And so, yet again, Henrietta and Monmouth said their goodbyes, had their belongings bundled up and travelled to Gouda, and then to Brussels. They acquired small lodgings there, but made do and Monmouth began to study, attempting to rectify the gaps in his education. He fared better this time than he had when a youngster, and he began to enjoy learning.

  For a time, they were quite contented to live this way, and Henrietta observed with admiration how Monmouth had changed from the lively fop to a more serious man.

  But then the dark clouds moved in above, and Henrietta began to be very ill in the mornings, often vomiting and feeling wretched for hours at a time. Her courses had not come for a few months, and she had been gaining some weight. She said nothing to him of this, for she did not wish to trouble him. The Low Countries could bring on agues in people – Mary had said she began suffering from agues since she began to live in Holland.

  On top of this, some of the troubles from Monmouth’s past came to find him. These troubles came in the form of several men – his friend Lord Grey; the ninth Earl of Argyll, and Robert Ferguson.

  Monmouth met them in a coffee house, an excellent place for dissent. The smell of coffee filled the air as chatter in Dutch, Flemish, and English buzzed throughout the establishment.

  Argyll was adamantly opposed to James, “In all of my dealings with that horrid man, he has shown himself to be a bigot and unrelentingly severe in his dealings. He must not be allowed to remain our king.”

  Monmouth nodded, “’Tis true.”

  Robert Ferguson then spoke, “There is something else that I must bring to your attention, Your Grace. There is some talk that your uncle had the King poisoned.”

  “I do not doubt that he was capable of doing so dastardly a deed.”

  “It is a shame that the Rye House proceedings ended as they did. I believe it is time to take more drastic action, involve thousands instead of a few.”

  “Come, Ferguson, the last scheme you aided ended in disaster. My poor Lord Russell had one of the most horrific executions I’ve ever known of. Essex and Sidney, and many others, including that poor woman who was burnt at the stake, are dead. What makes you think another plot would prove to be successful?”

  “The tide has turned. The peasant folk and the nobles alike hate the new King, and the arrogant Queen has become more of a bigot than he. We should have known,” he scoffed, “she being the Pope’s niece, and all.”

  Argyll added, “With a force of arms under a Protestant banner, led by Your Grace, James cannot hope to succeed.”

  “You all expect me to risk everything to claim the throne? I am living comfortably and happily now, and so I need assurances that this will not be as the other plots have been.”

  “Answer me this, Your Grace,” demanded Ferguson, “would you be content to live out the remainder of your days in exile, wondering where you food will come from, what shelter you and your lady’s children will inhabit? When all the while, you, the eldest son of King Charles the Second should have been on the throne your father once sat upon. If you are content with the knowledge that your uncle – a most despised man – is where you should be, then take comfort in that.”

  “What would you have me do?”

  Chapter 23

  Monmouth began to spend more and more time with his fellow exiles, and the more they met, the more they convinced him of the necessity of rebelling against James. Ferguson, in particular, played upon the Duke’s weaknesses – he used his ambitious nature against him, he used his popularity with the West Country folk to drive him towards revolution.

  Henrietta regarded all this with suspicion and fear. Monmouth was gradually becoming obsessed with the idea of ousting his uncle from the throne. One day he announced that he would go to England; that he would make the people rise up.

  “Please, my love, let us stay here in peace. Do not do what these men say you should.”

  “Peace? How can you speak of peace whilst that dog, my uncle, is on my throne?”

  “Jemmy, your uncle is a god-anointed King now, with a great army and greater leaders at its h
ead in Lord Churchill and Lord Feversham.”

  “Ah, yes, your old lover before me? Feversham is nothing. Could you have forgotten that ‘twas I who commanded the very same men who now serve under Churchill? I have fought in several battles, I am a great military commander, Henrietta, and these men want me to be king – they could not stomach a Catholic king.”

  “But, Jemmy, you are allowing these fops to let you go and risk your life, whilst they have nothing to lose. Are we not well enough, here, together? You have been doing so well with your studies. Surely we should go to Berlin and do what the Prince of Orange has suggested?”

  “And why should I take such stock in William’s advice?” he scoffed. “He is younger than I am – and certainly no more intelligent!”

  Henrietta said nothing at this, for though she loved him deeply, it was obvious to all that Jemmy was not William’s intellectual equal.

  “I don’t trust them, that’s all. That Scotsman Argyll, in particular, is a slippery fellow, and Grey is an ill-mannered churl – I cannot understand why you’ve always thought so highly of him.”

  “He’s one of my oldest friends, Harriet, please.” He poured some wine from the jug and into a glass, and began to sip the red liquid.

  “That may well be, but I am also uneasy with the fact that you seem to prefer the advice of these Whigs to that of your cousin – a man of sound judgement. Can’t you see that these men are using you?”

  “Using me? They see what you and William and Mary refuse to see – that I should have that which is my right as the eldest son of King Charles the Second. I should be King!”

  “Oh, not this again! I cannot stay silent upon this matter any longer, Jemmy. God above, you are not legitimate, my love. I am sorry, but you are not. The King himself told his Council that he was only ever married to one woman and that is Queen Catherine…”