The Love Child

She shivered and I put a shawl about her shoulders.

“I am wicked, Priscilla,” she said. “If you only knew…” >

I kissed her.

“No more of this morbidity. Shall I ask them to bring young Thomas in?”

She held out her hand to me and nodded.

When we returned to Eversleigh Court a shock awaited us.

My father was pacing up and down the hall, clearly in a state of tension and excitement.

“What has happened?” cried my mother.

“The King is dead,” he replied.

My mother put her hand to her heart and turned pale.

“Carleton, what will this mean?” she whispered.

“That, my dear, remains to be seen.”

“What are you going to do?”

“That also depends.”

“Oh, God,” prayed my mother fervently, “don’t let this mean trouble.

“It was not unexpected,” she went on. “Of course he has not been well of late.”

“No,” added my father. “For a year or more he has been unwell and not the man he was. He was so full of health before that, tiring his friends out at walking and sport. But of late he has been mildly irritable … so rare before with him. I think I saw it coming, but not so suddenly as this.”

“He is not old. Fifty-five is not an age to die.”

“He has lived too well perhaps. He has had the appointed span albeit he has packed into less years more than most men do.”

They were talking round the real issue which was how would

Monmouth act now, and more important still, what did my father intend to do?

My father went on talking about the King’s death, how the evening before he became ill he had been in the midst of the company and seemed well enough. He had supped with his concubines-the Duchesses of Portsmouth, Cleveland and Mazarin-and had given them many caressing displays of affection as was his wont. There had been the usual gambling and music, and they had all been enchanted by the singing of a little French boy who had been sent over by the courtesy of the King of France.

The King had visited the apartments of the Duchess of Portsmouth and had been lighted back to his rooms, where he had joked in his usual benevolent manner. The gentleman-in-waiting, whose duty it was to sleep on a mattress in his room along with the spaniels which were the King’s constant companions, had said that the King had groaned in his sleep and when he arose did not seem well. He had taken a few drops of the medicine he had invented himself and which was called “The King’s Drops.” My father had had it given to him on more than one occasion and the King had described the ingredients to him: they were opium, bark of elder and sassafras all mixed up together in wine.

Fifteen drops of this in a glass of sherry was considered to be a cure for all ailments.

It had failed to cure the King, and when his servants were shaving him they were horrified to see his face grow suddenly purple, his eyes roll to the ceiling as he lolled forward in his chair. They could not understand what he was trying to say.

They thought he was choking. He tried to rise and fell back into their arms. They feared death was imminent.

The Duke of York-the heir-came running to his brother’s bedside with one foot in a slipper and the other in a shoe. They had not known whether Charles had recognized him.

“York!” cried my father angrily. “It is a sad day for this country with such a King.

Charles knew the people did not want James. Didn’t he say once: ‘They’d never get rid of me, James, because that would mean having you. Therefore the crown is safe on my head.’ Oh, why didn’t he legitimatize Monmouth!”

“There would still have been those who stood for James.”

“The Catholics, yes,” retorted my father angrily. Then he went on to tell us how attempts had been made to save the King’s life. Every remedy known had been used: hot irons pressed to his forehead, a liquid made from the extraction from skulls of dead men and women forced down his throat. He had been in great pain, but he had regained control of his speech and managed to joke in his wonted manner.

“We thought he was going to live,” said my father. “You should have seen the joy in people’s faces. They wanted to light their bonfires everywhere. Alas, it was a little too early to rejoice. There was a relapse and then there could be no doubt that he was dying. He showed more concern for his mistresses and his illegitimate children than anyone else.”

“And Monmouth?” asked my mother.

“He did not mention his name.”

“So now James the Second is King of England.”

“God help us, yes.”

“Carleton, you will not become involved. You will stay here in the country.”

“My dear Arabella, you know me better than that.”

“Does all this mean nothing to you? Your home, your family … ?”

“So much,” he answered, “that I shall protect it with my life if need be.”

They seemed unaware of me. I turned away and left them. He was comforting her, easing her fears. But I knew him well. He was a man who, when he had made up his mind that a cause was right, would stop at nothing to work for it. He had been the one who had stayed in England during the Commonwealth to work for the return of the King.