Bedazzled. Bertrice SmallЧитать онлайн книгу.
curiously.
“I will be so glad when I do not have to answer to my family for my every action,” India muttered as they walked together. “How did you know we were there, René?” India was torn between irritation and outright anger.
“I saw him push you into the alcove, and when you did not emerge as quickly as you should have, I came to rescue you,” he told her. “If I saw it, India, then others certainly did. You are not a girl of easy virtue, Cousine, but if you allow gentlemen to take you into dark places, you will gain a reputation whether you want one or not. Your viscount sought to put you at a disadvantage, I fear, and you are too innocent of the world to understand that. Now, however, you do, eh?”
“Why does everyone think Adrian is bad?” India asked him.
“Perhaps not bad,” the chevalier said thoughtfully, “but he is, mayhap, opportunistic. To catch an heiress such as Lady India Lindley would be quite a coup for him.”
“But I haven’t said I wanted to marry him, René, nor has he even mentioned the subject,” India replied.
“He does not have to, chérie. If he sullies your good name, then no one else will have you despite your wealth and your beauty. You would fall into his lap like a ripe fruit, ma petite. I do not think you want anyone to manipulate you like that, India, eh?” René St. Justine’s brown eyes were questioning. Bending, he kissed her cheek.
“But I do like him, René,” India said. “Still, you are correct in realizing that I don’t like being beguiled into an untenable position. So, I suppose the answer is not to allow gentlemen to put you in dark corners.” She laughed. “I thought I was so grown up, René. It seems I am not. I am glad I have you for my guardian angel. Henry has gone to the country with my siblings. Court did not suit them at all.”
“Alas, chérie, I shall only be with you for a little while longer. The gentleman whose place I took has recovered, and will be coming from Paris soon; and I am needed at home. I may be a chevalier of France, but I am also the finest wine maker at Archambault. I must return to France in time for the harvest, and you will be returning to Scotland.”
“The king wants Papa here for the coronation,” India said. “I hope I shall be allowed to come from Glenkirk then.”
“If you behave, and do not give your mama and papa any difficulty, chérie, I suspect they will allow you to come,” René said, his eyes twinkling, a small smile upon his lips. “But you must be very, very good, eh?”
India laughed. “I will be, Cousin,” she promised him, “because in a few weeks’ time I shall go north, and unless I can come to court this winter, I shan’t ever see Adrian again. Then I shall die an old maid, eh?” she mimicked him teasingly.
“Non, non!” the chevalier protested. “You shall not die an old maid, chérie! Somewhere in this world is a wonderful man just waiting to make you happy. You will find him, India. Never fear. You will find each other. This I know!”
Chapter 3
George Villiers, the duke of Buckingham, had come to court as a young man. He had found favor with old King James, worked his way up the social ladder from the second son of a knight to a dukedom, and married an earl’s daughter, Lady Katherine Manners. But James Stuart was old, and having gained his favor, George Villiers set out to win over the king’s only surviving son and heir, Charles. In this endeavor he was successful, and now George Villiers was, next to King Charles, the most powerful man in England.
Wealth and power had bred in him the desire for more wealth and power. In the young queen he sensed a rival, and so he set out to destroy any small influence she might gain with her equally young husband. His tactic with King James had been to subtly create a conflict between the old man and his son. When the disagreement was full blown, the king’s beloved Steenie would step in and mediate between king and prince. It was clever, and neither James Stuart, or Charles Stuart ever realized they were being cunningly maneuvered by the wickedly adroit Villiers.
The duke attempted to work the same tactic on the queen, but Henrietta was far more clever than her husband, and quite used to such court intrigue. She resisted George Villiers strongly, and he, fearful of losing his position, set out to destroy her marriage to Charles Stuart by deliberately fostering misunderstanding between the two. Henrietta could not complain to her husband, for, like his father before him, Charles was of the firm belief George Villiers was his true and best friend.
Both king and queen had been virgins on their wedding night, for Charles was far too prim to have taken a mistress or tumbled a servant girl in a dark stable. As neither his father nor Buckingham wanted any other influence in Charles’s life, they had discouraged his involvement with women. The young couple dared to speak to no one about this painful experience. They stumbled along in their physical relationship; the sixteen-year-old queen shy of her equally shy but demanding husband who had been told by Villiers that what the man wanted was what God approved of, for man was superior. Villiers then convinced Charles that his wife’s shyness was a refusal of his wishes, and an attempt to gain the upper hand. Things went from bad to worse.
“Whoever heard of a name like Henri-etta?” Villiers said one day to the king. “It’s so foreign. The queen is English now, and really ought to have a good English name. Perhaps we could call her Queen Henry.”
Henrietta, of course, as the duke had anticipated, fell into a terrible rage upon hearing the suggestion. “Mon nom est Henrietta!” she screamed. “Henri? La Reine Henri? C’est impossible! Non! Non! Non! Je suis Henrietta!”
Charles found her passionate Gallic outburst distasteful. “We will speak when you are calmer, madame,” he said coldly. Then his gaze swept the queen’s chamber. “All these monsieurs,” he said in reference to his wife’s French attendants both male and female. “They really must go, madame. It is time you were served by your own people.”
“These are my own people,” the queen answered him sharply.
“These persons are French, madame. You are England’s queen, and should be served by good Englishmen and -women,” the king replied, his tone equally sharp.
“It was agreed,” Henrietta said, struggling to remain calm, “that I should have the right to choose my own household, sir.”
“It was not agreed that they should all be French,” the king snapped. Buckingham has sought a place for his sister, the countess of Denbigh, within your household, and yet you have been adamant in your refusal, madame. I like it not.”
“The comtesse is a Protestant, sir,” the queen said. “You cannot expect me to be served by a Protestant.”
“I am a Protestant, madame,” the king replied. “It did not stop you from marrying me, nor will it stop you from having my heirs one day, and they will be Protestant.” He glared at her.
“Marie, Your Majesty,” said Madame St. George, who had been the queen’s governess, and now sought to turn the argument back to the original, and less volatile ground. “If the queen’s name, Henrietta, seems unsuitable for a queen of England, would not Marie, Mary, Queen Mary, be better? I know Your Majesty is not so petty that he would insist upon calling the queen by any other name but her own in private, but Queen Mary would be her official title, if it would please Your Majesty.” She curtsied. “Mary is English, is it not? And it is my mistress’s second Christian name.”
“It seems a good compromise,” the king said, pleased to have gotten his way, and not wishing any further outburst from his wife, who nodded mutely in agreement.
The duke of Buckingham was equally pleased, but for a different reason. The English had long memories, and they had not forgotten Bloody Mary Tudor, the last Roman Catholic English queen who had persecuted the Protestants. She had not been popular, and neither would this Queen Mary be. He chuckled to himself, well pleased.
When parliament opened, the queen was not present, for her confessor, Bishop de Mende, had somehow gotten the idea that a Church of England