Читать книгу Bedazzled - Bertrice Small - Страница 8

Chapter 1

“Welcome to France, madame,” the duc de St. Laurent said to his mother-in-law as he handed her from her great traveling coach.

“Merci, monseigneur,” Catriona Stewart-Hepburn said, curtseying stiffly, her famous leaf-green eyes making contact with the duc’s but a moment and then peering beyond him anxiously.

James Leslie, the duke of Glenkirk, stepped quickly forward, a smile on his handsome face, his arms open to enfold his mother into his warm embrace.

“Jemmie!” she cried out, her eyes filling with tears even as his arms closed about her, and he kissed her soft cheek. “My bairn!”

Glenkirk laughed, and then he hugged his mother. “Hardly a bairn, madame. Nae at my age.” He stepped back, and gazed upon her. “ ’Tis good to see you, madame. When we learned that you would be coming, we brought over our entire brood so you could finally meet your grandchildren, some of whom are already half grown.”

“And your wife, Jemmie,” his mother said. “You have been married more than a decade, and I have never met her.”

“Jasmine has been so busy having our bairns that I couldna let her travel. She was nae a lass when I married her after all.” He tucked her hand in his arm. “Come, and let us go into the château. They are all awaiting you, my wife and family, and my sister, and her children.”

“Jean-Claude,” Lady Stewart-Hepburn said, turning to her son-in-law, “ ’tis really quite good of you to have us all.”

“The château is large,” the duc de St. Laurent replied cordially, “and a few more children makes little difference.”

His mother-in-law raised an eyebrow, and then she laughed. James Leslie had three sons of his own, plus two stepdaughters and two stepsons. Seven in all, and it was hardly a trifle especially when added to her daughter and son-in-law’s six children. Her youngest child, her daughter, Francesca, had married her dashing French duke fourteen years ago when she was sixteen, and had lived happily with him ever since. Shortly afterward her beloved second husband, Francis Stewart-Hepburn, had grown suddenly ill, and died. But he had lived to see both of his daughters settled. Francesca with her Jean-Claude, and Jean, or Gianna as she was known, the wife of the marchese di San Ridolfi. Their son, Ian, was another matter, and had yet to settle down.

“How is Jeannie?” the duke of Glenkirk asked his mother as they entered the house.

“So Italian that you would never fathom that she was a Scot,” his mother answered him.

“And Ian? What mischief is he up to these days?”

“We must speak on Ian,” came the terse reply.

They entered a bright salon where the family awaited them.

“Grandmère! Grandmère!” Francesca’s children rushed forth to surround her, demanding her attention as they welcomed her.

“Welcome, Mama,” the duchesse de St. Laurent said as she kissed her parent. “I thank God that you have come safely to us.”

“The trip is long, and it is tedious, Francesca,” her mother replied, “but not dangerous.” How beautiful she was, Cat thought. She has his wonderful auburn hair, and my eyes. When she smiles, I see him. She acknowledged Francesca’s children, the four boys and two little girls, greeting each by name. Then, looking across the salon, Lady Stewart-Hepburn saw that her eldest son had joined a beautiful woman with night-dark hair and spectacular jewelry.

Seeing the direction of her gaze, the duke of Glenkirk led his wife forward. “Madame, my wife, Jasmine Leslie.”

Jasmine curtsied gracefully. “Welcome to France, madame. I am pleased that we finally meet.”

“As am I,” the older woman said, kissing her daughter-in-law on both of her smooth cheeks. Then she stepped back a pace. “You are very beautiful, Jasmine Leslie, and quite different from the wife I chose for Jemmie when he was young.”

“I hope I compare favorably, madame,” Jasmine answered.

Lady Stewart-Hepburn laughed. “Isabelle was a sweet child, but a moon to your sun, my dear. Now, I want to meet my grandchildren! All of them! I consider your bairns mine, too, as my Jemmie has been father to them longer than their own sires, eh?”

For a brief moment, Jasmine was speechless, and her turquoise eyes grew misty. Then, recovering herself, she beckoned her offspring forward. She was truly touched that Jemmie’s mother could be so generous.

“Madame, may I present my eldest child, Lady India Lindley.”

The young girl curtsied prettily.

“And my eldest son, Henry Lindley, the marquis of Westleigh. My second daughter, Lady Fortune Lindley. My son, Charles Frederick Stuart, the duke of Lundy.”

While the girls curtsied, the young boys bowed.

Lady Stewart-Hepburn acknowledged them graciously, saying to the eleven-and-a-half-year-old duke of Lundy, “We are distantly related, my lord, on your late father’s side.”

“My grandfather spoke of you once,” the young duke replied. “He said you were the most beautiful woman in all of Scotland. I see he did not lie, madame.”

His stepgrandmother burst out laughing. “God help us all, my lord, but you are surely a true Stuart!” She wondered what this boy would say if he knew that the now-deceased old man who had been his grandfather had once been an unstoppable satyr who had destroyed her first marriage.

“And these are Jemmie’s bairns,” Jasmine was continuing. “Our eldest, Patrick, then Adam, and Duncan. We had a little lass, but lost her almost two years ago. She caught measles and died a month after my dearest grandmother. She was named for that lady, and for Janet Leslie. Janet Skye.”

“I remember my great-grandmother, Janet,” Cat told Jasmine. “We called her Mam. She was a very formidable woman.”

“As was my grandmother,” Jasmine replied.

“Is it true you were once in a harem?” India Lindley suddenly burst out.

Cat turned to look at the girl. She was easily on the brink of womanhood, and every bit as beautiful as her mother with black hair and the most wonderful golden eyes. “Yes,” she answered. “I was in the harem of the sultan’s grande vizir.”

“Which sultan?” India persisted.

“There is only one sultan,” Cat said. “The Ottoman.”

“Was it exciting or awful?” India’s eyes were alight with unbridled curiosity.

“Both,” Cat told her.

“India!” Jasmine was mortified by her daughter’s outrageous behavior, but then, India was so damned headstrong, and always had been.

“My mother was raised in a harem,” India volunteered.

“Was she?” Now it was Cat’s turn to be intrigued.

“My father was the Grande Mughal of India,” Jasmine explained. “My mother was English. She is married to the earl of BrocCairn.”

“I remember your mother,” Cat replied. “Velvet is her name. She stayed with us at Hermitage years ago. You don’t really look like her, do you?”

“I have some of her features, but I am mostly a mixture of my maternal grandmother and my father,” Jasmine answered.

That would indeed account for the slightly Oriental tilt of Jasmine’s unusual turquoise eyes and the faint golden tint of her skin, Lady Stewart-Hepburn thought. She let her gaze wander to the pert India. The girl had skin like milky porcelain and a faint blue sheen to her midnight-colored hair, but where had she gotten those eyes? They were like a cat’s. Gold, not amber, and with tiny flecks of black in them. The older woman settled herself into a chair by the fire. France in April was a chilly place. The fuss of her arrival had died about her. Her children and their mates had ensconced themselves about her on a settee, a chair, and a stool. Her grandchildren were amusing themselves.

“How old is India?” she asked.

“She will be seventeen at the end of June,” Jasmine said, suspecting what her mother-in-law would next ask. She was not disappointed.

“And she is not married?”

Jasmine shook her head.

“Betrothed?”

“Nay, madame.”

“You had best see to it soon then,” came the pithy observation. “The wench is ripe for bedding. Close to overripe, and susceptible to trouble, I would wager.”

James Leslie laughed at his mother’s words. “India has nae yet met a man to attract her attention, Mother. I want my girls to wed for love. I did, and I hae never been happier.”

“Mam had me betrothed to your father at four, and we married but moments before your birth when I was barely sixteen,” Lady Stewart-Hepburn noted. “Love was not a consideration in making the match, although I came to care for your father.”

“But you loved Lord Bothwell unconditionally,” the duke of Glenkirk reminded his parent. “Besides, yer first marriage took place forty-seven years ago. Times have changed since then, Mother.”

“And you would allow your stepdaughter to make an unsuitable match in the name of love?” Cat was surprised to find she was appalled. I am obviously growing old, she thought.

Jasmine interposed herself between her husband and his mother in the conversation. “India will never choose unwisely, madame, for she is most proud, and extremely aware of her heritage. She is the grandchild of a great monarch, and her father’s family was an old and very noble one. It pleases her that my stepfather, and her stepfather, both have ties to the royal family. She adored my grandmother, Madame Skye, and was weened upon the tales of her adventures, and her relationship with Great Bess. When the time comes, India will pick the right man.”

“Have you had no offers for her?” Cat was curious.

“Several, but they did nae please India. In most cases, she felt the families involved were simply looking to her fortune, and nae to her,” the duke of Glenkirk told his mother. “She was correct. India can be very astute.”

“A girl in love for the first time is not always careful or wise,” Cat cautioned.

“Well, as no one has yet caught India’s fancy, I do not believe we have cause for worry,” Jasmine replied.

The Leslies of Glenkirk had come to France to represent their country at the proxy marriage of the new king, Charles I, to the French princess, Henrietta Marie. King James had sickened, and died unexpectedly on the twenty-seventh of March. The marriage negotiations had already been concluded, although there was some difficulty about the princess’s religion. Charles Stuart had no time to argue with his government. He was suddenly king, and without an heir. While he did not feel he could depart his country to personally celebrate his marriage with his father newly deceased, he felt strongly that the marriage must go forward immediately, and his queen be brought to England.

The marriage, which originally was to have been celebrated in June, was now moved forward to the first of May so Charles’s enemies in the parliament would not have time to marshall their forces, and delay or prevent the match. The duke of Buckingham was to have acted as the king’s proxy at the June celebration, but now he had to remain in England to attend the old king’s funeral, which was set for the end of April, for it was not unusual for a king to lie in state several weeks. Instead, the duc de Chevreuse would act as the English king’s proxy. Chevreuse was related to both the French royal house and the English, through their mutual ancestor, the duc de Guise. He was therefore a suitable choice, and acceptable to both sides.

Most of the English court remained in England, but Charles had asked the duke of Glenkirk and his family to attend his wedding. It would be a far more pleasant occasion than poor old Jamie’s funeral, the duke conceded to his wife, and if his sister, the duchesse de St. Laurent, would ask their mother to come from Naples for a visit, Jasmine and the children could at least meet Catriona Hay Leslie Stewart-Hepburn.

The young king’s reason was more personal. James Leslie himself was distantly related to Charles, and his stepson, little Charles Frederick Stuart, was the new monarch’s nephew, although he had been born on the wrong side of the blanket. Such accidents of birth did not matter to the Stuarts except where the succession was concerned. They had always welcomed, recognized, and considered their bastards legitimate members of their clan. The king wanted some of his family blood at his wedding ceremony, and the Leslies of Glenkirk would acquit themselves, and therefore the Stuarts, quite well. They were also not important enough to be missed at the official mourning ceremonies since they only rarely came to court.

The St. Laurent château was in the countryside two hours from Paris. The Leslies had been included on the guest list for the signing of the marriage contract and the betrothal ceremony on the twenty-eighth of April, as well as the wedding on May first. They would attend with the five oldest children. The St. Laurents, Lady Stewart-Hepburn, and the two youngest Leslie children would come for the wedding only. The Lindley children, and their Stuart half-brother had been too young to participate in King James’s court when Queen Anne had been alive. She had died the year India was eleven. The queen had adored fêtes and masques. She had loved art, music, and dancing. Her dour husband had tolerated her follies, as he called them, for love of his Annie. Once the queen had died, however, James’s court became less entertaining. It was hoped that the new French queen would enliven Charles Stuart’s court even as the late Anne of Denmark had enlivened the court of James Stuart.

Glenkirk and his family were astounded, even openly awed, by the elegant magnificence of the Louvre palace. There was absolutely nothing like it in England. They were met by the two royal English ambassadors, the earl of Carlisle and Viscount Kensington, who quickly escorted them to King Louis’s chamber where the signing would take place. First, however, the proper protocol had to be followed. The two ambassadors handed the contract to the king and his lord chancellor to read. This done, the king signified his acceptance of the terms previously agreed upon, and only then was the princess summoned to her brother’s presence.

Henrietta-Marie arrived, escorted by the queen mother, Marie di Medici, and the ladies of the court. The princess was garbed in a gown of cloth-of-gold and silver, embroidered all over with golden fleurs-de-lys, and encrusted with diamonds, rubies, emeralds, and sapphires. Once the bride had taken her place, the bridegroom’s proxy was called. The duc de Chevreuse came into the king’s chamber wearing a black-striped suit covered with diamonds. He bowed first to the king and then the princess. Then the duc presented his letter of authority to the king, bowing once again. Accepting it, Louis XIII handed it to the chancellor, and then signed the marriage contract. Other signatories were Henrietta-Marie, Marie di Medici, the French queen, Anne of Austria, the duc de Chevreuse, and the two English ambassadors.

The contract duly signed and witnessed, the formal religious betrothal was performed in the king’s chambers by the princess’s godfather, Cardinal de la Rochefoucauld, the duc de Chevreuse answering for the king of England. The ceremony over, the princess retired to the Carmelite convent in Faubourg St. Jacques to rest and pray until her wedding on the first of May, and the guests departed, the duke of Glenkirk and his family returning to Chateau St. Laurent.

On Henry Lindley’s sixteenth birthday, which happened to be the thirtieth of April, the Glenkirk party, the St. Laurents, and Lady Stewart-Hepburn traveled to Paris for the royal wedding. It was better, the duc said, to go the day before rather than waiting until the first, but the roads were clogged anyway with all the traffic making its way into the city for the celebration. By chance, James’s brother-in-law had a small house on the same tiny street as did Jasmine’s French relations, who would not be coming for the wedding. The de Savilles lived in the Loire region, many miles from Paris, and while of noble stock, they were not important. Besides, it was springtime, and their famous vineyards at Archambault needed tending more than they needed to be in the capital for the princess’s wedding to the English king, so they gladly loaned their little house to their relations.

The wedding day dawned gray and cloudy. By ten o‘clock in the morning it was raining. Nonetheless, crowds had begun gathering outside of the great square before Notre-Dame the previous evening. Now the square was overflowing with people eager to see the wedding. The archbishop of Paris had gotten into a terrible row with the Cardinal de la Rochefoucauld. It was the cardinal who had been chosen to perform the wedding ceremony, despite the fact that the cathedral was the archbishop’s province. The royal family had brushed aside the archbishop’s protests as if he had been no more than a bothersome insect. Furious, the archbishop had retired to his country estates, not to return until after the wedding. He could not, however aggravated he might be, deny the princess the use of his palace, which was close by the cathedral, and so at two o’clock that afternoon in the pouring rain, Henrietta-Marie departed her apartments in the Louvre for the archbishop’s residence in order to dress.

Fortunately a special gallery had been constructed from the door of the archbishop’s palace to the door of the cathedral. It was raised eight feet above the square and set upon pillars, the lower half of which were wrapped in waxed cloth, and the upper half in purple satin embroidered with gold fleurs-de-lys. At the west door of the cathedral was a raised platform which was sheltered by a canopy of cloth-of-gold that had been waxed to prevent the rain from penetrating it. At six o’clock in the evening, the bridal procession began streaming out of the archbishop’s palace, moving down the open-sided gallery toward the cathedral.

The bridal party was led by one hundred of the king’s Swiss Guards. The first two rows were a mixture of drummers and soldiers with blue and gold flags. Following the guards came a party of musicians. Twelve played upon oboes. There were eight drummers who were followed by the ten state trumpeters playing a fanfare. Following the royal musicians was the grand master of ceremonies behind whom strode knights of the Order of the Holy Ghost in jeweled capes. Next came seven royal heralds in crimson-and-gold-striped tabards.

The bridegroom’s representative, the duc de Chevreuse, was proceeded by three ranking noblemen. He was garbed in a black velvet suit, slashed to show its cloth-of-gold lining. On his head was a velvet cap sporting a magnificent diamond that glittered despite the dullness of the late afternoon. Behind him were the earl of Carlisle and Viscount Kensington in suits of cloth-of-silver.

The populace standing in the pouring rain on either side of the gallery struggled against each other, attempting to get the best glimpse of the wedding party and the court. Cries of “God bless the king” and “Good fortune to the princess” were heard by those moving along the gallery toward the platform and the cathedral. Most of the guests would pass through the raised, canopied flooring, and take their places within the cathedral. Only certain chosen ones would remain upon the dais to see the ceremony performed. Because the king of England was considered a Protestant, it was necessary to perform the wedding ceremony before the doors of the cathedral, but as all weddings had once been performed in this manner, little was thought of the arrangement. Afterward, a mass would be celebrated within Notre-Dame.

Among the chosen to view the wedding, India Lindley stood shivering as she drew her cloak about her. She should have worn her rabbit-lined cape, but it was not nearly as fashionable as the one she was wearing. She looked at the French courtiers in their magnificent clothing. She had never seen anything like it. It was utterly spectacular, and she felt like someone’s poor country relation. Her mother, of course, had fabulous jewelry which covered a multitude of fashion sins, but she and Fortune looked positively dowdy even in comparison to the bosomless eleven-year-old Catherine-Marie St. Laurent, whose claret-colored silk and cloth-of-gold gown was delicious.

“Here comes the bride,” Fortune singsonged next to her. Fortune was enjoying every moment of this colorful and marvelous show. It didn’t matter to her that her mother and sister looked like a pair of burgher’s daughters.

India focused her eyes upon Henrietta-Marie, who was escorted by both of her brothers, King Louis XIII, resplendent in cloth-of-gold and silver, and Prince Gaston, elegant in sky blue silk and cloth-of-gold. The petite sixteen-year-old bride was dressed in an incredible gown of heavy cream-colored silk embroidered all over with gold fleurs-de-lys, pearls, and diamonds. The dress was so encrusted with gold and diamonds that it glittered as she walked. On her dark hair was a delicate gold-filigreed crown, from whose center spire dripped a huge pearl pendant that caused the watching crowds to gasp.

“I have better,” murmured the duchess of Glenkirk, and her mother-in-law restrained her laughter.

Behind the bride and her brothers came the queen mother, Marie di Medici, wearing, as always, her black widow’s garb, but dripping with diamonds in recognition of the occasion. Finally came France’s queen, Anne of Austria, in a gown of cloth-of-silver and gold tissue, sewn all over with sapphires and pearls, leading the French court. The few English guests had already been brought to the raised and canopied dais to await the arrival of the bridal party now come.

The cardinal performed the wedding ceremony, and then the bride, her family, and the French court were escorted into the cathedral for the celebration of the Mass. Inside, the cathedral was filled with other invited guests: members of the parliament, other politicians, and civic officials, garbed formally for this occasion in ermine-trimmed crimson velvet robes. The walls of the cathedral were hung with fine tapestries, and the bridal party was seated upon another canopied, raised dais. Having settled the bride upon a small throne, the duc de Chevreuse departed her side to escort the two English ambassadors and the few English guests to the archbishop’s palace for they would not attend the Mass.

“Ridiculous!” Jasmine muttered beneath her breath.

“Be silent!” James Leslie said softly, but sharply. While he agreed with his wife that this prejudice between Roman and Anglican, Anglican and Protestant, was absurd, it was a fact they had to live with, and to involve one’s self in the sectarian fray was to make enemies. It was better to remain neutral. Lady Stewart-Hepburn nodded her approval of her son’s wisdom.

“Did you see the gowns?” India said excitedly to her mother. “I have never seen such clothing!”

“A bridal gown should be beautiful,” Jasmine replied.

“Nay, not the bridal gown,” India responded. “It is lovely, of course, but it is the gowns worn by the women of the French court that I am envious of, Mama. Your jewels, naturally, always overshadow anything you may wear, but Fortune and I look like two little sparrows compared to the French ladies. Why, even flat-chested Catherine-Marie outshines us. It is most embarrassing! We are here to represent our king, and we look like two serving wenches!”

“What’s wrong with our gowns?” Fortune asked her elder sister. “I think we look quite nice. I do like Queen Anne’s short hair, though. Can I cut my hair like that, Mama?”

“No,” Jasmine said. “Your hair is beautiful, child. Why would you cut it? If this Spanish queen of France would cut and frizz her own hair, it is because her hair is not as fine as yours, Fortune.”

“Nor as red,” Fortune grumbled.

“I am going to have an entire new wardrobe made when I get home to England,” India said. “I shall dazzle King Charles’s court, Mama, with my French fashions and their vibrant colors. Our countrymen wear such dull colors. Pale blue, rose, brown, and black. And, Mama, you have so much jewelry. Would you not let me have some of it, please?”

“She is certainly not shy about asking for what she wants, is she?” Cat said to her son. “She has been, I imagine, quite a handful to raise, Jemmie, eh?”

The duke of Glenkirk smiled. “She is nae worse, Mother, than any other girl,” he told her. “She hae always been an obedient lass.”

“Give her what she wants, and then find her a good husband,” was his parent’s advice. “She will not be obedient much longer, I think.”

“I agree with your mother,” Jasmine said. “There is a wild streak in India that I have never really recognized before. Perhaps I have not wanted to see it because it reminds me of my brother, Salim. But suddenly I see familiar traits in India, and I remember that my father indulged Salim, even when his disobedience was unforgivable. And yet our father forgave him. Drunkenness, lechery, theft. Even murder. There was only one thing my father would not forgive him.”

Curious, Lady Stewart-Hepburn asked, “What?”

“Salim desired me as a man desires a woman. My father could not countenance it, and I was married to my first husband, Prince Javid Khan. Salim had him murdered, and knowing he was near death, my father smuggled me out of India. When I was India’s age I was about to be wed to my second husband, who was India’s father.”

“Then you must find a husband for India,” Cat said. “It is obvious it is time for her to be settled before she causes a scandal. I wish I knew a suitable match for her in Naples.”

“Oh, no!” Jasmine cried. “I should not want her so far away from us. Like my grandmother, I want my family about me, and we have all our family in England and Scotland, madame. All but my Uncle Ewan O’Flaherty, who lives in Ireland. And, you, madame, who remain in the kingdom of Naples. Jemmie has told me of your, ah, difficulty with the late king, but now that James Stuart is dead and buried, would you not consider coming home to Scotland again? There is a place for you at Glenkirk always.”

“Bless you, my dear Jasmine,” Cat said, her voice thick with emotion, “but my beloved Bothwell is buried in Naples, at the foot of our villa’s garden, and that is where I will lie one day, beside him in death as I was in life. Besides, my old bones are too used to the warmth of the south to tolerate the damp and chill of Scotland any longer.”

“Your great-grandmother returned home from a warm climate,” the duke said quietly.

“I am not Janet Leslie,” Cat said as quietly.

Outside the salon where they were waiting, a canon boomed.

“It would appear the Mass is finally over,” the earl of Carlisle noted dryly.

“Took long enough,” Viscount Kensington responded. “Do these Catholics really think God is going to overlook their fornications and other mischief just because they spend so much time in church on their knees? Well, let’s hope this little queen we’ve gotten proves as fecund as her old mother.”

“Come to the windows,” the earl called to them. “The rain has finally stopped, and there are fireworks being shot off.”

They stood watching as the rockets soared into the skies, bursting red or green, gold or blue sparkles against the darkness. The wedding party and its guests made their way to the archbishop’s palace where a banquet was to be held in the great hall, which had been newly decorated for the occasion with tapestries from the Louvre.

A banquet table stretched from one end of the hall to the other. The king had been placed in its center beneath yet another embroidered cloth-of-gold canopy. To his right sat his mother. To his left, his sister, England’s new queen. The proxy bridegroom was placed on Henrietta’s other side. The bride was served by a high-ranking nobleman, her old friend from childhood, Baron Bassompierre, and two French marshals.

When the meal had at last ended, all the guilds of Paris paraded before the new queen, and her brother’s Swiss Guards performed an intricate drill. At eleven o’clock, the exhausted bride retired back to the Louvre. For the rest of the week, all Paris rejoiced, and celebrated the marriage that united England and France. There were balls and banquets so numerous it was difficult to get to them all. The finest, however, was given by the Queen Mother in her new and magnificent Luxembourg Palace.

Then, suddenly, George Villiers, the duke of Buckingham, arrived in France. He had come, he announced grandly, to escort England’s new queen home. Buckingham was very tall, and extremely handsome. His dark eyes when fixed upon a woman made her feel she was the only woman in the world. His wife was devoted to him, and while he was considered a terrible flirt, Lady Villiers had no cause for jealousy. Buckingham had such beautiful features that the late King James had given him the nickname of Steenie, because the old monarch said George Villiers had the face of St. Stephen, who had been noted for his beauty.

The French queen was openly admiring of the Englishman. The French male courtiers hated him on sight, for they considered Villiers arrogant. It was their opinion he behaved as if he were a king himself, and they could barely tolerate his presence. Their wives disagreed, sending the duke languishing looks each time he came their way; smiling invitingly, sighing over his chestnut curls, his exquisitely barbered mustache and little pointed beard. The queen and the other ladies of the court were always delighted to have the English duke among their company. He swept into their midst one afternoon wearing a suit of silver-gray silk, and gold tissue. The suit was sewn all over with pearls, but the pearls were forever dropping off, and rolling across the floor. As servants scrambled to retrieve the gems, the duke of Buckingham waved them away with a smile. The pearls were naught but trifles, he told them, implying there were plenty more where they came from. Keep them, he said.

“You have done it quite deliberately,” the duchess of Glenkirk scolded George Villiers. “These pearls are sewn too loosely so, of course, they will drop off. You are intent on annoying these poor French. What a wicked creature you are, Steenie!” They had known each other ever since Villiers’s very early days at King James’s court.

The dark eyes twinkled. An elegant eyebrow arched mischievously, and then he smiled at her, but he said not a word.

At last, on the twenty-third of May, the new queen of England’s great cavalcade finally departed Paris. It was made up of the several hundred people who would accompany Henrietta-Marie, including, besides the lords and ladies who were to make up her household, a large number of servants: cooks, grooms, a surgeon, an apothecary, a tailor, an embroiderer, a perfumer, a clockmaker, eleven musicians, Mathurine, her Fool, and twenty-four priests, including a bishop.

The king had an attack of the quinsy. His throat was so enflamed that he could barely speak. He bid his sister farewell at Compiegne, and returned to Paris to recuperate. At Amiens, Marie di Medici developed a fever. After a few days, it became obvious that Henrietta-Marie would have to leave her mother and travel onward with her great train by herself. Charles was already sending impatient messages to France requesting his bride come forthwith. Finally, they reached Boulogne where twenty ships were waiting to take the new queen and her retinue to England. There was also a party of English ladies and gentlemen who had come to greet the new queen, but while Henrietta-Marie was polite, she showed little warmth toward these members of her new court. They were Protestants, and must be avoided as much as possible, her foolish spiritual advisors warned her, little caring if she made a good impression on her new subjects as long as her soul was safe.

The duke of Glenkirk and his family had taken their leave of the young queen in Paris. They would see her in England, but it was not necessary that they be part of the great company traveling with Henrietta-Marie to her husband. They returned to the château with the St. Laurents so they might have a few more days with Lady Stewart-Hepburn, who would be spending the summer in France with her youngest daughter.

James Leslie tried hard to get his mother to return home to Scotland with them. “You dinna even know this Stuart king, Mother, and his parents, your last link wi the royal Stuarts, are both gone now. Come home wi us to Scotland. There is always a place for you at Glenkirk.”

Catriona Hay Leslie Stewart-Hepburn shook her head. She had been a dazzling beauty in her youth, and while time had aged her, she was still a stunning woman. Her honey-blond hair had turned a snowy white, just faintly tinted with gold. Her leaf-green eyes, however, had not changed. They were as clear and beautiful as they had always been. Now they fixed themselves on him. “Jemmie,” she said, “you are my eldest child, and I love you dearly, but I will not leave Bothwell, as I have already told Jasmine. Besides, as I have also said, my old bones are too used to the sunshine and the warmth of the south. Going home to Scotland would take ten years off my life. While I miss Francis, I am not all that anxious to join him yet. I enjoy my grandchildren too much, I fear.” She laughed, and patted his hand. “You have done very well all these years without me.”

“Do you not miss your children?” he queried her. “My brothers and my sisters hae given you grandchildren, too, Mother.”

“And all have at one time or another come to Naples with their families to see me,” she responded. “They do not need me, either, Jemmie. A woman raises her bairns, and then no matter how much she loves them, she must let them go on to live their own lives. A mother and father are like the sun around which their children move. Then one day it all changes. The bairns are grown, and become like the sun themselves, which means the parents must take a lesser position in their lives. There is no tragedy in this, for a mother wants her bairns to flourish and lead their own lives. They go on, and we go on. I loved all my bairns, but you were not my only life.

“Soon Jasmine’s three eldest will be ready to leave the loving nest you and she have built for them. You must let them go, Jemmie, as I let you, and your brothers, and sisters go. And you must let me go, my son. While you may not realize it, you did so years ago when I left Scotland, and you became head of the Leslies of Glenkirk. Seeing me after so long a time has but made you nostalgic.”

“I dinna realize how much I hae missed you, Mother, until now,” James Leslie said. “Will you nae return to Scotland ever?”

“You know I will never leave him,” she replied.

“He would like it if he were buried in the soil of his native land,” the duke of Glenkirk said slowly. Then he chuckled. “I’ll wager he was awaiting Cousin Jamie at heaven’s gate, and Queen Anne with him. She always liked Bothwell, Mother, didn’t she?”

Cat nodded. “All the women liked Francis,” she recalled with a small smile, “but if he were awaiting Jamie at heaven’s gate, surely the king thought he had been sent in the opposite direction from which he anticipated, although seeing his Annie might have reassured him.” She laughed, and then grew pensive again. “Aye, he would like to have been laid to rest in his native land, Jemmie.”

“Do you think he would object to being planted in Leslie soil?” the duke inquired of his mother.

“On the grounds of the old abbey,” Cat said softly. “Could you, Jemmie?”

“Did we nae once hoax the royal Stuarts, Mother?” the duke answered her. “You and I together?”

“You would not think it disloyal to your father’s memory?”

“My father is nae buried at Glenkirk,” the duke said. His mother did not know it, of course, for she had been gone from Scotland, but the duke’s father, the fifth earl of Glenkirk, had not been lost at sea as had been reported, before the king ordered him declared dead. Actually, he had been captured by the Spanish, and gone exploring with them in the New World, where he had made himself a new life.

The duke had learned of it almost twenty-five years ago when his father appeared suddenly at Glenkirk to make amends for his long absence. He was extremely relieved to learn he might go on with his new life, and return to the young woman who awaited him in a place called St. Augustine. James Leslie had never seen his father again, although every few years a missive would arrive filled with news of his adventures, and the half-siblings his new wife had borne him. “My father was a good Scotsman, Mother, and if it had been possible, he would have been buried at Glenkirk himself. I dinna believe he would object to you and Bothwell being there. He owes you that much,” the duke said meaningfully, and then, “Besides, who will know it but us?”

“Then one day we shall come home to Scotland together, he and I,” Lady Stewart-Hepburn said, and suddenly her eyes were filled with tears, which slid down her beautiful face even as she attempted to prevent them. “Ahhh,” she said softly, “we had such grand times, he and I, as we rode beneath the border moon.” Then, catching hold of her emotions, she said, “We will travel in a single coffin. That way there will be no questions. Just the duke of Glenkirk’s old mother returning to be buried in her native soil. And no one shall ever know where Bothwell’s grave is, Jemmie, for even in Naples there are those who believed those scurrilous tales of witchcraft and magic Cousin Jamie and his Protestants spread about Francis. There are some who come to take soil from his grave, believing it has powers. I must keep a watch there all the time, or they would surely steal his body away to use in their vile rites.”

“I dinna think I will get you home too soon, Mother,” the duke said, seeking to lighten the moment.

“No,” she replied with a small laugh. Then she hugged him. “Thank you, Jemmie, for your generosity.”

“I hae always enjoyed sharing secrets wi you, Mother,” he chuckled. “Only Jasmine shall know besides we two.”

“Agreed,” she answered him. “I will miss you.”

“And I you,” he told her. And then the duke of Glenkirk took his mother for a final stroll in his sister’s gardens.