Free Margaret the First by Danielle Dutton Page B

ceiling in which to entertain.

SIR KENELM DIGBY, SIR GEORGE BERKELEY, THE BISHOP OF LONDON himself: Margaret greeted them in the Dorset House parlor in a dress of sparkling violet, a hat like petals falling through empty space. To William, so pleased with it all—the guests and wine, her sparkling gown—his wife was more a marchioness than she’d ever been before. He remembered her in Paris, pretending to read or sew. Now as he took her round the room—introducing her to poets, ambassadors, dukes—she hardly blushed, and even spoke. Yet meanwhile, across the parlor, his daughters looked on distraught. Their father had grown only more besotted and their stepmother more astonishing than when they’d first laid eyes on her in ribbons years before. She bowed. She nodded. She nearly bobbled. Yet if she noticed their scrutiny, Margaret gave no outward sign. She admired Elizabeth’s sapphire stockings with the metal thread. Elizabeth smiled sweetly. Everyone played a part.
    Finally, one quiet morning, word arrived at Dorset House that the king would come to dine. It was exactly what William had been angling for these weeks. He hurried to write a spoof—the evening’s entertainment, involving an incomprehensible Welshman who babbles when meeting the king—while Margaret was taken down to see the Earl of Dorset’s cook. Quince cream and orange pudding, the harried cook advised. Quince cream and orange pudding, singers and a band. The morning passed in a fuss. A hasty dinner, and rain began to fall. Margaret, exhausted, alone in her chamber, sat and watched the barges on the Thames: onions going down to sea, timber coming up. She had not written in many weeks. The river raced along. A fishmonger dropped a basket and several fish slid out.
    William hoped for a place at court, his London house returned, and Margaret had hopes of her own that night. “A celebrity,” the king had said.
    As guests began to arrive downstairs, she was thinking her thoughts, half dressed.
    “What is it?” William asked as they descended the marble stairs.
    She only shook her head.
    The parlor was overfull: ladies grooming, musicians tuning, powder on the air. Here came her one living brother, John, whom Margaret hardly knew. William’s son Henry. Sir Kenelm Digby, again. Guests danced, drank punch. They threw open windows for air. But when the king’s carriage was seen in the street, everything grew still. Margaret stood beside her husband, the blood loud in her ears.
    His Majesty entered to fanfare—and all was movement again.
    William was first to step forth and bow. The king turned to Margaret, who smiled and curtsied low. It was their first meeting in over a year, their first since that dinner in Antwerp, yet when she opened her mouth to speak, she saw the king’s eyes riffle over her and off. Over her shoulder he scanned the crowd. On instinct, she moved aside.
    He was lost all night to a sea of girls and courtiers and fuss. Quince cream and orange pudding, singers and a band. At least William was named a Gentleman of the Bedchamber, at last.
    “An utter success,” her stepdaughters confided to Margaret as they prepared to take their leave. “The handsome king! That spoof!” Still the rain persisted, and the bishop had lost his hat. Maids danced in and out. Where was the bishop’s hat? Alone at the window, Margaret didn’t hear. The reflection of the parlor was yellow and warm. She watched it empty out. Then, an interruption. A voice came at her side: “What do you look at with such interest, Lady Cavendish?” What did she see in the glass? She saw the Marchioness of Newcastle. She saw the aging wife of an aged marquess, without even any children to dignify her life.

THE VOICE WAS RICHARD FLECKNOE’S AND HE SAVED HER FROM HERSELF. “We’ve met before,” he said, “at the Duchess of Lorraine’s . . . at Béatrix’s castle.” By now the parlor was empty and he stooped to kiss her hand. The king was gone. The parlor was