The empress of ice cream

Louise

That night, as I lie in bed, Lady Arlington comes to see me. She is in her nightgown, as I am, her hair unpinned.

‘Do you have everything you need?’ she enquires with a smile, sitting down on the edge of the bed.

‘Everything, thank you. You have been most hospitable.’

‘And the bed is comfortable?’

‘Wonderfully so.’ I yawn. ‘It makes me feel quite sleepy.’

‘This was the bed in which I first lay with Rennet, after our wedding breakfast,’ she says, placing a hand on the coverlet as if to indicate the very place. ‘It is a happy day, when a girl becomes a woman.’

‘When she is married, you mean.’

She does not answer me direcdy. Instead she reaches out and strokes my hair. ‘You are a lovely little thing. But I suppose you know that already. And so charming! Who knows - perhaps you will attract the eye of a suitable husband, while you are here in England.’

My surprise must show in my face, because she smiles. ‘You hadn’t considered that possibility?’

‘My parents might have something to say on the matter,’ I say carefully.

‘Of course. But much would depend on the position of your prospective husband, would it not? Alliances across countries are how these things are done, at a certain level. I myself was Elizabeth van Nassau-Beverweet before I was married to Lord Arlington.’

‘I am not really thinking about anything like that,’ I protest.

‘But why ever not? Besides, if what I hear is correct, you do not have a great deal of choice in the matter.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Just that you have already tried and failed to find a suitable husband in France,’ she says simply. ‘Nor, unless you succeed here in England, can you ever hope to return to Versailles. So what, or who, exactly, would you be saving yourself for?’ She smiles ruefully, to show that she means no harm by it, and* pats my leg through the bedclothes. ‘Well, I will leave you.’ She goes to the door, pausing only to blow out the candle on the bureau. ‘Goodnight, Louise. Sweet dreams.’

For some time I lie in the darkness, thinking about what she has said. Clearly the Arlingtons have a plan in mind - some suitor or alliance whose cause they wish to further. But whose? And why are they being so elliptical about it? I have the uneasy feeling that I am being involved in some new, additional intrigue, the ramifications of which I cannot yet completely grasp, let alone control.

At breakfast they return to their theme. But they have clearly been talking overnight: their arguments are more polished now, their delivery less oblique.

‘News from court,’ Lord Arlington informs his wife, reading a note brought by the buder. ‘I have here the latest report from the queen’s physician. Unfortunately, it seems that our worst fears have been confirmed.’ ,

‘I must prepare our mourning clothes, and the black silks for the carriage. It seems certain that we will need them before the year is out.’

‘Indeed. The poor woman.’

‘Is there any more word,’ Lady Arlington enquires, ‘as to who the king is likely to marry, after she has passed on? God rest her soul.’

Arlington shrugs. ‘There has been some discussion. Informally, of course. As you know, the king has the romantic notion that he would like to marry for love. But that is not a luxury kings are often given.’

‘Indeed not. And Parliament will want him to marry a Protestant.’

‘Ah!’ Lord Arlington leans forward. ‘But will it be Parhament’s choice? It is Paris, not Parhament, which is in the ascendancy now. And Louis will want someone who cements the grand alliance.’

‘A Catholic?’

He nods. ‘Preferably, no doubt, a Catholic from France.’

Caught in the act of raising a piece of toast to my mouth, I do not at first realise the significance of all this. Then I understand. If I were not eating, I think my jaw would drop.

How stupid they must be thinking me, not to have realised before.

‘So if Charles were already to favour such a person . . .’ Lady Arlington is saying.

‘Indeed,’ her husband replies, nodding. ‘Everyone would be delighted.’

He cannot resist giving me a brief, sidelong glance, to make sure that I have understood.

I walk in the garden, thinking hard.

So this is the Arhngton’s plan - to broker a marriage between myself and Charles II! At first glance it seems a breathtaking proposition. The wives of kings are princesses of the blood royal, not the daughters of impoverished old families. They bring with them vast dowries, strategic alliances, claims on distant thrones.

And yet, if Louis and Charles both wanted it, such a marriage might just be possible. So powerful is France in Europe now that a Frenchwoman of noble birth could be considered the equivalent of royalty from a lesser country. And from my own king’s point of view, a Frenchwoman on the Enghsh throne would be a visible sign that the treaty is unbreakable. It would bind our countries together for a generation.

I consider what my parents would think, if I became England’s queen. Of how Louis might reward them. My younger sisters

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would be amongst the most eligible girls at Versailles. There would be new lands for my father; money to rebuild our home at Brest ... I would have achieved everything they sent me to Versailles for.

And my children - our children: the children that Charles and I would have together - would be of royal blood.‘They would have within them that portion of God’s divinity which courses through ail royal veins. I would be the mother of princes. As such, I would wield power - power even greater than Madame’s. That great vision of hers - the vision of a Europe united under one faith - would be mine to achieve.

How could I possibly have known, when I contemplated being sent home from Paris as a failure, that this far greater opportunity would come my way instead?

Abruptly I shake my head, angry with myself. Wuit. Think clearly. If that was really Louis’s intention in sending me here, surely he or Lionne would have said so. They would not have left it to the charming but, I suspect, somewhat self-interested Lord Arlington to explain how things lie.

So. This is Arlington’s scheme, not Louis’s. But again, that does not necessarily mean Louis would not approve of it, should events fall out this way.

Should Charles wish it, in other words. ;

I consider, trying to see it clearly. Most obviously of all, there is the little matter that the present queen is not dead, and even to discuss the death of a queen, much less to wish for it, is treason. Of course, people do talk about such things - the succession in any country is a subject of grave importance - but to speak of it in the wrong way, or to the wrong person, is to risk disgrace.

And then, too, there is something almost too perfect about the timing of this, the way that it has been laid out so neady before me, like a hand of cards with the king on top, almost begging to be picked up and played.

I think again of Buckingham’s drunken words. Tou^ve been sent

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to ensnare him. Between that gross accusation and the Arlingtons’ more welcome suggestions, where does the truth lie?

To be a queen. To be a queen. It is like a whisper going around and around in my head. Without meaning to, I find that I am carrying myself a little straighter than before, my bearing a litde more regal, as I walk back towards the house.