Charles the King Read Online Free Page A

said angrily. “After all the King himself appeared in front of you without even changing his dusty coat!”
    â€œYou said that before,” Henrietta answered. From the moment they left Charles, her lady of the bedchamber and the other ladies had been complaining about her husband on her behalf until she burst into tears and told them to stop or she wouldn’t go down again that evening. They had fussed round her with wine and rose-water and some of the less vindictive had said half-heartedly that he was rather a handsome man and seemed quite kind … Praise was what Henrietta wanted to hear. She thought him handsome; she had thought it odd but pleasant when he kissed her and wiped her tears with his handkerchief, and she was desperately anxious for some word of approval or encouragement from her few friends in the strange country where everything, even the manners of Kings to their wives, was so different from France. She had an indomitable will when she felt it opposed; it was strong enough on that occasion to withstand Madame de St. George and she silenced her by saying that she had made her complaint over her apartments, and she did not intend to spoil her dinner by sulking.
    â€œI wonder what the King will wear,” the Comtesse de Touillère remarked.
    â€œGod knows,” de St. George said acidly. “Let us just hope that it is the custom in this dreadful country to change one’s clothes at all!”
    â€œYou look very beautiful, Madame,” the Duchesse de Chevreuse whispered, bending close to Henrietta. She was a kind woman, and she thought it a pity to upset the Princess when she was committed to life in England. She thought the English uncouth and unlikeable, but there was nothing to be gained by prejudicing the child and urging her to take a hostile attitude.
    â€œThe King your husband will be enchanted by you,” she added.
    â€œI hope so,” Henrietta frowned. “Thank God he speaks French so well; it would be so difficult otherwise, because I shall never learn this awful English language. It’s nothing but grunts and coughs, like a lot of pigs at feeding-time!”
    â€œAll educated people speak French,” Madame de St. George said. “No one expects you to learn their ridiculous language, Madam. As for the King being enchanted by you—how could he help it? It is much more important to me that he should please you.”
    â€œI shall know better after this evening,” Henrietta stood up. “After all, one can’t judge anyone by a few minutes’ conversation when we were all upset.”
    â€œReserve your judgement, Madam, until after the final marriage service the day after tomorrow,” the senior lady-in-waiting said significantly. There was silence then until the King’s personal equerry, Sir James Paget, came to escort the Queen and her women to the dining-hall.
    They left the next morning for Canterbury. The dinner had been a success; even the most hostile of the French entourage admitted that the King of England treated their Princess with courtesy and charm; carving the meats and waiting on her himself. They had sat together talking and laughing; Henrietta very animated like an excited child, with her cheeks flushed till she looked positively radiant, and the grave young King watching her with an expression of increasing tenderness and delight. They had looked so well matched in their youth and their preoccupation with each other, the handsome young man, very regal and splendid in crimson velvet and lace, with a huge jewelled order blazing on his breast, and the exquisitely pretty French Princess in her shining rose-coloured dress. He asked her many questions, and listened with amusement to her graphic descriptions of the stormy journey and the sea-sickness which had reduced her and her ladies to a state in which they looked like half-drowned cats. The remark was Henrietta’s, but the Duke of Buckingham looked