The Devlin Diary
ALSO BY CHRISTI PHILLIPS
The Rossetti Letter
POCKET BOOKS, a division of Simon & Schuster, Inc.
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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2009 by Christi Phillips
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available.
ISBN-13: 978-1-4391-6344-3
ISBN-10: 1-4391-6344-8
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In memory of my father,
Don Phillips
No death in England or France was more lamented than that of Princess Henriette-Anne. Since which time dying has been the fashion.
—John Wilmot, Earl of Rochester
PRIMARY HISTORICAL CHARACTERS
(IN ORDER OF APPEARANCE)
Hannah Devlin, a physician
Lord Arlington, Secretary of State and the king’s minister
Madame Severin, Louise de Keroualle’s mistress of the bedchamber
Louise de Keroualle, a mistress to Charles Stuart, King of England
Jeremy Maitland, a manservant to Lord Arlington
Roger Osborne, a courtier
Mrs. Wills, Hannah’s goodwife
Lucy Harsnett, Hannah’s maidservant
Hester Pinney, Hannah’s maidservant
Theophilus Ravenscroft, a natural philosopher
Thomas Spratt, Ravenscroft’s assistant
Sir Granville Haines, a courtier
Ralph Montagu, a courtier and former ambassador to France
Sir Thomas Clifford, Lord Treasurer and the king’s minister
Charles Stuart, King of England
the successor to the throne
Edward Strathern, a physician and anatomist
Sir Henry Reynolds, a courtier
Jane Constable, a lady-in-waiting to the late Duchess of York
Sir Hugh May, Comptroller of the King’s Works
Colbert de Croissy, French ambassador to England
Robert Hooke, a natural philosopher and city surveyor
Dr. Thomas Sydenham, a physician
The Devlin Diary
Contents
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Chapter Twenty-eight
Chapter Twenty-nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-one
Chapter Thirty-two
Chapter Thirty-three
Chapter Thirty-four
Chapter Thirty-five
Chapter Thirty-six
Chapter Thirty-seven
Chapter Thirty-eight
Chapter Thirty-nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-one
Chapter Forty-two
Chapter Forty-three
Chapter Forty-four
Chapter Forty-five
Chapter Forty-six
Chapter Forty-seven
Chapter Forty-eight
Chapter Forty-nine
Chapter Fifty
Chapter Fifty-one
Epilogue
AUTHOR’S NOTE
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Prologue
29 June 1670
The Palace of Saint-Cloud, Paris
Urgent to the Rue de Varenne, Paris
Mors certa, hora incerta, yet all goes on as Before. The courtiers mill about Henriette-Anne’s apartments, engaging in idle Discourses, as if this Night were no different from any other. Not one of these tricked-up Peacocks has a care that the Princess’s sincere Piety and youthful Beauty will soon be Lost; tho’ I must confess that her beauty has quickly Withered, with the repeated clysters and the copious Vomits. The French courtiers—it is a simple task to distinguish them from the English, for their excess of Lace and overbearing Scent reveal them at once—can barely conceal their Astonishment, that a young noblewoman would Suffer so indelicately; and they continually sniff their perfumed handkerchers to mask the Stench that accompanies Death. The Princess’s bedchamber, tho’ it is grand and overlooks the Palace gardens and the Seine, smells like a charnel-house.
The English contingent—Lord Arlington, Sir Henry Reynolds, Roger Osborne, Sir Thomas Clifford, Sir Granville Haines—are more stoic and less Afflicted. Tho’ I detect a Panic amongst them that cannot be attributed to any gentle Sentiment for the Princess. I am almost certain that they are not waiting upon her because she is King Charles’s beloved sister and King Louis’ beloved sister-in-law, but have remained in France on a secret Purpose.
The efficient overseer of Henriette-Anne’s bedchamber, Madame Severin, is as always present. Tonight she is perched at the Princess’s bedside, as ominous as a Tower raven, alert to every Sigh and Tremor her mistress makes. Henriette-Anne’s fatal Distress has made Madame Severin the very embodiment of Despair and Melancholy, or so it appears; yet not long past I chanced to hear a Quarrel between them, of which I will disclose more when we meet. The Princess’s Maids are as mournful as the Matron; they huddle in the corner, red-eyed and fearful, knowing they will be without Employ or Benefactress once their Lady is still and cold.
Only one, the pretty little Breton Louise de Keroualle, seems unconcerned with her Fate. Perhaps the Attention given her by King Charles at Dover was not Lost upon her. De Keroualle is not clever, but she is comely and very Ambitious. She makes much of her Virtue, but I have heard rumors of a past Liaison with the Comte de Sault, a dull Rogue if I ever knew one, and she is poor. Even if she became maid of honor to the Queen she could not make an auspicious Match in France.
I must bring this Missive to a close—more later.
It is now past Three of the clock. Madame Severin has risen and called for the Bishop—the End is near. But no; the Princess motions her back to the Bed, rising on one unsteady Arm to utter a few hoarse Words. Madame Severi
n looks into the crowded Room, her eyes uncommonly bright in the candlelight.
“Monsieur Osborne,” she says, her voice rough with grief.
The courtiers react with perplexed bewilderment, a suppressed ripple of Protest, even outrage. Why Roger Osborne? The Englishman is not a favorite. A friend to King Charles and to Henriette-Anne, to be sure, but someone who arrived late to the Royalist cause. Has the princess forgotten his Parliamentarian past, his work for Cromwell? Perhaps all that matters is that Osborne forgot it quickly enough once Charles was restored to the throne.
Osborne steps out of the crowd, a man of middle Years in unfashionable dark clothes and a cheap Periwig. A large port-wine-colored birthmark spreads its scalloped edges across his right brow. He kneels at Henriette-Anne’s bedside, then leans forward to hear her weak rasping Voice. As she murmurs, his eyes grow wide and he shakes his head. Whatever Task she is assigning him, he does not want it, though by refusing he risks a charge of Treason. Henriette-Anne becomes agitated. Madame Severin moves closer, ready to end their dangerous Interlocution. The Princess waves her away, then tugs a weighty gold Band from her finger. She presses it into Osborne’s palm. He stares at it as if he has never seen a ring before.
When he looks up, he has the Countenance of a man who has heard something deeply disturbing. The Princess utters a grievous Sigh and falls back onto the bed, her body buckling in pain. Madame Severin summons the Bishop, and the room breaks into a Commotion as the courtiers make way. The Bishop rushes to the bed, but it is all for naught: the Princess’s rattle is loud enough for most to hear that she has Dyed. A shocked Gasp resounds throughout the room and the courtiers stop their twittering. The ring falls from Osborne’s hand and rolls along the floor, a golden streak of Light. Finally it collides with the wall and falls to one side, wobbling on the rim in ever faster revolutions, its metallic singing filling the sudden silence.
Your dear Friend and my Angel the Princess Henriette-Anne is gone, her Radiance too early extinguished. I will say only this, Letum non omnia finit: death does not finish everything.
I remain your most Humble & Obedient, &c.
Chapter One
London, 4 November 1672
SHE LEAVES HER house on Portsmouth Street carrying a wood box with a smooth ivory handle and tarnished brass fittings. It is late afternoon in early November. The street is deserted and cold, and the sunless ground has sprouted scaly patches of hoarfrost; with each step her pattens crack the thin ice to sink into the mud beneath. At the top of Birch Lane she hoists the box to gain a firmer hold—it is heavy, and she is slight—and the constant dull ache behind her eyes becomes a throbbing pain. She has learnt, to her dismay, that the least occurrence can precipitate a headache: a sudden movement, a sound, even a sight as innocent as a bird’s wings fluttering at the periphery of her vision. She considers setting the box down, unhitching its scarred metal latches, and searching its neatly arranged collection of bottles and vials until she finds the one that she desires. It is late, however, and she is in a hurry. She continues walking. The small streets she passes through are little traveled; she encounters only a few others who, like herself, appear anxious to reach their destination. Hers is an alley near Covent Garden, and the dilapidated attic room of a house that was once grand. As she crosses Middlebury Street, her breath appears as puffs of white vapor that linger long after she has gone.
When she reaches the Strand she stops, confronted by a street teeming with people, horses, sheep, and snorting, mud-caked pigs rooting in the gutter. The autumn evening is brief and precious, a time for gathering the last necessaries before going home, and the shops and street vendors are briskly busy. The air is blue with coal smoke, rich with the aromas of roasted meat and onions. Underneath is the ever-present odor of the sewer, a narrow, open gutter in the center of the road, where the pigs scavenge. The morning’s storm washed away some of the sewage, but the gutters of London are never completely clean. In between the gnawed bones and bits of offal are orphaned puddles of rainwater that shine like mirrors, reflecting nothing but overcast sky.
She pushes back the hood of her cloak; long locks of unruly dark hair break free. In the crush of scurrying people, the limpid brightness of the paned shop windows, the copper lanterns haloed against the darkening firmament, she senses a feeling of contentment tantalizingly within reach. All Hallows’ Eve has just passed. This is her favorite season, or once was. In the chilled gray hour before the November night descends she has always felt a kind of magic. When she was younger she imagined that this feeling was love, or the possibility of love. Now she recognizes it for what it truly is: longing and emptiness.
“Mrs. Devlin.” A voice rises above the street noise. “Mrs. Devlin? Is that you?”
“Yes,” she replies, recognizing the short, ruddy-faced woman in a cotton bonnet and a thick apron, who pushes through the crowd to reach her. She remembers that the woman is a goodwife to a Navy secretary, remembers that she lives with her husband in St. Giles near the sign of the Ax and Anvil, remembers that the woman’s mother had suffered an apoplexy and then a fever. It takes her a moment longer to remember the woman’s name. “Mrs. Underhill,” she finally says, nodding.
“We never properly thanked you, Mrs. Devlin,” Mrs. Underhill says as her flushed face gets even rosier, “seeing as we couldn’t pay you.”
“Do not trouble yourself. You owe me nothing.”
“You’re very kind,” the goodwife says with a small curtsy and bob of her head. “I tell everyone how good your physick is. My mother’s last days were more easy because of you.”
She remembers Mrs. Underhill’s mother. By the time she was summoned, the elderly woman was as frail as a sparrow, unable to speak, and barely able to move. More than a year has passed, but she suddenly recalls holding the woman’s emaciated body as if it were only moments ago. “I’m sorry I could not save her.”
“She’d lived a long life, Mrs. Devlin. She was in God’s hands, not yours.” Mrs. Underhill’s words carry a gentle admonishment.
“Of course,” she says, closing her eyes for a moment. The pain in her head has grown stronger.
“Are you all right?” Mrs. Underhill asks.
She looks into the goodwife’s eyes. They are clear, green, ageless. She briefly considers telling her about the headaches and the sleeplessness. Mrs. Underhill would understand.
“I’m fine,” she says.
“That’s a funny one, isn’t it?” Mrs. Underhill smiles, relieved to be unburdened of the thought that a physician could take ill. “Me asking after a doctor’s health. And you with a whole case full of physick,” she adds, looking at the wood box. “I suppose you of anyone would know what medicines to take.” She peers across the Strand at one of the street vendors. “Pardon my hurry, but I should be on my way. The master must have his oyster supper every Friday.”
They take their leave of each other. As she departs the Strand for Covent Garden, a wintry, soot-filled wind strikes her face. The sky is darker now, and the sense of tranquility she momentarily felt has disappeared, as if it never existed. Inside her head, a bouquet of sharp metal flowers takes root and blossoms. The headache is here to stay, for hours, perhaps days. The medicine case bumps hard against her leg. Many times she has thought of purchasing a smaller, lighter one, but she has not done it. She would never admit it, but she believes that the box itself has healing power. She is aware that this is a superstition with no basis in fact; indeed, she has ample evidence to the contrary. The boy she is on her way to see, a seventeen-year-old apprentice stricken with smallpox, will most likely die before the night is over. For days she has followed Dr. Sydenham’s protocol, providing cool, moist medicines where others prescribe hot and dry. The physician’s radical new method seems to offer a slightly improved chance of a cure, but she knows that only a miracle will save her patient now, and she has long since stopped believing in miracles. The most she can do is ease the boy’s suffering. Ease suffering. So she was instructed, but it hardly seems
enough. Just once, she would like to place her hand on a fevered cheek and feel it cool, to cradle an infant dying of dysentery and stop its fatal convulsions, to administer medicines that cure rather than placate disease. To heal with her hands, her knowledge, and her empathy. Even a small miracle, she believes, would redeem her.
When she looks up from her ruminations she sees that night has fallen. A coach has stopped at the end of the lane. The bald coachman pulls on the reins, his back still arched, as if he has just brought the horses to a halt. She slows her pace. Something about the coach bothers her, though there’s no precise reason for her concern; it’s only a common hackney. The door creaks open and a man steps down to the street. He’s dressed like a person of quality, but his stance and beefy body are more suited to a tavern brawler. His gaze is so direct it feels both intimate and threatening, as if he knows her and has a personal grievance with her. She is certain she has never seen him before.
She’s close enough that he hardly needs to raise his voice when he speaks. “Mrs. Hannah Devlin, daughter of Dr. Briscoe?” he demands. His voice is hard, without finesse, and her first impression is confirmed: he’s a brute in expensive clothes. She braces herself, her right hand dipping toward her skirt pocket and the knife concealed there, a weapon she wields with more than ordinary skill. Before her fingers reach the knife she is seized from behind. The ruffian’s accomplice wraps his thick arms around her waist and lifts her off the ground so effortlessly that she doesn’t have time to think about the strangeness of it all. The first man grabs the medicine case from her and shoves it inside the coach, while the other immediately hoists Hannah through the door after it. She lands on the hard seat facing the back, knocked out of breath. Even if she was able to speak, being confronted with the person who calmly sits across from her would have shocked her into momentary silence.