Courting Her Highness (28 page)

It was on
the night of the 26th November that the great storm broke over London.

The Queen slept through the beginning for she could sleep through most things, but the sound of the rising wind which seemed to shake the very battlements of St. James’s Palace kept Abigail awake.

She rose from her pallet on the floor in the Queen’s room and wrapped her robe about her, for she was certain that even Anne could not continue to sleep through such noise. Even as she did so the chamber was lightened by a brilliant flash of lightning followed immediately by the loudest clap of thunder Abigail had ever heard.

“What is it?” called Anne. “Hill! Hill!”

“I am here, Madam. It’s the thunder and lightning. It seems to be a bad storm. Shall I make some tea or would Your Majesty prefer brandy?”

“I think brandy in the circumstances, Hill.”

Abigail had disappeared, but before she was back there was another violent clap and the sound of falling masonry.

“I think, Madam, that it might be wise to leave your bed.”

There was Hill with a warm robe to put about the Queen’s shoulders.

“Shall I need this, Hill?”

“I am afraid the draughts might bring on the shoulder pains, Madam.”

“You are right, Hill. Of course you are right. Oh dear … what is happening?”

“It’s a very violent storm, Madam.”

“And right overhead. Oh dear me … Hill. There again!”

The Queen shut her eyes. Abigail knew that whenever any disaster threatened she thought of the wrong she had done her father and that some curse had come upon her.

“It’s only a storm, Madam.”

“I do hope damage has not been done to the
poor
, Hill.”

“We must see what can be done about it, if that should be so, Madam.”

“Yes, yes, Hill.”

“My angel. My dearest.” George was bursting into the apartment, a robe about him, his wig, having been put on in a hurry, awry. He was wheezing painfully. “Vot is this? You are safe, my angel. Ah, thank Got. Thank Got.”

“I’m safe enough, George. I have Hill here. You must not get so excited, dear love. You know it brings on the wheeze. Is that Masham? Oh, Masham, is His Highness warmly clad? I do not want him to take a chill again.”

“Yes, Your Majesty. He is wearing his warm underwear.”

“I want no more chills.”

“Masham,” said the Prince. “We need a little something for the cold to keep out.”

“Yes, Your Highness.”

“Hill,” said Anne, “brandy for his Highness. Oh dear, who is that screaming?”

It was some of the maids of honour who were terrified of the storm. “Bring them in, Hill. We will all be together.”

Abigail obeyed, and all through that horrifying night she remained beside the Queen.

That was the
most fearful night Abigail had ever lived through and it was not until the next morning that the furious gale had abated; by that time it had left behind tremendous damage.

The streets were blocked with fallen masonry; trees had been uprooted by the hundred; the Thames was blocked with broken craft of all description and many battleships had been damaged in the North Sea.

All through the days that followed news of the disaster was brought to the Queen. Fifteen of her warships with countless smaller craft had been destroyed, hundreds of merchant ships were missing; the sea had swept inland; the rivers had overflowed; houses had been demolished.

There had never before been such a storm in living memory; all prayed that there never would be again.

The south of England lay shattered beneath its impact, although in the north it had been scarcely felt, and it was said that nowhere in London had it struck so fiercely than at St. James’s Palace where part of the battlements and many of the chimneys had been wrenched off. In the parks, trees had been pulled up and flung aside as though by some giant hand—trees which had stood there for many, many years.

“Nothing,” said the Queen, “will ever be the same again.”

They were sad days which followed the great storm as news of disaster after disaster kept coming in.

Anne was horrified to learn that a stack of old chimneys in the episcopal palace of Bath and Wells had fallen and that the Bishop and his wife, Dr. and Mrs. Kidder, had been killed in their beds.

“What terrible disaster, Hill! It is like a judgment.”

Then the news reached the Court that the recently built Eddystone Lighthouse had been swept into the sea and that its architect Mr. Winstanley had gone with it.

“It is like a judgment,” repeated the Queen.

Abigail, who knew how the Queen’s thoughts were running, refrained from mentioning the cause of the Queen’s remorse—her disloyalty to her father. Instead she said: “Madam, you will doubtless decide to help those who have suffered from the storm.”

“I shall indeed, Hill.”

“And perhaps a service to thank God for bringing us safely through the storm and asking him not to send such a one again.”

“Oh, Hill, of course. Of course. That is what we must do.”

So the Queen’s thoughts were turned from the possible curse which might have fallen upon her and gave her mind to good deeds.

“Madam,” said Abigail, “in the streets they begin to call you Good Queen Anne.”

Good could come out of evil then. The storm had been quite terrible, but it did help her people to understand how much she cared for their welfare.

She sent for Godolphin and they arranged that there should be a fast throughout the country—a public fast with special services in the church.

There should be a general proclamation.

“Hill,” she said, when Hill was massaging her painful limbs, “I sometimes think that good can come out of evil.”

“I am sure you are right, Madam.”

Soon after the
great storm the Archduke Charles of Austria was expected to spend a few days in England on his way to Spain to claim the throne.

He had been proclaimed King of Spain in Vienna and had met the Duke of Marlborough in Düsseldorf that October. There he had presented the Duke with a diamond encrusted sword and earnestly thanked him for all he had done.

It was important therefore that the Duke be in England to receive the visitor when he arrived. Sarah was delighted to see her Marl. No matter what success or failure they had to suffer, for both of them these reunions were the most enjoyable periods of their lives. Some might maliciously say it was fortunate for John Churchill that he did not have to live day after day with Sarah without hope of escape; they might hint that the great felicity of the marriage—which none could deny—was based on the long absences, the fact remained that both could be completely happy in those short weeks when they were together.

Sarah raged about the follies of the Queen, the intractability of their daughter Mary who—at her ridiculous age—was trying to make a most unsuitable match; she might talk of the absurd knighting of bodice-makers, the difficulties of bringing son-in-law Sunderland to heel, her suspicions of Robert Harley and Henry St. John—of whom Marl and Godolphin seemed to have such a high opinion—but all the same there was no joy like having her husband home with her—safe within her sight.

And the same applied to Marlborough. He might be one of the most ambitious men alive; his heart was deep in military affairs; he longed to continue the war, but he yearned all the time to be at Sarah’s side. None but himself saw her soft, tender and gentle, for she had no softness, tenderness nor gentleness for any but him.

Marlborough, with the Duke of Somerset, went to Portsmouth to greet Charles of Austria; and it had been arranged that Prince George should go to Petworth, the Duke of Somerset’s mansion, there to greet the guest in the name of the Queen and bring him on to Windsor.

“I do declare,” said Anne, “that I am a little worried for Mr. Morley to make the journey at this time of the year.”

“It’ll do him good,” countered Sarah, who was now at Court superintending all the preparations for the visit.

“But you know, Mrs. Freeman, how bad his asthma has been this winter. He was bled three times in forty-eight hours and it was only the blisters that relieved him.”

“A little more action would be good for him.”

“Dear Mrs. Freeman, you enjoy such rude health yourself that you do not always understand the weakness of others.”

Sarah allowed the faintest look of exasperation to cross her face.

Hill would have understood my anxiety, thought the Queen; and dismissed the thought at once. It was disloyalty to dear Mrs. Freeman, and it was such a pleasure to have her back at Court. There was not the same peace, but how
vital
Mrs. Freeman was, and what a pleasure to look at those flashing scornful eyes and to listen to the invective which came tripping from that fluent tongue. One felt so
alive
with Mrs. Freeman about. And how handsome she was! One forgot how handsome until one saw her—with her beautiful golden hair hanging about her shoulders or dressed high for a state occasion.

All the same she was worried about George and she did wish Mrs. Freeman would have been a
little
sympathetic. The roads would be even worse than usual at this time of the year after the bad storm.

So George had gone off to Petworth, and when he returned he would be accompanied by their august visitor with Somerset and dear Mr. Freeman.

It was clear that Sarah believed this was as much her occasion as anyone else’s. Who, for instance, had made it possible for Charles of Austria to go to Spain and lay claim to the throne? Marlborough! Whose military genius was deciding the fate of Europe—and England? The answer was the same. And on whom did Marlborough depend for counsel and comfort and to fight his battles at home. His Duchess.

She behaved as though the Queen were her puppet. She all but ordered her; but not quite. Anne never argued; she would nod and smile and then go her own way; or sometimes make up her mind, find the phrase she needed to express it, and go on repeating it at intervals.

Nothing could have maddened Sarah more, but at the same time even she could not be blind to the warning it implied. John had cautioned her a hundred times. He was, of course over-cautious; but in her calmer moments Sarah did admit to herself that the Queen was a stubborn woman who could at times, as she put it, brandish the orb and sceptre.

It was evening when the party arrived at Windsor. Anne had ordered that every alternate man in the guard of honour should hold high a lighted flambeau, and the sight was impressive. The Queen, with Sarah—who should have been behind her—almost at her side, stood at the top of the staircase to greet her guests.

The Archduke was a delicate looking young man, handsome yet with
a melancholy expression, and graceful manners; his blue coat with its gold and silver galoon was very becoming.

Poor young man, thought Anne. He looks tired.

He stooped and kissed the hem of her gown, then he kissed her cheek.

Sarah exchanged glances with John. But for you, she was reminding him, that young man would not be on his way to Spain. I hope they realize this.