Royal Sisters: The Story of the Daughters of James II (64 page)

There was a new King over the Water for the Catholics to drink to.

Only such an act could rouse William from the physical disabilities which were overwhelming him. His body might be failing him, but his mind was as alert as ever. The proclamation of James’ son as King of England was a minor issue. The question of the Spanish succession was involved; Charles II of Spain had named Louis’ grandson Philip of Anjou as his successor. This could only mean that Louis would have a big control over Spain and the balance of power in Europe would be upset. A European war was brewing fast and Holland and England would have to stand together against France and Spain if they were to survive.

Such a project was such to put new life into a great war leader.

William rarely spent an evening drinking Holland’s gin nowadays. He was in consultation with his most able ministers. Marlborough was a good soldier; William had seen enough of him in action to know that. There were Marlborough, Godolphin, and Sunderland … among others.

This was a time for unity. They would all see that.

And at such a time William ceased to be an irritable invalid.

The gateway of
greatness was opening to Marlborough; Sarah knew it. And he would always remember whose had been the hand to unlock those gates. He would always remember what he owed to his wife.

She sat at her table in the anteroom to Anne’s bedchamber drawing on her gloves, but she did not see the room; she saw Marlborough crowned with the laurels of success; her lovely daughters queens of their world; and young John, best beloved of all her children, who should have the grandest future of them all.

The door opened so silently that she was not aware that anyone had entered until a soft voice said: “Excuse me, my lady.”

She looked up into the meek plain face of Abigail Hill.

“Good gracious, you startled me. I didn’t hear you come.”

“I am sorry, my lady. But you are wearing the Princess’s gloves.”

Sarah looked down at her hands. She thought they had seemed tight. Anne’s hands were small, her fingers tapering; the only beauty she possessed.

Abigail was regarding her with such awe that she was first amused and then delighted. She supposed these women about Anne realized that she, Sarah Churchill, was of far more importance than their mistress.

She could not resist confirming this opinion or making sure that it existed in case it did not already.

She peeled them off turning up her nose as she did so. “Take them away at once. I do not care to wear something that has touched the
odious
hands of that disagreeable woman.”

Abigail looked startled as Sarah had expected; Sarah flung the gloves at her; they fell to the floor and the woman meekly picked them up.

“Leave me, please. I am busy.”

Sarah sat smiling as Abigail left. What she did not know was that Abigail had left the door open and that Anne in the adjoining room had heard Sarah’s words, for Sarah had a loud penetrating voice.

She had said that to a serving woman! thought Anne. Mrs. Freeman had called her hands odious and her a disagreeable woman. Sarah was handsome, of course, and however disagreeable Sarah was, Anne could not help being fascinated by her. But to say such a thing to a serving woman! She would not have believed it if she had not heard it herself.

Sarah gave herself great airs since her daughters’ marriages and since Marlborough was back in favor.

She didn’t mean it perhaps. It was a joke. Yes, that was it. It was meant to be amusing. Sarah would never call her hands odious, herself disagreeable.

Abigail Hill brought the gloves to Anne.

“Can I help put them on, Your Highness.”

Such a nice quiet voice, such a nice quiet woman! And she gave no sign of what must have been astonishing to her.

It couldn’t be true. I imagined it, thought Anne. It was more comfortable that way; for in truth, although Mrs. Freeman was overbearing, although she was growing more and more inclined to bully, she was Mrs. Morley’s dear, dear friend and Mrs. Morley could not do without her, particularly now she was suffering so deeply from the loss of her beloved boy.

Abigail Hill was smiling shyly. Such a pleasant creature, but so quiet and self-effacing, one did not notice she was there until one wanted something.

Abigail made her think that she had imagined those words. How comforting! It was just what she wanted.

War! thought William
.

The whole of Europe in conflict. But he would win; he was certain of it.

To be on the battlefield again! It was the life for him.

He pressed his heels into his horse’s side. A good horse this, Sorrel, Fenwick’s horse; the only good thing which had come out of that affair.

Before him was Hampton Court—his palace. How different he had made it since his arrival in England! It could be in Holland; there was the Dutch stamp on it—square and gracious and the gardens were a delight.

He was anxious to be there; he went into a gallop; but as he did so the horse plunged its forefoot into a molehill and William was rolling over and over on the grass.

His collarbone
was fractured. It must be set and he must rest.

“Rest!” he cried. “With war imminent! I have to be at Kensington Palace this night to meet my Council!”

None dared dissuade him; and when he reached Kensington riding there in his carriage, the jolting he received had displaced the bones and they had to be reset. Moreover, his sickly body could not endure the strain and he was exhausted and forced to rest.

He lay tossing on his bed. He had no great desire to live, but this was not the time to die. There was so much to be done. War was threatening and he was a great war leader. He did not love England, nor did the English love him; but his destiny, so clear at his birth, was the possession and retention of three crowns and he was not a man to evade his fate.

He must not allow a broken bone or two to deter him.

They said this
King was immortal. They had been expecting him to die for years; yet he had outlived his wife; he had outlived James; and although a few days ago he had been believed to be near death he was recovering.

In the taverns the “Jacks” were secretly drinking to the Little Gentleman in Black Velvet—the mole who had made that hill which had brought down Fenwick’s Sorrel. He had passed through many battles; he had been the victim of plots; he had faced death a hundred times and eluded it; could it be that the little mole had succeeded where his enemies had failed?

But it seemed as though it were not to be.

The Princess Anne and Prince George called on the King to congratulate him on his recovery and for a week or so William, although suffering more acutely than before, went about his business.

But it was true that the gentleman in black velvet had achieved what his enemies had failed to do.

The swollen legs grew larger; the asthma was worse; it was he himself who told those about his bed that the end had come.

Keppel was at his bedside; he was glad of that; but there was one other whom he wanted: Bentinck. The friend of the past. There must be one last touch of that once dearly beloved hand.

Bentinck came, sorrow in his eyes and in his heart.

The one who truly loved me, thought William—but there had been one other. There had been Mary.

On his arm was the bracelet of hair he had put there on her death. They would find it now and perhaps know that somewhere in his heart under the layers of ice there was a warmth for some. For loving Mary, for loyal Bentinck, for gay Keppel, for his dear Elizabeth.

He tried to speak to Bentinck. “I am near the end …” But there was no sound.

In her apartment
Anne waited for news. Sarah was with her, too excited for speech.

To herself she spoke. It has come. This is the great day … the beginning of greatness. We shall be invincible. My entire dream is coming true.

She looked at the flaccid figure in the chair: the Queen of England.

Queen, thought Sarah, in name only. It shall be the Marlboroughs who rule.

People were coming into the apartment now. Oh, so respectful, so full of feigned sorrow, so full of suppressed excitement.

They knelt before Anne.

“Your Majesty,” they said. And then there was a cry in the apartment. “Long Live Queen Anne.”

Bibliography

Aubrey, William Hickman Smith
History of England

Bathurst, Lt.-Col. The Hon. Benjamin
Letters of Two Queens

Bray, William, ed.
Diary of John Evelyn

Burnet, Bishop
History of His Own Time
, with notes by the Earls of Dartmouth and Hardwicke and Speaker Onslow, to which are added the cursory remarks of Swift

Chapman, Hester W.
Mary II, Queen of England

Churchill, William S.
Marlborough, His Life and Times

Dobrée, Bonamy
Three Eighteenth Century Figures

Edwards, William
Notes on British History