The Queen's Devotion: The Story of Queen Mary II (11 page)

Anne said: “It was cruel the way in which he behaved at the ball. He is nothing but a monster. I am sorry but I cannot help saying it.”

Jane Wroth, whom I liked because she was warmhearted and natural and spoke before she thought of what effect her words might have, said: “That is true. He is nothing but a Dutch monster.”

Sarah Jennings, to whom I should soon say good-bye, because naturally she would be staying with my sister, commented: “He reminds me of Caliban. He looks as though he is plotting something.”

She felt free to speak of him thus, I supposed, because I should soon be gone, and he with me.

I heard them talking about him later. They called him the Dutch monster, Caliban.

And this was my husband.

THE TIME HAD COME
. There could be no further delay. My father had given orders at St. James's. Anne, who was now dangerously ill, was not to be told that I was leaving, for he feared the effect it might have on her in her weak state. As for myself, I was expressly forbidden to go near my sister, for fear of catching the infection, so I must leave without saying good-bye. I wondered what further blows fate could deal me.

I was realizing that I was really fond of Lady Frances and was deeply sorry that she was not accompanying me, that I was a little afraid of Elizabeth Villiers, and did not really care for her sister Anne. I did have Anne Trelawny though, and frivolous little Jane Wroth and lively Betty Selbourne were very pleasant to be with.

I spent the night before I was due to sail writing two letters to my sister Anne. I sent for the Duchess of Monmouth and asked her to give them to my sister as soon as she was well enough to receive them. I wanted her to know that I was thinking of her and how it grieved me to leave her.

William had not approached me since our wedding night, and it was becoming more and more clear to me that the experience had been as unpleasant to him as it had been degrading to me.

I think I began to like him a little better then, although I had not been in the least displeased to hear those whispered comments in which he had been referred to as the Dutch monster and Caliban.

He found me a disappointing wife now that I was further removed from the throne, but I saw that he did not hurt me out of malice. He just acted naturally and we shared our regret for a marriage which need never have taken place.

On that dreaded day I left St. James's and went to Whitehall to say good-bye to the Queen.

Queen Catherine was a gentle, kindly lady. She had trouble of her own, but still had sympathy to spare for me. She understood my feelings and reminded me of how she had come to England to marry a man she had never seen.

I burst out: “But, Madame, you were coming to England and I am going from it. You came to the King . . . and I . . .”

I said no more. She understood. She had come to the most kindly and charming of men and I was going to one completely lacking in these qualities. She had come to what would have been great happiness if it had not been tainted by perpetual jealousy. Poor Queen Catherine. It seemed there could be no perfect happiness.

I left her tearfully, feeling I should never see her again.

At Whitehall stairs the King was with my father and there were crowds on the river bank. William was there with Bentinck beside him, and others of his suite. They were saying that the wind was fair for Holland, and my heart sank, for now there would be no postponement. It could only be a matter of hours.

We sailed down the river to Erith. There we dined and after that there was the last farewell.

The King kissed me tenderly. He said I must come back to Whitehall whenever I wished. There would always be a hearty welcome for me while he was in his court.

I clung to my father. There was no ceremony now. He could not restrain his tears. I believe he had loved me more than any other and this marriage was as much a tragedy for him as it was for me.

And then we sailed down the river toward Sheerness where the Dutch fleet was waiting to take us to Holland. There, what I had prayed for in my childish way happened. The wind had changed and it was decided that we could not sail until it took a more favorable turn.

William looked angry. He was impatient to be gone and this delay was frustrating to him.

A message came from Whitehall. It was from the King. Why did we not return to the court? He could promise that we should pass the time pleasantly enough while waiting for the tiresome wind.

William had no desire to return to the frivolous court. He preferred to remain at Sheerness and we spent a night there and were entertained by Colonel Dorrel, the Governor. William continued to remain aloof from me, a fact which comforted me considerably and made me dislike him a little less, though I was still filled with misery and resentment.

William, I know now, was one of the most astute of men. He firmly believed that one day he would take the crown of England. There had been a prophecy at the time of his birth, of which I will write later. He was a man who would always grasp an opportunity when he saw one, and often turned adversity into advantage. He was frustrated by the delay but decided to make use of it. He was fully aware that he lacked the charm of the King and my father but he had one great asset: his religion, and he knew that the marriage had been popular. If the time should come when I inherited the throne, he wanted the people to respect him.

I think that was why he decided that the Dutch fleet should move from Sheerness to Margate and that we should sail from there. The fleet could move at its convenience according to the wind, while our party could travel by road to Margate by way of Canterbury. Thus we should show ourselves to the people and if the great day came when William should return to the country as its king, he would not be a complete stranger to them.

It was devious thinking, but I was to become used to that, for he was indeed a great ruler and there was room in his life for little else.

So we traveled to Canterbury, and it was clear that the people on the route were pleased to see us. We had the approbation of the all-important people.

Most of the party had stayed with the fleet at Sheerness, and there were only a few of us: Lady Inchiquin, a maid to attend on me, William Bentinck and another Dutchman named Odyke.

What followed was really rather extraordinary and I did not realize at that time that it was part of a plan.

We arrived at an inn where William declared himself to be short of money. This seemed incredible to me, for I knew he had received a part of my dowry which was forty thousand pounds. However, what he did was send Bentinck to the City Corporation to beg a loan, explaining that the Prince found himself without means.

This was, I understood later, meant to arouse the indignation of the people against my father, whom William despised and was beginning to regard as his greatest enemy. My father had tried to stop the marriage; he had not hesitated to show his dislike of it. William wished to be seen as the great Protestant leader who would save England from the Catholic yoke as represented by the Duke of York, the present heir to the throne.

I think this did have the effect William intended, as so many of his actions did.

Throughout the city there was great sympathy for the Prince who had married the Duke's daughter and been so meanly treated as to be left without money. Doctor Tillotson, the Dean of Canterbury, called on William and begged an audience.

This was immediately granted.

“Your Highness,” said Doctor Tillotson, “this is a state of affairs which is greatly deplored by all the good people of Canterbury. I beg of you to honor the deanery with your presence. It is a scandal that you should be here without means, and I must tell you that it is the custom of people of your rank to stay at the deanery when visiting our city.”

William thanked Doctor Tillotson for his offer of hospitality, but he said he was content to stay at the inn. However, he accepted the offer of a loan and said he would not forget Doctor Tillotson's goodwill.

There was a great deal of sympathy for William and criticism of my father who was blamed for William's poverty. This was, of course, what William had hoped for, and he looked more pleased than he had since our marriage.

More messages came from Whitehall inviting us to return and wait there for a suitable time, but William refused, rather ungraciously, and renewed his friendship with Doctor Tillotson who, I learned, had in the past preached vehemently against Catholicism.

During our stay we saw much of him. He was a man of much charm and gentleness. William did not visit me at night; I was still in England and I was faintly comforted.

It was a strange interlude and I had never before stayed in an inn, so it was a great novelty. It was here that I received the distressing news that Lady Frances Villiers had died of the smallpox. I thought then of my arrival at Richmond so long ago; and then of the discovery of Frances's letters. One remembers such things when one knows one will never see a person again.

I wondered about the Villiers sisters who would receive the news at Margate, where they were waiting with the Dutch fleet.

My fears for my sister Anne increased and I waited for news of her with great trepidation.

Then the wind changed and William wanted no more time to be lost.

I was relieved to be with Anne Trelawny again. The Villiers girls were grief-stricken by the news of their mother's death. I shared their sorrow but my thoughts were dominated by Anne.

November is not the best of times to make that teacherous crossing and, no sooner had we left Margate, than the wind arose. How it buffeted our poor ship! How cruelly it tore at the sails! I thought that my last moment had come. All the women, except myself, were sick. Perhaps I was too unhappy to let the storm touch me. I just sat in my cabin, not caring much what happened to me. If I were going to die, I should not have to go to Holland to be the wife of William of Orange. There seemed some comfort in that.

The wind had subsided a little as we approached the coast.

We had arrived, battered by the tempestuous journey. We landed at a place called Ter-Heyde and were immediately taken to the Hounslaerdyke Palace. I was glad because I was too exhausted to think of anything beyond rest; and on the first night in my new country, I slept long and deep.

The Princess of Orange

A “VERY INCOGNITO” VISIT

I suppose one cannot remain in deepest depression for weeks on end—especially when one is young. I was only fifteen, and young for my years, and the young, I believe, are resilient.

It was a relief to be on dry land after experiencing that turbulent sea and wondering if I would survive, and I had realized that, after all, I wanted to live.

I could not help being impressed by The Hague Palace to which we came after leaving Hounslaerdyke. It was a magnificent spot, grand indeed, with its Gothic halls and the lake, which they called the Vyver, washing the wall on one side.

It was the official residence of the Stadholder, which would account for its formidable formality, and much as I admired it, I was relieved to discover that I was not expected to live there.

There were two residences which were really part of the palace. One of these was the Old Court, which was a Dower Palace, and very pleasant, but the place which I really liked was the House in the Woods, and I was delighted to discover that this would really be my home.

True to its name, it was in a wood, but the house itself was surrounded by beautiful gardens. Two new wings had been built onto the house to accommodate my household.

It was about a mile from The Hague Palace and in the front of it was a long avenue, at the end of which was an impressive statue of the Stadholder William Henry, my husband's grandfather.

I think I felt a little more hopeful when I entered the House in the Woods for, in spite of its splendor, there was a homeliness about it. The walls of the domed ballroom were covered by paintings and among them was my grandfather, the never-forgotten Charles the Martyr; and I was shown another picture of a member of my family. This was my Aunt Mary, who had married into Holland and become my husband's mother.

As the weeks passed, I entered into a state of resignation. I soon realized that I should not see a great deal of William. We did not meet even for meals because he usually dined at the Hague Palace with his ministers when my presence would have been undesirable.

There were occasions when he came to supper at the House in the Woods, and those were the times I dreaded, for I knew they meant we were to spend the night together.

I tried to understand his point of view. These occasions were as distasteful to him as they were to me, for I was perpetually on the edge of tears which frequently overflowed; and the manner in which I clenched my teeth in preparation for the ordeal was not conducive to lovemaking.

He was not the sort of man to hide his feelings or to make things easier for me.

“Stop crying,” he would say. “Do you not understand that this is our duty?”

Oh yes, such an attitude must curb the most intense passion, except that of a sadist, of course, and William was certainly not that. He wanted to get the unpleasant business over as speedily as he could and he made no secret of it.

Perhaps I should have been glad of this, but there must have been something perverse in my nature. I did not want him, but with a certain feminine logic, I wanted him to want me.

I knew that I was by no means repulsive. I was rather too plump, but I had been called beautiful. I was young and virginal—indeed too much so, it seemed. I believe my youth irritated him and my dread certainly would.

It was strange that I should feel this faint resentment because the “duty” was as repulsive to him as it was to me. I thought of Mary Beatrice and my father. In fact my father was constantly in my thoughts, and I longed for his presence. Mary Beatrice had been as young as I was and as frightened. It must have happened to her just as it had to me. And then, suddenly, she had ceased to be frightened and instead became jealous of Arabella Churchill and the rest. But she had come to love my father. Should I ever grow to love William? They were as different as two men could be. My father and the King had what was called the Stuart charm. That had completely passed over William without touching him. I must remember that people who paid compliments as charmingly as the King did did not always mean them. William would never say what he did not mean. William would never pretend.

And so the weeks passed. I learned to steel myself for those evenings when William came to supper and I found they were less unpleasant than they had been in the beginning. I knew what to expect and that is better than being taken by surprise. I very much liked the House in the Woods. I could wander out with my attendants and stroll in the woods whenever I had the desire to do so. We danced in the evenings, or played cards, and, apart from the suppers and their aftermath with William, I could be tolerably happy.

Then there was wonderful news from home. Anne had completely recovered and I was so relieved and delighted that nothing could make me miserable then.

I was still writing to my dear Frances Apsley, and still called her “my husband.” I wondered what William would think of those letters. He must never be allowed to see them. But would he be interested? I was beginning to learn that little interested him except the government of the country.

I remember one day when we were sitting with our needlework I heard the story of that strange happening at the time of William's birth. It must have affected him deeply, and made him sure of the destiny which awaited him.

I had noticed that Elizabeth Villiers liked to talk about William. Sometimes I would find her looking at me slyly, as though she were considering something. I did not understand her and I wished I had asked my father not to let her accompany me. I could tolerate her sister Anne, but there was something about Elizabeth which disturbed me. It always had, but I had been so miserable at the time of the marriage that I had not been able to think of anything else. I should have been wiser. My father would have said immediately that if I did not want her she should not go, for indeed the purpose of these girls, more than anything else, was to be a comfort to me in a strange land. But it was too late to think about that now.

On this occasion, she said: “I heard a strange story the other day. It was about the Prince's birth. It is really very extraordinary.”

We were all alert, listening.

“It was someone who knew the midwife, a Mrs. Tanner, who told me. Perhaps the Prince has told Your Highness of this?”

She was looking at me with that sly look. She knew that there was very little conversation between the Prince and myself and was hinting that it was very unlikely that he would have told me anything except not to cry, that I must not be foolish, a silly child crying for her father.

“What was it?” I asked.

“Well,” said Elizabeth. “If you have not heard and do not mind my telling . . .”

“Do tell us,” cried Anne Villiers. “I cannot wait to hear.”

“It was a very sad time,” went on Elizabeth. “The Prince's father had died only eight days before the Prince was born. The court was deep in mourning and the Princess hung her bedchamber with black cloth.”

“Surely she changed it for the birth of her son?” said Anne Trelawny.

“No,” replied Elizabeth. “Not according to Mrs. Tanner, the midwife. Even the cradle was hung with black.”

“What a sad way to bring a child into the world!” commented Jane Wroth.

“What would he know about it?” demanded Elizabeth. “But that is not the point. When he was emerging into the world . . . at the very moment . . . all the candles went out.”

“Who blew them out?” asked Anne Trelawny. “Or was it just the wind?”

“No one. They went out of their own accord.”

“How difficult for them,” put in Jane Wroth. “A baby about to be born in the dark.”

“But that was so that the circles of light could be seen.” Elizabeth spoke with great intensity and, watching her, I saw the squint was very pronounced. It made her look calculating, wise, witchlike.

She went on in very solemn tones: “And about the baby's head were three circles of light. Mrs. Tanner saw them clearly.”

“What were they?” I asked.

“Your Highness, they were signs. Mrs. Tanner said they were like three crowns just above the baby's head.”

“What did it mean?” asked Anne Trelawny.

“They said it meant that the Prince was born to greatness. His father was dead. There was no Stadholder. The fortunes of the country were low. And he had just come into the world. It was a sign, they said, that he would inherit three crowns.”

“What crowns?” I asked.

Elizabeth looked at me steadily and said: “They speak of the three crowns of Britain: the crown of England, Ireland and France.”

Elizabeth lowered those strange eyes. There was an air about her which I did not understand, a pride, a triumph.

She had always baffled me.

IT WAS NOT LONG
after my arrival in Holland when I received a request to go to The Hague Palace where my uncle Laurence Hyde, Earl of Clarendon, who was the English ambassador, had something of importance to impart to William and me.

I had long realized that my husband did not regard me as of any importance in state matters, but this was different. It needed my uncle's ambassador to remind the people here that I was his niece and Princess of Orange.

Wondering what this could mean, I went to the Presence Chamber in the palace where William, with Clarendon, was impatiently awaiting me.

My uncle greeted me with the deference due to my rank as the Prince's wife, and, having made his point, said that the news was for both of us.

“There is great sadness at Whitehall, Your Highnesses. Charles, Duke of Cambridge, has died.”

Poor Mary Beatrice. Her little son, who had been born two days after my marriage, had been christened Charles and created Duke of Cambridge.

There was silence. My thoughts were with my stepmother. I remembered her joy when she had at last given birth to the longed-for son, and her hopes because it had seemed possible that he would live.

And how short had been his life! This was the child who had soured our marriage and filled William with such bitter disappointment.

I said: “The poor Duchess. How is she?”

My uncle replied: “Very sad, Your Highness, and the Duke with her.”

I looked at William. I guessed what he was feeling and I marvelled at his ability to hide it. I saw him take a deep breath and then said: “We must send our condolences to the Duke and Duchess.”

“I will write to them at once,” I said.

“It will comfort their Graces to hear from you,” said my uncle.

“What was the cause of death?” asked William.

Laurence Hyde was uncertain. “There have been the usual rumors, of course.”

“Rumors?” asked William with more animation than he had shown on hearing the news.

“It is gossip, Your Highness. There was smallpox in Whitehall. The Lady Anne herself . . . Praise God she has now recovered . . . but there were several deaths. The Lady Frances Villiers . . .”

“Ah yes,” murmured William. “And now the little Duke. But these rumors . . .”

“The nurses, Mrs. Chambers and Mrs. Manning, were blamed by some for not applying a cole leaf to draw out the infection. They protested that they had done their best for him. I am sure they did, poor women. But there will always be rumors.”

“And how is my father?” I asked.

“He is deep in mourning, Your Highness.”

I wished that I were there to comfort him.

When my uncle left and I was alone with William, he said: “That message must be sent to the English court without delay.”

A certain reserve dropped from him. He might have felt it was not necessary to hide his true feelings from me. I saw the slow smile spread across his face—a smile of satisfaction.

I was shocked. I could not stop thinking of the grief my father and stepmother would be suffering at this moment.

Perhaps he noticed this, for he laid a hand on my shoulder.

“You must not grieve,” he said in a more gentle tone than he had ever used to me before. “It may be that they will have more sons.”

But the smile lingered about his lips and I was sure he was convinced they never would. The way was clear. My father would have the throne, but for how long? The English would never accept a Catholic monarch. No wonder he felt benevolent toward me.

That night he came to supper. There was a change in him. He was less impatient, less critical.

He was implying that the marriage had been worthwhile after all.

I THOUGHT A GOOD DEAL
about William. In fact, he was not often out of my thoughts. He was a strange man, so aloof that I felt I should never know him. He had betrayed his feelings a little over the death of my little half-brother, but that had not surprised me. Quite clearly he had no affection for me, though he had a deep regard for my position. He thought I was a silly young girl. He had made that perfectly clear, and never more so than during those periods of “duty.”

I sometimes had a conventional idea that, since he was my husband, I should try to love him. I began to make excuses for him. I pictured what his childhood must have been like, and I compared it with my happy one. Sometimes I felt that if I had not had such devoted parents, and particularly a doting father, I might have been able to understand him more readily.