The Queen's Devotion: The Story of Queen Mary II (13 page)

“Why? What do you mean?”

He lifted his shoulders. “The good ladies are to assure themselves—and your father—that you are being treated according to your rank. It would seem they have been led to believe this is not so.”

He was spoiling my pleasure in the anticipation of their arrival.

I said quickly: “You would not . . .”

“Refuse to allow them to come? I could scarcely do that. Rest assured, the lady spies will be well received when they arrive, though they will be ‘very incognito.' ”

Nothing could really spoil my delight and I joyously awaited their arrival.

AND WHAT A JOY IT WAS TO SEE THEM
. There was my dear, dear sister, who had been so ill when I left, now in radiant health.

It was wonderful to see me, she told me.

“When you went away, I wept for days. Sarah thought I should do myself some harm with my sorrow. Dear, dear Mary, and how do you like it here?”

She looked around the chamber. It was attractive, she said, but not like dear St. James's and Richmond.

She was talking a great deal—for Anne—but this reunion was a very special occasion and even she was moved out of her usual placidity.

Then there was my stepmother. I saw the change in her. Grief had left its mark on her.

I did not mention the recent death of her baby son, but she knew I was thinking of it.

There was so much to talk of. I wanted news of my father.

“He never ceases to talk of you,” Mary Beatrice told me. “He wishes you were back with us and reproaches himself for letting you go.”

“It was no fault of his. He would have kept me in England if he could.”

She nodded. “He could do nothing,” she said. “But he still blames himself. This appears to be a pleasant country. The people are very agreeable.”

“Orange,” said Anne. “It's a strange name for a country.”

“I call you Lemon . . . my dear little Lemon,” said Mary Beatrice. “Orange and Lemon, you see. Do I not, Anne?”

“Yes,” said Anne. “She says, ‘I wonder how little Lemon is today among all the Oranges.' ”

We were all laughing. There was so much to know. How were all my friends—the Duke of Monmouth, for instance. All missing me, I was told.

I said: “It is wonderful that you have come.”

“Your father was so uneasy about you. He would have liked to come himself but he could hardly have done that. It would have made it too official. But when we heard what was happening here . . .”

“What did you hear?”

Mary Beatrice looked at Anne who said: “People wrote home . . . some of the ladies, you know. They wrote that the Prince does not treat you well. Does he not?”

I hesitated—and that was enough.

“Lady Selbourne wrote home and said that you were neglected by the Prince who treated you without respect.”

“The Prince is very busy,” I said quickly. “He is much occupied with affairs of state.”

“He will always be Caliban to me,” said Anne. “That was Sarah's name for him.”

I said: “Pray, do not let anyone hear you say that.”

“Well,” laughed Anne. “He is rather alarming. My poor Mary, I am sorry for you. I can't help being glad he is not
my
husband.”

I looked at her placid face and wondered who would be found for her. Of one thing I was certain: it would not be long before she had a husband. The thought apparently did not occur to her, or if it had, it had not alarmed her. Very little did alarm Anne. She had an unswerving faith in her ability to sail serenely through life.

“I will tell you a secret,” she said, dismissing the unpleasant subject of my marriage. “It is very much a secret at the moment. Only our stepmother knows, is that not so? But I must tell my dear sister, if she promises to say nothing of it to anyone.”

I promised readily.

“It is Sarah,” she said. “What do you think? She has married John Churchill.”

“Well, I knew he was courting her. Why should it be a secret?”

“The Churchills have fine ideas of themselves ever since Arabella started to advance their fortunes.” Anne paused for a moment, faintly embarrassed. Our stepmother knew, of course, of Arabella's relationship with her husband and how, because of it, her family had received many favors.

“The Churchills think themselves far above the Jennings and that Sarah is not a good enough match.”

“Sarah will soon teach them differently from that!”

“Of course. Sarah is good enough for anyone. But if he had to go away with his regiment and Sarah went with him, what should I do without her?”

“You will have to arrange that she stays behind or let her go,” I said.

Anne smiled complacently, certain of her power to keep Sarah with her.

“It is a secret until the family have been brought round to see good sense. Our stepmother thinks that can be done.”

“I did hear a whisper that John Churchill was a wayward young man,” I said.

“You must mean the Lady Castlemaine scandal. There was something. But so many people have been involved with that woman.”

“I have heard it said that the King sent him to Tangiers to separate them.”

“That was long ago. John is now reformed. He thinks of no one but Sarah. I dare say he will do exactly as Sarah wants.”

“Knowing Sarah, I am sure that is very likely.”

I wondered how long this deep friendship with Sarah could last. Anne herself must marry one day and that was most certainly to be in the near future.

She said: “How did you get on with Dr. Hooper?”

Dr. Hooper was the almoner who had replaced Dr. Lloyd. I frowned. William did not approve of him. Dr. Lloyd had not minded if I attended the Dutch services, but Dr. Hooper had advised me not to. In fact, he was almost as fierce against it as he was against Catholicism. This had given rise to some unpleasantness, for Dr. Hooper was not a man to keep silent about his opinions. There had been one or two far from felicitous encounters between William and Dr. Hooper.

“He is a man of strong opinion,” I said.

“And the Prince did not approve of him?”

“Well, not exactly.”

Mary Beatrice smiled grimly and I said quickly: “You know he is returning to England. He is going to marry.”

“I had heard that.”

“He has promised he will come back again, bringing his wife with him.”

“Does that please you?”

“I like him.”

My stepmother did not answer, but I knew she was thinking that my husband had probably made life very difficult during Dr. Hooper's stay at The Hague.

He would no doubt make his views at the Dutch court known when he returned to England. He would be quite fearless about that, and with the letters which found their way to England, it would be known that my life in Holland was not as serene as it might have been.

The visit was very brief and I was very sad to say good-bye to them. It had been a mixture of joy and sadness to be with them, for, while it was wonderful to be in their company, memories flooded back of the idyllic life I had led before my marriage. I was beset by such nostalgic longing for the old days that I was not sure whether the visit had been good for me or not.

They had promised to come again.

“The journey is not so far,” Anne had said on parting. “Of course, there is that hateful crossing, but I would face that a thousand times to be with my dear sister.”

And my stepmother agreed with her.

So I was hopeful that there would be another visit before very long.

THE EXILE

Soon after their departure, William paid me one of his rare visits. As I was pregnant, it was not for the usual purpose.

He said: “I have a letter from your father.”

He handed it to me and I read:

There was more of the letter. He did not give me time to read it, however, but snatched it away as I prepared to do so.

“Well,” he said, his lips in a straight line, his eyes cold, “The spies gave a good account of us.”

“They were not spies,” I said with a touch of indignation.

“Were they not? You surprise me. Their grateful thanks are couched in the language of diplomacy. They are adept in that art at your uncle's court, I believe. Your father is an uneasy man at this time.” He waved the letter at me, and I stretched out to take it, but he held it back. He was not going to share it with me. All he wanted me to see was the good report which had been given of the visit.

“There is trouble in England,” he went on.

“Trouble?” I said quickly. “What trouble?”

“Your father, I fear, is not a wise man. His obsession with a religion which does not please the people will be his undoing.”

“Is anything wrong with my father?”

“Only what he inflicts on himself.”

“Please tell me if you have any news.” I was losing my fear of him in my anxiety for my father, and I felt bold suddenly. If my father was in trouble I must know.

“Is he in danger?” I asked.

William did not speak immediately. A slow smile crossed his face but he seemed as cold as ever.

He tapped the letter.

“There is a plot being talked of in England. A man named Titus Oates has claimed to have discovered it. This is a papist plot to take command of England and bring back that faith.”

“And my father?”

“They will seek to involve him, of course. There is a great excitement in England because of it. All Catholics will be suspect. Your father, your stepmother, the Queen herself. The English will never again have a Catholic on the throne. That is why I say your father is unwise.”

“He is an honest man,” I said. “He does not pretend. He will not lie to the people.”

“Honest . . . and so unwise!”

I wanted to read that letter. I wanted to know exactly what had been written. William knew it, but he would not show me.

I understood later, but I could not then.

His hopes were high. The popish plot raised them. Charles, my uncle, could not live forever, and then it would be my father's turn. And would the people have him? If not, the next in line was myself. I would be the one and William was my consort. Consort? When he had a claim himself . . . not as strong as mine, it was true, but a claim. He wanted me to know that, however high my rank, he was my husband and I owed obedience to him.

That letter pleased him indeed. Not because my sister and stepmother had not mentioned his harsh treatment of me, but because of the news about a papist plot.

I CONTINUED TO WORRY
about my father. News came from England. We heard of little else but Titus Oates and the popish plot. Everyone was talking about it. I knew that William was in communication with some of the ministers at my uncle's court. There were several of them who were determined not to tolerate a Catholic king and they turned to William.

I realized that William was aware of the close relationship between myself and my father and he did not want me to be influenced by him.

Although he had a certain contempt for me, and I was sure believed he could subdue me if the need arose, he had to remember that, if my father was removed, he could only secure the throne through me; and I believed on one or two occasions he had seen in me a certain rebellion—a determination to stand up for what I believed to be right, even if it were against his wishes.

He was already conspiring with men in England and must have been anxious to keep me in ignorance of this, for fear I should betray the fact to my father.

Soon after the departure of the visitors I was taken ill again with the disease which had attacked me before. I was suffering alternate fits of shivering and fever and they diagnosed the ague.

I became very ill and during the illness I lost the child I was carrying. It had happened exactly as before.

I was completely desolate, more so than ever. It was a significant repetition. I knew what it meant. The curse of the queens was upon me. I began to believe that I should never have a child who would live.

I knew William was deeply upset. Our efforts were in vain. A child was conceived and that was the end.

He blamed me. Of course. What had I done? I had been careless, stupid. I had let another chance go by.

I was too ill for some time to care much. I thought I was dying and so did some of those about me. I knew this because Anne Trelawny told me afterward.

There was a great deal of gossip among the women about William's callous behavior. There were occasions when he did come to see me. I supposed diplomacy demanded it. I pretended to be too ill to speak to him.

He stood by my bed, looking at me with obvious exasperation—the wife who could not do what every little serving-maid could with ease—produce a child; and yet I held the promise of a crown in my hands.

He was anxious about me for one reason. I must get well. I must not die, for if I died, I should take William's hopes with me, for Anne would be next. Idly I wondered how she would have acted if she had been the one chosen for William. I thought of her indifference, her lassitude. She would have ignored him and turned to Sarah Churchill for comfort.

Often now I thought of Frances Apsley. One of my greatest compensations was the letters I wrote and received; and I often thought how pleasant it might have been if we could have lived together.

People noticed the change in me. I was a little aloof with my attendants. I had discovered that I had only to look mildly displeased by their conduct and they became subdued.

Dr. Hooper had come back with his wife. She was a charming woman and I wanted her to know how pleased I was to have her join our circle.

The maids of honor had their own dining quarters. I joined them on occasions. I had expected, of course, to dine with my husband, but he still dined at The Hague Palace and the excuse was that he was busy with his ministers. I knew this was commented on and was one of those facts which gave the impression that I was not treated with the respect due to me.

Dr. Hooper had had his meals with the maids of honor in the past but had declined the invitation for his wife to join them when she arrived. He said that, in view of the “great economy” the Prince of Orange practiced and his dislike of the English, he thought it better for Mrs. Hooper to dine at their lodgings, and, naturally, he would take his meals with her, thus saving the Prince more expenditure.

This was also noted and I had no doubt that the information would reach England.

So William had a reputation for meanness. It was true he paid the chaplains who came over from England very little. Dr. Hooper, being a man of means, supported himself and his wife all the time he was in Holland. The Dutch were so shocked by his extravagent way of life, for their clergy were so poorly paid, that they called him “The Rich Papa.”

This state of affairs had the effect of making Dr. Hooper very independent and he spoke his mind freely in William's presence and, I think, must have given him some uncomfortable moments. Not that William was the man to allow such trivialities to affect him, but he was concerned that Dr. Hooper might influence me in my religion, for it was a fact that, since his arrival, I had adhered to the rites of the English Church instead of adopting those of the Dutch.

William was heard to say on one occasion that if ever he had a say in the matter (which meant that if ever he were King of England), Dr. Hooper should remain Dr. Hooper throughout his life. He would certainly not get promotion from William.

Dr. Hooper was indifferent to such comments and went on expressing his opinion with the utmost freedom.

He did not stay with us for long, however, and his successor, Dr. Ken, proved to be even more outspoken.

I discovered that something of importance was happening in the quarters of the maids of honor, presided over by Elizabeth Villiers. There was a great deal of entertainment there. This was strange for, as Dr. Hooper had pointed out, William disliked any form of extravagance, and the supper parties which had become a familiar feature of the evenings, must have entailed certain expense.

Then it suddenly dawned on me that there was some purpose in these parties. Some of the maids of honor were attractive and most of them were young; and the most important men at court could at times be seen there.

Among them was William Zulestein, who was a great friend of William's and was in fact related to him, for Zulestein's father was the illegitimate son of Henry Frederick, Prince of Orange, my husband's grandfather, by the daughter of a burgomaster of Emmerich. He had been a faithful friend of William's father and now there was a close friendship between him and William.

William Bentinck was also a frequent visitor to the suppers, as were others of William's circle. William himself had been known to be present. Many of the English visitors to The Hague were invited—among them Algernon Sidney and Lords Sunderland and Russell.

On the rare occasions when I was present I noticed that the English visitors were made much of, and the girls were very agreeable to them.

Elizabeth Villiers acted as hostess. When I was there she paid me all the homage due to my rank, but I was constantly aware of her sly smile and watchful eyes; and I could not help feeling that there was something subversive about those supper parties—some purpose behind them.

I watched Elizabeth Villiers in earnest conversation with Algernon Sidney and I wondered what subject they found so enthralling. I did not believe it was lovers' talk; more than ever, I felt there was indeed something rather sinister behind these gatherings, and that they should be carried on with William's approval amazed me.

There was born in me then a deep feeling of apprehension. I felt we were moving toward a climax of which others were aware and I was ignorant. I felt a little frustrated and helpless, which was due to the fact that I had a faint glimmer of understanding.

Constantly I thought of my father. I gathered that this plot of which they were all talking was directed not only against the Queen but against him also. He was in danger and I wanted to be with him.

These anxieties had their effect on me. I had another fit of the ague and this time I could not rid myself of it. I had to take to my bed and I was very ill this time. People in my bedchamber whispered together and I believe they thought I had not long to live.

William came to see me. He looked really alarmed. Poor William, I thought with newly acquired cynicism, if I died, what hope would you have of the crown? After my father, Anne; and Anne would marry and very likely have sons. Then the prophecy of the three crowns would not be fulfilled. And when I thought of the way in which he had behaved when I had lost my babies, I wanted him to suffer.

I heard him demanding: “Where is the physician? Why is he not attending the Princess?”

And I thought: he is indeed alarmed.

Anne Trelawny said: “The Prince is sending Dr. Drelincourt to

attend to you. The Prince has more faith in him than in any doctor in the country.”

I said: “He is worried—not for me, but for the crown.”

Anne said nothing, but I knew that she agreed with me.

I was young and did not want to die, even to spite William, and under Dr. Drelincourt I began to improve a little.