The Queen's Devotion: The Story of Queen Mary II (23 page)

“There is much dissatisfaction,” he said. “It has to be. He must be aware of that. Everywhere it is felt that he cannot go on.”

I shivered. Gilbert looked at me intently.

“I trust Your Highness is prepared.”

“There has been so much said of it,” I replied. “So many implications, I could not be unaware of the possibility of its happening.”

“If the King were deposed, Your Highness would be Queen of England—the Prince your consort.”

Now I saw where he was leading and I said: “The Prince would be beside me. We should stand together.”

“Not equally, Your Highness, unless you made it so.”

I was silent and he went on: “I wonder whether the Prince could take such a minor position. He is a man of action—a ruler.”

“He has a claim to the throne,” I said.

“There are others before him.”

“Anne,” I said. “Her children.”

“It would be in Your Highness's hands. If you were to declare the Prince King . . . it would have to come from you . . . your consent could elevate him from consort to King. As King he would rule beside you. And as you say, he has some right, but you would be the undoubted Queen by reason of inheritance. You would have to give your word that the Prince should be King and you the Queen, to rule together. Would you be prepared to do this?”

I felt a glow of pleasure. I said: “I would not want to rule without him. I should need him. He is my husband. I should be Queen but of a certainty William should be King.”

I could see how pleased Gilbert was and it occurred to me that he had wanted to say this for some time and was relieved that he had achieved the result he wanted. I guessed, too, that William had prompted him to discover my feelings in the matter.

I guessed that Burnet went straight to William and gave him my answer, for William changed toward me from then.

He was more affable; he talked to me of state matters and even showed some affection.

I was delighted and happier than I had been since the days of Jemmy's visit. I understand now that what had been between us was my greater claim to the throne. Now we were equal and, because he was a man, he believed he had the ascendancy over me.

Strangely enough, I did not resent this; I was so happy because of the change in our relationship.

I HEARD FREQUENTLY FROM MY SISTER
at this time. She seemed to be quite contented in her marriage and completely recovered from the loss of Lord Mulgrave. George of Denmark appeared to be a very amiable person; and she had Sarah Churchill, whom she had refused to relinquish, still with her.

Unfortunately Anne had taken a great dislike to our stepmother, which surprised me. The Mary Beatrice I had known had been such a pleasant person, very eager to be on good terms with the family she had inherited. Before I left England I had seen how fond she had grown of our father. She had realized she must accept his infidelities—and did we not all come to that state in time—and she took him for the good-hearted man he was.

What came between Mary Beatrice and Anne I could only guess was this matter of religion—as I feared had been the case with myself and my father.

Mary Beatrice was pregnant. This could be very significant, for if the baby were a boy he would be heir to the throne. I should be displaced, and it seemed certain that an attempt would be made to bring the boy up as a Catholic. It all came back to this perpetual factor.

But Anne was quite fierce in her denunciation. She had always loved gossip and to surround herself in her rather lethargic way with intrigue.

She wrote that “Mrs. Mansell” had gone to Bath and come back looking considerably larger. Mrs. Mansell was the name she had given to the Queen and our father was Mr. Mansell. She had a passion for giving people names. I imagined she felt it gave an anonymity to the information she was about to impart.

I knew and I supposed others did, that she had given names to herself and Sarah Churchill: Mrs. Morely was herself; Mrs. Freeman, Sarah Churchill; and although these two saw each other very frequently indeed, Anne still wrote notes to her dear Mrs. Freeman at every opportunity.

However, I was now told that “Mrs. Mansell” was making a great show of her pregnancy and that she looked very well indeed, although, in the past during such periods, she had looked decidedly wan.

Anne was implying, of course, that our stepmother was not really pregnant, but pretending to be so in order that in due course a baby might appear who was not in fact “a little Mansell” after all.

I think she was enjoying this and I was amazed when I remembered how my father had doted on her—almost as much as he had on me—and he had always tried to make us happy, as best he could, for I must not forget that our marriages were quite out of his hands.

We were, of course, all waiting for the birth of this all-important child, and Anne was not the only one who was suspicious.

Meanwhile Mary Beatrice grew larger.

“She is very big,” wrote Anne. “She looks well and I do think the
grossesse
of Mansell's wife is a little suspicious.”

She wrote that they had quarreled recently and “Mansell's wife,” in a fit of temper, had thrown a glove into Anne's face. Anne implied that the poor creature must be very anxious and she was wondering how they were going to produce this suppositious child. Anne would make sure that she was present at the birth, to see for herself.

I was sorry for Mary Beatrice. I could imagine how unhappy she must be. She would be worried about my father. Perhaps she could see more clearly where he was going than he could himself.

Again and again I tried to make excuses for him, but I could not get out of my mind those images of Jemmy pleading with him, of Jemmy on the block while they hacked so cruelly at his handsome head. But I still loved my father.

Then the day came and the news was out. The child was a boy. This could change everything. There was an heir to the throne. I had lost my place as successor. What of William? Was he regretting his marriage now?

The child's birth was indeed significant. It was the climax. It was that factor which made the people decide that my father must go.

The rumors were rife. Anne had not been at the birth after all. In spite of Mary Beatrice's
grossesse,
the baby had arrived a month before he was due.

Anne was at Bath taking the waters. Our father had persuaded her to go at that time, although the doctors had not advised it. It seemed that every action of my father and stepmother aroused suspicion. Anne implied that my father had urged her to go because he did not want her to be present at the birth.

Anne wrote; “Mrs. Mansell was brought to bed and in a short time a very pleasant-looking child was brought out of the bed and shown to the people.”

There was an absurd story in circulation about a baby's being brought into the bed in a warming pan to replace the one which my stepmother had born—or it might be that she had had no child at all, and had feigned pregnancy and waited for the healthy baby to be brought in by way of the warming pan. It was a wildly unlikely story and the fact was that the people did not want to believe that the child was the King's.

They had made up their minds that my father must go.

ANNE'S LETTERS CONTINUED TO ARRIVE
. They chiefly concerned the baby.

“My dear sister cannot imagine the concern and vexation I have been in that I should have been so unfortunate as to be out of town when the Queen was brought to bed, for I shall never have the satisfaction of knowing whether the child be true or false. It may be our brother, but God knows . . .”

I reread the letter. Could she really believe our father would be guilty of such fraud? I could not, yet I wanted to. I was ashamed, but I wanted it to be right for William—and myself—to have the crown William looked upon as his and had done so all his life because of the midwife's vision. As for myself, I wanted it for him, for if he did not get it his marriage to me would be a perpetual disappointment to him. There was another reason: I was now fully convinced that Catholicism must never come to England. There was only one way to prevent it and that was to take the crown from my father.

Anne had turned against him, for the same reason I imagined. Why did she dislike our stepmother so? I wanted to believe this story of the warming pan although I knew it must be false.

Anne could never have written so many letters before. I wondered if Sarah Churchill encouraged her to write. I believe that Sarah's husband—who was becoming a power in the army—was William's friend. And Anne continued to write of her doubts about the baby.

“After all, it is possible that it may be her child,” she wrote, “but where one believes it, a thousand do not. For my part, I shall ever be one of the unbelievers.”

And later she wrote with a certain triumph: “The Prince of Wales has been ill these three or four days and has been so bad that many people say it will not be long before he is an angel in heaven.”

I could not stop thinking of my father and stepmother and wondering how much they were aware of what was going on.

More and more people were coming from England to the court of The Hague. They were the miscontents who were waiting for the day when William would sail across the sea to take the crown.

The little Prince did not die. He recovered and there was a great deal of activity; more arrivals, secret discussions and throughout Holland men were busy in the camps and dockyards. It was obvious that great events were about to take place.

I heard then from my father. I think he found it hard to believe that I could ever be with those who worked against him.

He wrote: “All the discourse here is about the preparations which are being made in Holland and what the fleet which is coming out from there plans to do. Time will show. I cannot believe that you are acquainted with the resolution the Prince of Orange has taken and which alarms people here very much. I heard that you have been in Dieran and that the Prince has sent for you to tell you no doubt of his coming invasion of this country. I hope it will have been a surprise to you, being sure it is not in your nature to approve of such an unjust undertaking.”

I could scarcely bear to read that letter. I kept seeing us together all those years ago. A little child of three or four years, waiting for his coming, being picked up in his arms and set on his shoulder, while he talked to his captains, rather naively asking for compliments to be paid to his wonderful daughter. That was the father I had loved so much. And now here he was . . . surrounded by his enemies.

There were more visitors from England, eager to take part in William's expedition. They brought messages urging him to act. William was believing that, instead of a defending army, he would find a welcome.

The fleet was being made ready. Just off the coast were fifty men-of-war and several hundred transports. The climax was coming nearer and nearer and I could see there was no escape from it. I had hoped that there would be some compromise. Perhaps my father would give up his faith. No, that would never happen. Perhaps he would abdicate. That would be the wise thing to do.

I could not bear to contemplate his being at war with William.

He wrote to me, reproaching me for not writing to him.

“I can only believe you must be embarrassed to write to me now that the unjust design of the Prince of Orange's invading me is so public. Although I know you are a good wife, and ought to be so, for the same reason I must believe that you will be still as good a daughter to a father who has always loved you tenderly, and who has never done the least thing to make you doubt it. I shall say no more and believe you very uneasy for the concern you must have for a husband and father.”

I wept over the letter. I have always kept it. I was to read it often in the years to come.

And now the time was near. William was with me the night before he was due to sail. Ever since I had told Gilbert Burnet that if I were Queen of England William should be King and there would be no question of his remaining a mere consort, his manner had changed toward me. He talked with me more seriously; he even discussed plans with me on one occasion. I did not ask about Elizabeth Villiers. I was afraid to do so because I knew he was still her lover. She no longer lived in her sister's house but had returned to court and no reference was ever made to the undelivered letter and the manner in which she had returned to Holland, but I had caught her watching me on one or two occasions, a little superciliously, as though to say: do not try your childish tricks on me again, Madam. Rest assured that I shall find a way to outwit you.

In my heart I knew she would, and I was glad the matter was ignored; but I was deeply jealous of her. If she had been beautiful, I could have understood it, but she was a mystery to me—as William was.

It did occur to me that I might have said, give up Elizabeth Villiers and I will make you King of England. Continue with her and remain my consort.

I wondered what his response would have been. I could imagine his cold eyes assessing me, but I could not bargain in such a way.

I had to give freely and for that he was undoubtedly grateful. It had brought him closer to me than any bargaining would have done.

He was really affectionate that night before he embarked for England. We supped together and retired early. He was to leave next day for the Palace of Hounslaerdyke and then go on to Brill where he would embark.

He spoke to me very gravely and with more feeling than he had ever shown before.

He said: “I hope that there will be little opposition when I land. I have been sent invitations to come from all sides. It is clear that the people of England have decided they will not continue with the King. He has shown his intentions too clearly. But, of course, there will be some who stand beside him.”

“You mean there will be fighting.”

“It is possible. It may be God's will. How can one be sure? And if I should not return, it will be imperative that you marry again.”