The Queen's Devotion: The Story of Queen Mary II (6 page)

A search was made but the diamond was not to be found. It would be easy for someone to pick it up and pocket it. Who would be the wiser?

“Eighty pounds,” mourned Margaret. “I am not rich enough to pay Lady Frances such a sum.”

“She will not ask for it,” I comforted her.

“But I must pay it nonetheless. Otherwise how will she know that
I
have not stolen it?”

“No one could possibly suspect
you
of that.”

“There will be some,” insisted Margaret. “And how can I be happy again knowing that I have lost this valuable jewel?”

It was true. If the diamond were not found, Margaret would remember it all her life.

I could not stop thinking of her. The incident had put a blight on what should have been a happy evening.

My father noticed my preoccupation. He had come to us full of enthusiasm.

“Calisto! Nymphe! My clever little girls,” he cried. “You were enchanting. I was so proud of you both. We shall have Davenant wanting you to join his players.”

“It was Mrs. Betterton who helped us,” said Anne.

“Ah, she is a great actress and a charming lady, too.”

“She made us say our lines again and again, didn't she, Mary?”

“Yes, she did.”

“What ails you, daughter?” asked my father. “Is something wrong? You cannot hide your feelings from me, you know. Come. Tell me.”

“It is poor Margaret Blague.”

“What of her?”

“She has lost Lady Frances's diamond and is very frightened. She did not want to act in the first place, nor did she want to borrow the diamond.”

My father grimaced. “A little puritan, eh?”

“She is really very good and now so unhappy because she thinks losing the diamond is some judgment on her for playing when she knew she should not do so.”

“These puritans can be something of a trial . . . as we found to our cost. Tell her not to worry. Doubtless the jewel will be found. If it is not . . . then it is lost.”

“She says she must pay for it and she cannot because she is not rich.”

“And that worries my tenderhearted little daughter?”

“I like her. She is very pretty and she looks unhappy now.”

“And you cannot be happy and enjoy your triumph while poor Margaret grieves.”

He understood, as he always had.

“Well,” he said, “I refuse to have my daughter sad on such an occasion. I tell you what shall be done. I shall provide the eighty pounds, so that Margaret Blague can take it along to Lady Frances and so forget about the matter. How is that?”

I looked at him with adoration. He was indeed the best and kindest man in the world.

“So you are happy now you have this matter settled?” he asked.

“I am happy,” I said, “to have the most wonderful father in the world.”

ANNE HAD BEEN SO EXCITED
by the performance that she wanted to do more. She had liked Mrs. Betterton so much that she had wanted to keep her at court. Of course, she was indulged in this matter and there was to be another play with a bigger part for Anne. We were all so pleased to see her enthusiasm. Good-tempered, good-natured as she always was, she was rarely excited about anything, so it was unusual to see her working on her lines with energy and real enjoyment. This was for the play
Mithridate,
and Anne was to have the part of Semandra.

Mr. Betterton was also at court and he was coaching the young men in their parts.

Anne had discovered my passion for Frances Apsley. She knew about the letters we exchanged and that Frances was Aurelia and I Clorine. She did what was typical of her; she decided she must have a passionate friendship. I had Frances and, as there was no one to compare with my choice in Anne's opinion, she must have Frances too.

After all, sentimental friendships were the fashion. So many young women indulged in them and they were generally conducted by letters.

This had nothing to do with her allegiance to Sarah Jennings, any more than mine had toward Anne Trelawny. They were our true friends, our everyday friends. This was different. The object of our devotion in this case was an ideal being, a goddess to be worshipped.

I had found the goddess and she must be Anne's too.

I often wonder now what Frances thought of our outpourings. When I remember some of the impassioned words I wrote I can smile at my innocence. It did not occur to me at the time that others might think it was not exactly a healthy state of affairs.

However, Anne was soon corresponding with Frances in the same manner. Frances humored her, as I expect she did me. We were the daughters of the Duke of York, heir to the throne, and if there was no son, I was second in line to the throne, Anne third. That had to be a consideration.

Not only was Anne writing to Frances—an example of her devotion and her determination to imitate me, for writing was an occupation she had hitherto avoided and I could imagine what those letters were like—but they must have their private names, as Frances and I had. So Frances was Semandra—from the play, of course—and Anne was Ziphares, another character from it.

It may have been this unusual activity on Anne's part that attracted Lady Frances's attention, and she may have felt that she should know what was going on. We were, after all, in her charge. She was especially watchful.

It happened that Richard Gibson, the dwarf, whom we often used as a courier, was away. Sarah Jennings, who was fully aware of the passion Anne and I shared for Frances Apsley, and no doubt laughed at it and clearly considered it no impediment to her domination over Anne, agreed to take the letters while Richard Gibson was absent. Thus, I supposed, she could keep a close check on Anne and share her confidences about what she would consider to be a silly and by no means a permanent arrangement.

One day, when I was having my dancing lesson with Mr. Gorey, our dancing master, Anne was in her closet, writing to Frances—never an easy task for Anne—and before she had time to finish her letter she was called to have her dancing lesson.

She did not want to leave the letter unsealed, so she took it with her to the class and, as my lesson had just finished, she gave it to me, whispering that I might be good enough to seal hers with mine and that Sarah had promised to take them both to Frances.

I went back to my closet and there wrote my letter to Frances, but just as I was finishing, Sarah Jennings came in.

“I shall have to go now,” she said. “So I will take the letters.”

“My sister's is not yet sealed. Will you please seal it for her while I do mine?”

As I gave her the letter, Lady Frances came in and I had a notion that she might have heard some of the conversation.

I felt my face grow scarlet. Suppose she asked to see the letter? I could not bear to think of those cool eyes reading the impassioned words. She would not understand at all and they would seem quite foolish to such a practical person. I had called Frances my husband and I was her adoring wife.

Sarah was calm enough. In any case, she had nothing to fear. She was just standing there with Anne's letter in her hand.

As Lady Frances came into the closet, I was so embarrassed. I stammered something about my new gown and asked how she liked it. I turned to the cupboard and opened it so that my back was toward her and she could not see my flushed face.

Lady Frances said: “My Lady Mary, what were you doing in your closet before I came in?”

Sarah stood there with an air of nonchalance, Anne's letter still in her hand.

“I . . . had called in Mrs. Jennings to show me a new way of sealing a letter,” I said.

Lady Frances looked at the letter in Sarah's hand and there was a slight pause before she said: “Mrs. Jennings is very ingenious with such things.”

There was an awkward silence and then she left us.

Sarah shrugged her shoulders. “Let us seal the letters,” she said, “and I will take them to Mrs. Apsley without delay.”

After that I fancied Lady Frances was very watchful and when next I wrote and Richard Gibson was still away and Sarah was unable to deliver the letter, I summoned one of the footmen and asked him to take it, in spite of the fact that Frances had warned me not to send letters unless it was by someone whom I could trust.

I was sure then that Lady Frances was watching us closely, for that letter fell into her hands.

I was horrified when she came to my closet and said that she wanted to talk to me. She was very respectful, as always, but her mouth was set in stern lines and I saw that she was determined to do what she considered her duty.

She said: “You have been corresponding with Mistress Apsley.” She held up the letter which I had given to the footman. She must have ordered him to give it to her.

“You . . . have read it?” I gasped.

“Lady Mary, your father has put me in charge of this household. It is therefore my duty to know what goes on in it.”

I was trying to think what I had written in that letter. I was always in a state of high emotion while I wrote them, words flowed out and I was never sure half an hour afterward what I had said except that all the letters contained pledges of my constant love.

Then I remembered that I had mentioned something about the scandal concerning the Duke of Monmouth and Eleanor Needham and that the Duchess of Monmouth had taken the matter mightily to heart.

That had been indiscreet, of course, and I should not have referred to it. Nor should I, if I had thought anyone was going to read it other than Frances. I was rather proud of my eloquence and I remembered the end. “I love you with a love that never was known by man. I have for you more excess of friendship than any woman can for woman and more love than even the most constant husband had for his wife, more than can be expressed by your ever obedient wife and humble servant who wishes to kiss the ground where you walk, to be your dog on a string, your fish in a net, your bird in a cage, your humble trout. Mary Clorine.”

I had been so proud of those words when I wrote them; now I blushed to remember them.

Lady Frances was looking at me very strangely. I noticed an uncertainty in her eyes. I had realized that she was not sure how to act.

She began: “His Grace, your father . . .” Then she shook her head; her lips moved as though she were talking to herself.

“It is a very excessive friendship,” she said at length. “I think it would be better if we did not speak of it. And the Lady Anne . . . ?”

“My sister writes to Mistress Apsley because I do,” I said.

“I must ponder this matter,” she said, as though to herself.

“I do not understand. Is it not good to have friends . . . to love?”

“Perhaps it would be well if you did not meet for a while.”

“Not meet?”

“And not . . . write such letters.”

“I do not understand . . .”

“No,” said Lady Frances briskly. “I am sure you do not.”

“Not to see her . . .” I murmured blankly.

“I think you might meet, say on Sundays. You will be in the company of others then. And perhaps on Holy Days.”

I stared at her in dismay. I had been in the habit of taking any opportunity I could to be with Frances.

I said: “Lady Frances, you have my letter.”

She looked at me with caution in her eyes. I knew that she was eager not to displease me. It was a fact that my stepmother was pregnant, but who could be sure what the result of the pregnancy would be? And if the situation did not change, Lady Frances might be at this moment earning the deep resentment of the future Queen of England.

“We will forget this matter,” she said slowly. “I think, my Lady Mary, it would be well if we were a little discreet.”

She was smiling at me. Gravely I took the letter from her and she left me.

IT WAS A BLEAK JANUARY DAY
in the year of 1675. I would soon be thirteen years old. My father had been very disappointed because, instead of the hoped-for boy, Mary Beatrice had produced a girl. He tried not to show it and declared that he was very happy with our little sister.

I found Mary Beatrice in excellent spirits. She confided to me that she wanted the child to be baptized in the Catholic faith and she was afraid there would be some opposition to that.

“Your father desires it, too,” she said. “And I am going to be very bold. I shall command Father Gallis to baptize the baby before anyone else can do anything about it.”

In view of the conflict which was growing over this matter of the Catholic faith, I thought this was a very daring thing to do. I knew that my father was very sad because Anne and I were being brought up as Protestants, and he only accepted this because if he had attempted to stop it we should have been taken away from him altogether and he would probably have been sent away from court.

I was amazed that the usually meek Mary Beatrice could be so bold; but I was learning that people will do a great deal for their faith.

It was no use trying to dissuade her, and Father Gallis baptized little Catherine Laura. The name Catherine was given to the baby in honor of the Queen and she was Laura after Mary Beatrice's mother.

Mary Beatrice had no qualms about what she had done. I supposed this was due to the fact that, whatever misdemeanor she committed at court was of no importance because she had done right in the sight of Heaven.

However, she did seem a little subdued when she told me, a few days later, that the King had announced his intention of coming to St. James's to discuss the baptism with her.

I was horrified.

“The King will be angry,” I said. “You have been very bold. It is not that he will care very much. He is careless about such matters. But you have to remember that the people are not very pleased.”

She held her head high, but I could see that she was apprehensive. I begged her to tell me quickly what the King said when he came. I felt she had gone too far, even for his good humor.