The Queen's Devotion: The Story of Queen Mary II (7 page)

She kept her word and I hastened to her. I found her a little baffled.

She said: “I told the King what I had done but it was not as I expected. He did not show anger at all. He just smiled in a rather absent way and talked of other things. I was overjoyed. My baby is a Catholic, even though she was born in this heretic land.”

“Do not be too sure of that,” I said. “There are people around us who could create mischief.”

The next day I was told that the baby was to be baptized in the Chapel Royal, according to the rites of the Church of England, of course, and one of the bishops would perform the ceremony.

I was astounded. Mary Beatrice had said the King had not seemed to hear what she had said.

“He did hear,” I assured her. “He is sweeping it aside, as he does anything that is unpleasant. He understands what you did. Most people would have been furious . . . banished you to the Tower. But the King does not act like that, so he brushes it aside as though it has not happened. But he will have his way all the same and Catherine Laura will be baptized in the Church of England.”

“But she is a Catholic!” Mary Beatrice was almost in tears. She was bewildered. She did not understand the ways of our court. The King, so charming . . . smiling, showing no signs of anger, had just swept aside her childish action. As far as he was concerned, it had never happened.

Soon after I heard that my sister Anne and I were to stand as sponsors and the Duke of Monmouth was to join us.

When it was over my father came to see me.

“The Duchess told you that there was a previous baptism,” he said.

“Yes,” I replied. “She did.”

He was frowning and staring before him. “The King has spoken to me very seriously,” he went on.

“The King behaved to the Duchess as though it were of no importance.”

“He understood her motive. ‘She is young,' he said, ‘and quite ignorant of the significance of her action. She is not to be blamed, but watched that she commits no more such follies.' If this were known, Gallis would be hanged and quartered. As for myself and the Duchess, he warned me that at least we should be sent away from court. No one must know that this ceremony took place. Please, never speak of it.”

I did understand. I was growing up fast. I saw that my father could be in danger.

I threw myself into his arms and clung to him.

“I promise, I promise,” I cried.

THE ORANGE MARRIAGE

Life had changed since we had been launched on the court. We were often in the company of the King. Both Anne and I looked forward to those occasions, for he treated us with great affection and lack of ceremony, as always the kindly uncle. How differently I see such relationships when I look back now!

In those days I thought all the affectionate words and actions meant he really cared for us. He did, of course, in his lighthearted way, but I know now what his main aim was. We were in his care. We were good little Protestants. We were in line to the throne and my uncle wanted the people to know that, although he himself could not provide them with a Protestant heir, he would make sure that, in spite of his brother's love affair with the Catholic Church, those who followed him to the throne should be of the approved religion.

Although I know now how this matter was always there in our lives, I did not understand then how very important it was and how it would shape my life.

So we were now at court, and I must say we were finding the experience delightful. We were treated with the utmost respect wherever we went. Lady Frances was almost deferential at times. Elizabeth Villiers was wary, and so was Sarah Jennings. She and Anne were inseparable, in spite of Anne's passion for Frances Apsley. It was Sarah who was Anne's
alter ego.

I continued to write to Frances and to see her when I could on Sundays and Holy Days; and both Anne and I discovered a pastime which we found fascinating. This was cards. How we enjoyed them! The excitement of picking up the cards to see what had been dealt to us, eagerly scanning them, deciding how we should play them—it absorbed us.

In fact, we became so addicted to the cards that there was criticism of us.

Margaret Blague thought it was sinful and, like all good people, did not stop herself from letting us know it.

“What harm does it do anyone?” I asked.

“It could harm the players,” she insisted. “It is gambling and that should not be indulged in—especially on Sundays.”

Margaret was very puritanical. She would have been happier under Oliver Cromwell, I thought. Hadn't she believed that playacting was sinful?

My tutor, Dr. Lake, brought up the subject one day.

He said: “It has been noticed that you and the Lady Anne are at the card table almost every evening.”

“It is a pastime we enjoy,” I replied. “What harm is there in it? Do you consider it to be a sin?”

“It is not exactly a sin, but I think Your Highness gives offense by indulging in it on the Sabbath. The people would not like it if they heard of it.”

I knew that we had to be constantly careful not to offend “the people,” and I could understand that there might be some of them who would not like us to play cards on Sundays.

“I will speak to my sister,” I said, “and we shall not play cards on Sundays.”

Dr. Lake looked a little placated and I was so relieved that he did not attempt to curtail card-playing during the week, for that was something neither of us could have agreed to.

Something very unfortunate happened at this time and, although it was proved to be just the mischief-making of a man of evil reputation, it was very disturbing while it lasted.

A Frenchman named Luzancy announced that the Duchess of York's confessor had visited him in his lodgings. This Luzancy had been born a Catholic and was a convert to Protestantism. The Roman Catholic priest, he alleged, had held a knife to his throat and threatened to kill him if he did not return to the Catholic faith.

There was nothing more likely to arouse the concern of the people. They would never forget the fires of Smithfield during the reign of that queen whom they called Bloody Mary. Then Protestant men and women had been burned to death for their religious opinions. They had heard gruesome stories of what had happened under the Spanish Inquisition. Never would they have that sort of thing in England.

We were back on the old theme which seemed to be running through my life, and which was soon to be brought home to me in the most significant manner possible. But I suppose this was the case with many people at that time. It certainly affected my father's life more than any.

The matter of Luzancy was taken so seriously that it was brought before the House of Commons and Lord William Russell, the ardent Protestant, who hated the French and deplored the licentiousness of the court, took the opportunity to bring in new laws against Catholics, and as a result no English subject might officiate as a papist priest in any chapel whatsoever.

This was a criticism not only of Mary Beatrice but the Queen herself, who had been subjected to suspicion since she came to the country.

Even when witnesses to Luzancy's criminal career in his native France were produced and he was completely discredited, this law persisted.

I believe that Mary Beatrice did not realize the extent of her unpopularity. She was very young and was beginning to grow fond of her husband, whom she found to be so gentle and kindly; she was very fond of her royal brother-in-law; and she had her baby.

What a tragedy it was that little Catherine Laura should only live ten months!

I talked to Anne Trelawny about it. I said: “It is so strange. The King has several children by women other than his wife, but the Queen cannot have one. And my father . . . well, he has only Anne and me, although he has had others . . .”

“And strong ones too,” Anne reminded me.

“Why is it, Anne? Do you think it is a judgment on them?”

I could see that Anne thought this might be so but was afraid to say so.

“Because,” I went on, “they are not faithful to their wives.”

I thought how sad it was, how difficult to understand. The King loved the Queen, but he loved others, too. And I was forced to admit that my father was like his brother in this respect.

I did not want to think of Arabella Churchill and people like that. But they existed and there were several of them.

We tried to comfort poor Mary Beatrice over the loss of little Catherine Laura. It was not easy. I heard it whispered that the little girl's death was an indication. It was going to be the King's story all over again. Illegitimate children were easy to come by for the royal brothers. It was only legitimate ones who were denied them.

It was very strange indeed and I was convinced that it was indeed a judgment on their immorality. I wondered why two of the most charming people I had ever met should be afflicted in this way.

There was no long period of mourning for Catherine Laura and it seemed to me that her death was quickly forgotten at court.

Perhaps because my uncle now shared the view that it was very possible that my father, like himself, would never get a legitimate son, he decided that Anne and I should be brought into prominence. We had achieved a little attention with our play and ballet and we went to the Lord Mayor's banquet and sat with the King and Queen that all might see us.

I was confirmed by Henry Compton, Bishop of London, to make it clear to all that I was not following my father's religion, and I believe this event was viewed with great satisfaction by the people. They cheered us enthusiastically. They always cheered the King. I had heard it said that, in spite of the immoral life he led, the people loved him more than any king since Edward IV, who was a little like him. Licentious indeed, tall as Charles and very handsome. My uncle could not be called that, but he had that overwhelming charm to make up for it.

I enjoyed being cheered and knowing that the people approved of me.

“There is nothing the people like more than a beautiful young girl,” said my uncle.

And that was very comforting.

So . . . life was changing. I loved Frances as dearly as ever. True, we only met on Sundays and Holy Days, and then in the company of others, but my great joy was writing to her and knowing that she was there. I wished sometimes that we could go off together and live quietly in a country cottage, surrounded by a garden full of beautiful flowers. I should want Anne Trelawny, of course, and my sister Anne—and she would not come without Sarah Jennings. And my father and Mary Beatrice must be there . . . and one or two more.

I laughed at myself. I was just living in an impossible dream.

Mary Beatrice was considerably comforted because she was pregnant again and in the August of the following year, only ten months after the death of little Catherine Laura, she gave birth to another daughter.

There was the usual disappointment over the sex of the child, but at least she seemed strong and Anne and I were delighted to have a stepsister. She was called Isabella after Mary Beatrice's great-grandmother.

Life seemed very good at that time and then came the bitter blow.

I was fifteen years of age in April of that year. I was so innocent in many ways. Life was good; I was surrounded by affection and I believed it would go on like that forever.

I knew there were trials, but I did not take them seriously. There was the continual harping on the religious theme. It kept cropping up, but I did not think it was any great concern of mine.

How wrong I was!

I knew there was trouble on the Continent. There was constant talk of wars and treaties. That had nothing to do with me, so I thought. The Dutch were our enemies, then the French were; then we were friends with this one or that. What had that to do with life at St. James's and Whitehall? A great deal, I was to discover.

And then one day we heard that the Prince of Orange was to pay a visit to the court.

I HAD HEARD THE NAME
of this Prince mentioned now and then—and more frequently of late. He was some kinsman of ours. His mother had been the eldest daughter of my grandfather, Charles the Martyr, so he was the nephew of the King and my father—and my cousin.

He had a Dutch father and I had been brought up to hate the Dutch, though I learned later that the people liked them better than they did the French. My father and the King had always preferred the French, but then they were half French themselves.

We had been at war with the Dutch, so therefore the Prince of Orange would have been our enemy—but enemies of yesterday were today's friends and it appeared that we were making treaties with the Dutch, and it was for this reason that Prince William of Orange was coming to England.

There was a certain amount of gossip about him among the girls of the household. He had visited Whitehall seven years or so before. I had hardly been aware of it, but the older girls like Elizabeth Villiers and Sarah Jennings remembered it very well.

“He caused some interest when he was here last,” commented Elizabeth.

“Notoriety,” added Sarah Jennings. “Such a virtuous young man he was. He was very serious.”

“And very religious,” added Elizabeth.

“Of course,” went on Sarah, “it was his aim to maintain the Protestant faith throughout Europe. He hated the French King because his aim was exactly the opposite.
He
wanted to crush the Protestants and make the whole continent Catholic. So you see how it was between them.”

“Some would have thought,” put in Anne Trelawny, “that, with all his might, Louis would have triumphed and soon silenced the Dutch.”

“Oh, but the Prince would not give in,” said Sarah. “He was determined and has the reputation of being a clever commander. His small country stood out against the French . . . and now here he is, talking peace with England.”

“Which the French won't like,” said Anne Villiers.

“But the people here will,” added Elizabeth. “They like the Prince . . . not for his charm . . . he is a little lacking in that . . . but because he is such a good religious man with ideas that appeal to the English. But in spite of his solemn ways, he caused a good deal of amusement on his last visit.”

“What did he do?” I asked.

Sarah and Elizabeth exchanged glances and laughed.

“It was really very funny,” said Sarah, “and they shouldn't have done it. But he was such a virtuous young man that the temptation was too strong. He must have been about twenty then. He did not drink . . . only schnapps, a sort of Holland gin; he liked to retire at ten o'clock, so that he could be at work early in the morning. You can imagine what the King and the courtiers thought of that! Virtue is a challenge to them—a fortress to be stormed and overcome. So they decided to have some fun with him.”

“They might have tried to be a little more like him,” I said.

“Oh, Lady Mary!” cried Anne Villiers. “You could surely not expect that!”

“I will tell you what they did,” added Sarah. “They took him to supper at the Duke of Buckingham's apartments, for they had this plan. They were going to make him very drunk and see what he would do.”

“Surely he would not allow that,” I suggested. “I thought he only drank that mild stuff they have in Holland and very little of that.”

“Ah, but he was not in Holland, was he, Lady Mary?” went on Sarah. “They filled up his glass with something very strong—he did not realize how strong—and even when they refilled his glass he did not realize what they were doing to him until it was too late.”