The Queen's Favourites aka Courting Her Highness (v5) (56 page)

Abigail was back
at Court after her brief convalescence. And the Queen was delighted to have her.

“Dear Masham, so you have a boy and a girl now. How fortunate you are.”

Abigail sat at the Queen’s feet while they talked of children. Anne went sadly over the childhood of her boy, how precocious he had been, how precious. Abigail had heard all before and while she listened she was wondering when the Queen would reward her for her services and give her the title she needed that it might be passed on to her son.

If only Samuel were a little adventurous. He was a good soldier. Brigadier-General now, and Member for Ilchester. But he lacked all the qualities of a leader. As for my lord Oxford; he was growing farther and farther from her; but as he grew farther away, Henry St. John came nearer.

St. John was different from Oxford—less complicated. Something of a rake still, he had been notorious in his youth for his extravagance and dissipation. He had been a disciple of Oxford’s, but was he just a little piqued now by Oxford’s great and undeserved popularity over the Guiscard affair? Did he feel that Oxford was neglecting his old friends now he was secure in his position?

Abigail intended to discover—very discreetly. It might be that she and Henry St. John could work in unison as once she had worked with Robert Harley.

It was St. John who told her that Marlborough was sounding Hanover. The Queen was middle-aged; she was constantly ill. Each year she became slightly more incapacitated. If she were to die and there was a Hanoverian succession which the Marlboroughs had helped to bring about, it would go ill with the Marlboroughs’ enemies.

St. John smiled roguishly at Abigail. “And we all know whom the Marlboroughs consider their first enemy: You, my dear lady.”

Abigail was uneasy. To contemplate the death of the Queen was a nightmare. All blessings flowed from the royal invalid; and so far, she had nothing which she could pass on to her family.

“It is no use our looking to Hanover,” said St. John.

“In that case we must look in the opposite direction,” replied Abigail.

“St. Germains,” whispered St. John.

The Queen was
in tears. News had been brought to her that her uncle Lord Rochester was dead. She sent for Masham to comfort her.

“We were not on good terms, Masham, and that makes it so much more tragic. How I regret the quarrels and discord in my family!”

“Your Majesty has always acted with the greatest goodness,” Abigail replied.

“Oh but the troubles, Masham … the troubles! When I think of my poor father and what we did to him sometimes I think I shall die of shame.”

“Your Majesty did what you believed to be right. He was a Catholic and the people of England would not tolerate a Catholic on the throne.”

“It haunts me, Masham. It still does, and I know that it haunted my poor sister Mary. Why when she died we were not on good terms.”

“I believe Lady Marlborough made great trouble between you.”

“She did. And my dear sister implored me to rid myself of her. If I had but listened! But I was blind then, Masham … quite blind.”

“Your Majesty is free of her now.”

“Yes, and I thank God. But I think of the past, Masham. Now that I am getting old and am so often ill and infirm I think the more.”

“I understand, Your Majesty. That young man at St. Germains is after all your half brother.”

“I often think of him, Masham, and wish that I could put everything in order.”

“Your Majesty means by fixing the succession on him?”

The Queen caught her breath. “I had not gone so far as that.”

“But it is on your mind and it would comfort Your Majesty if you considered this matter … explored this matter …”

“I should not wish him to be brought to England while I lived.”

“No, no, Your Majesty. I thought perhaps you meant you would prefer him to succeed you—which I pray and trust will not be for many years for I do not wish to be here to see it—rather than the Germans.”

“I have no great love of the Germans, Masham. And he is my brother.”

“Your Majesty should talk this over with ministers you trust.”

“Dear Lord Oxford! But the boy would have to change his religion. We cannot have papists in England, Masham. The people would not accept it … and I should not wish it. We should have to communicate with my brother. We should have to impress upon him the need to change his religion. My father would not change … although he saw disaster all about him. I wonder if his son is as obstinate.”

“It may be that Your Majesty may wish to find out.”

The Queen was thoughtful; so was Abigail. The Hanoverian succession must be prevented if she were to remain at Court after the Queen’s death for it seemed that the Marlboroughs were taking their stand with the Germans.

It was not
possible to live perpetually in the glory of a penknife wound and Lord Oxford was facing difficulties in the party. Among the Tories were many Jacobites and since the Queen’s half brother had intimated that he preferred his religion to the throne of England the plot to place him next in succession had foundered. Marlborough was still powerful and firmly set against peace; he had his adherents.

The Tory party lacked a majority in the Lords and the only way this could be remedied was by creating new peers. Here was where Abigail could be useful in persuading the Queen. She would do it, Oxford knew, for an adequate reward. It was time she ceased to be plain Mrs.

Samuel Masham was among the twelve peers created to swell the Tory Majority in the Lords. Abigail was secretly delighted.

Lady Masham now; she had come far from the backstairs quarters in Lady Rivers’ House! She would like to see any of the Churchills look down on her now as the poor relation!

For a short while she was friendly with Oxford, but that passed. He was only interested in his own affairs; she noticed that since his elevation to rank and position he was becoming more and more careless in his dress and manners.

Let him. She would not warn him. Meanwhile her friendship with Henry St. John was rapidly growing. Lightly they criticized their one-time friend; but there was a gleam of understanding in their eyes.

Oxford was a fool. He was growing careless.

Oxford sat with
the Queen. She enjoyed these
têtes-à-têtes
with her new minister as she had the old ones with dear Mr. Montgomery and Mr. Freeman.

He talked to her frankly and intelligently and as he was what she called so right-thinking on matters of Church and State, she was well pleased with her minister.

When he pointed out that there would never be an effective peace while the Duke of Marlborough was such a power in the country and on the Continent, she believed him, for the Duke, being such a brilliant soldier, had naturally hoped for war.

One day Oxford came to her in a state of excitement which he hid under an expression of gravity.

He had ill news, he told her. He had heard from reliable sources that the Duke of Marlborough had amassed a great fortune through ill practices.

“What practices?” asked Anne in alarm.

“Peculation, Madam. He made a fortune of sixty thousand pounds on bread contracts alone during his service in the Army. I have been questioning Sir Solomon Medina who controls the bread supplies to the Army and he reluctantly admitted that he paid the Duke six thousand pounds a year as a bribe to obtain the army contracts. This is not his only sin, Madam. In fact the Duke of Marlborough must be one of the richest men in the kingdom. We might ask ourselves how he became rich. Both he and his Duchess had means of filling the family coffers and these means, although highly successful, could be put under the unpleasant name of peculation.”

“I will not have the Duchess charged,” said Anne quickly, remembering Sarah’s threat to publish her letters.

“The Duchess’s case is over,” said Oxford, “but not that of the Duke.”

In Windsor Lodge
Lord Godolphin was dying. Sarah had nursed him, ruling the sick room as imperiously as she had once ruled the Queen’s Court.

Times had changed. They had too many enemies. And she knew that a Government intent in making peace was determined to disgrace one who would stand against that peace.

Poor Godolphin! But perhaps he was fortunate for he would not have to stay and fight his way back to power. There he lay on his bed oblivious to all that was happening about them—an old man now; yet it did not seem so long ago that they had all laid plans together.

She left the bedchamber, for she heard sounds of arrival. John had come to Windsor.

She ran into his embrace but she knew before he spoke, that the worst had happened. He had lost. He was disgraced. He was discredited.

They were silent as they clung together. She was thinking bitterly of her own violent nature which had brought them to this; he was blaming his avarice. He loved money for its own sake; he loved it as much as he loved fame and power—almost as much as he loved Sarah.

He had amassed great wealth—not always by fair means. He had founded his fortune on a gift of five thousand pounds given to him by an ageing woman whose lover he had been. He had never been particular as to how he found money. All that had mattered was that it came to him.

Now he was exposed. The man who had used the war to enrich himself! All the arrangements with suppliers, all the bribes and golden rewards—nothing could take away the glory of Blenheim and the rest. But none the less the Queen had dismissed him; he was a ruined man.

“There is nothing left for us in England while this Queen lives, Sarah,” he said.

She looked at him in fear. “You are going away, John?”

He nodded, but she shook her head violently.

“You will be with me,” he assured her. Then his eyes brightened. “As long as this Queen lives we shall be in exile … but she will not live forever.”

“And then!”

“George of Hanover will be George I of England. I fancy he will have a use for our services.”

“So, it is a game of patience,” she said.

“Never your greatest gift, my dearest.”