Courting Her Highness

by Jean Plaidy

  Anything, thought Sarah, rather than send the fat creature off on to that minister refrain.

  “I will speak to him,” said Sarah.

  “One cannot be held responsible for one’s relatives,” Anne reminded her. “I know how grieved you were when Sunderland voted against the Prince’s Bill. I believe he was one of its greatest opponents. And my poor George suffering so with his asthma … fighting for his breath, and Sunderland working up feelings about him in the Lords. I remember thinking at the time: And this Sunderland is my dear Mrs. Freeman’s son-in-law. I shall never like that man again … but it does not make me any less fond of my dearest Mrs. Freeman. Nothing could change my affection for her.”

  “I shall speak to Godolphin; I shall write to Mr. Freeman. If these Tory peers are going to take their places in the Lords then there must be at least one new Whig peer.”

  “It is really a matter for the ministers.”

  Infuriating old fool! thought Sarah. It is time I was back.

  She had bullied Godolphin who could never stand up to her; she had written to Marlborough. They both advised caution. But when had Sarah ever been cautious? She was beginning to realize that she had been foolish to shut herself away from affairs. Marl was a genius, but he was not so perceptive as she was, and Godolphin was too timid. Neither of them—Tories that they were—had grasped the fact that they needed the support of the Whigs if they were going to carry on the war because the Whigs represented the commerce and finance of the country.

  Sarah was fiercely on the side of those who wanted to throw out the Occasional Conformity Bill and although Anne supported it she was determined to bring the Queen to her way of thinking.

  In this she would have Prince George on her side for he, when he had been appointed Lord High Admiral of England, had been obliged to take the Sacrament according to the rites of the Church of England and afterwards continued to worship at the Lutheran Chapel which he had attended all his life. It was therefore absurd for George to have voted for the Bill; nor would he have done so had not Anne insisted that he did.

  The old fool, thought Sarah. Too good-natured so say no, too anxious to please his dear angel, and too fat and lazy to discuss the matter with her.

  Anne had to see Sarah’s point of view and Sarah was going to bring all her powers of persuasion to making her.

  But first she intended to have her Whig peer and she had selected a certain John Hervey for the honour.

  The Queen bleated that it was a matter for the ministers until Sarah’s fury could no longer be controlled.

  “Unless Mr. Hervey is elevated to the peerage I shall leave Court and never set foot in it again!”

  The Queen was distressed; Godolphin was shocked; Marlborough, deeply engaged in military operations, was horrified.

  Thre was only one outcome. John Hervey became Lord Hervey and Sarah bowed her head in acknowledgment of victory.

  Sarah was delighted when the Bill went through the Lords and emerged with an amendment which the House of Commons must surely reject.

  She felt elated by her victory—for small though it was, it proved her to be a power.

  It is time I came back, she told herself.

  Sarah sent for Abigail Hill.

  “You have done well while I have been away,” she said. “That flibbertigibbit sister of yours will have to mend her ways though.”

  “I trust Alice has done nothing go displease your Grace.”

  “Displease me,” cried Sarah. “I should quickly box her ears if she did. I should remind her that I took her from a broom—as I told you—and made her laundress in the household of his Grace of Gloucester. And now she had her pension and her place here—all due to me. I find her idle and scarcely worth her salt. She gossips too much.”

  “I will tell her of Your Grace’s displeasure.”

  “And that brother of yours.”

  “Jack!”

  “Jack indeed. He has been importuning the Duke for a place in the Army, if you please.”

  “Oh, it is too much,” said Abigail, lowering her eyes and folding her hands together.

  Sarah watched her with gratification. Abigail Hill had not disappointed her, although she had carried no tales. Perhaps Danvers and the rest took care what they said in front of the girl, knowing her relationship to the Marlboroughs and realizing of course that she would lose no time in reporting all she heard. There was no doubt about it—she was a good influence in the Queen’s apartment.

  “Never mind, never mind. Although it would have been better if the boy had come to me. The Duke has much with which to occupy himself.”

  “As has your Grace.”

  “That’s true enough. I only have to turn my back and we have bodice-makers given grand titles. We’ll be hearing that grooms are being turned into noble Dukes next. And then, if you please, we have to show our piety by touching for the King’s Evil. Medieval, I call it. You should have told me what was going on.”

  Abigail looked contrite. “Your Grace, I knew that you were in mourning.…”

  “It’s of no account. Well, now I am here and I shall see that all goes smoothly and as it should. I believe the Queen has been pleased with you. You have looked to her comfort without intruding. That’s being a good servant. I am going to reward you.”

  “Your Grace is so good.”

  “My youngest daughter is with me. I did not care to leave her at St. Albans now that her sister is married and her brother … gone. So I have brought her with me. I want you to keep an eye on her. It means that you will accompany us perhaps to the opera or to the play. You will watch my daughter and make sure no harm befalls her.”

  “And the Queen …” Abigail was terrified for the moment. Did this mean that she was going to be taken from Anne’s service? She could not have endured that. She pictured herself going to the Queen, throwing herself on her knees and demanding to be kept.

  But Sarah went on impatiently: “Certainly not. The Queen would not wish to lose you. You have proved yourself a good chambermaid. This will be in the nature of a little treat for your good services.”

  A treat! A duenna for the hot-tempered Mary who was too like her mother for comfort. She hoped that Anne would soon ask for her to resume her duties.

  Anne said fretfully: “And where is Hill?”

  “Your Majesty,” said Mrs. Danvers, “the Duchess said she was taking her to the opera.”

  “The opera! Hill! But how very strange.”

  “Yes, Your Majesty. It is strange that the Duchess should take the chambermaid to the opera.”

  “Danvers, I should like you to bathe my feet. They are very swollen today. Oh dear, how I should love to go to the opera, but frankly, Danvers, I do not care to be carried there … and that is how it would have to be. I do believe my gout has been worse these last days. Hill had such soothing hands.”

  Mrs. Danvers brought the bowl and bathed the royal feet.

  There was not the magic in her hands that was in Hill’s. She closed her eyes. How tiring it had been this afternoon. Dinner at three of the clock had made George as sleepy as usual; and he had slept away that pleasant hour or two which she usually so enjoyed in her beloved green closet. It was Hill’s duty to sit at the tea table and pour the tea—she had rather pretty white hands. Her only beauty, poor Hill! Anne looked at her own. We have that in common, she thought. Poor Hill! So thin and plain. But such pretty hands and such a touch on the harpsichord, and her imitations were really amusing. They made George laugh. How she enjoyed seeing him amused—although not too much, for it could bring on the asthma. Hill had never done that. She was so discreet. If she saw it coming on—and she would be watchful—she would stop.

  Such pleasant afternoons! And that nice page, Samuel Masham, usually accompanied the Prince. He looked a little glum this afternoon. In fact they were all glum—except the Prince, who was quickly asleep.

  “We missed Abigail Hill,” said Anne to herself, with a little jolt of surprise. “All of us. Even Ge
orge. I am sure he didn’t sleep quite so comfortably.”

  And now Sarah had swooped on Abigail Hill and carried her off to the opera. Suppose Sarah should discover the charm of Abigail Hill. Suppose she carried her off to St. Albans. Then she would never want to lose her. Anne’s face grew long. She pictured them together—handsome flamboyant Sarah and quite indispensable Abigail Hill.

  Her feet felt limp and only half dry.

  “Danvers …” she began. But what was the use? It was only Abigail who could bring comfort to her poor aching feet.

  Abigail … and Sarah! Together. And she confined to her couch or her chair with her dropsy and her gout. How she would enjoy being at the opera, listening to Sarah’s wit and with Hill close by to see to her wants.

  Danvers was awaiting her command.

  “Bring me writing materials. I want to write to the Duchess of Marlborough.”

  While Danvers was obeying her she thought of Sarah who had been absent from her for several days and had not written. Sarah was always remiss in her correspondence; Anne had constantly to be reminding her to write. And now of course she would have less time than usual, since she had discovered the virtues of Abigail Hill.

  “Dear Mrs. Freeman hates writing so much I fear, though she should stay away two or three days, she would hardly let me hear from her, and therefore for my own sake I must write her a line or two. I fancy now you are in Town you will be tempted to see the Opera, which I should not wonder at, for I should be so too if I were able to stir, but when that will be God knows, for I am still so lame I cannot go without limping. I hope Mrs. Freeman has no thoughts of going to the Opera with Mrs. Hill and will have a care of engaging herself too much in her company, for if you give way to that it is a thing which will insensibly grow upon you. Therefore give me leave once more to beg for your sake, as well as poor Mrs. Morley’s, that you would have as little to do with that enchantress as ’tis possible, and pray pardon me for saying it.

  Your poor unfortunate Morley.”

  She sent for Danvers to seal the letter and see that it was delivered. And afterwards when she sat dozing in her chair she thought: That was a strange letter I wrote to Mrs. Freeman. I wonder why I wrote it. Yet there is truth in it, little Abigail Hill is an enchantress of sorts. One does not notice her when she is there, but when she is away, how one misses her!

  “Danvers.”

  “Your Majesty.”

  “When Hill returns please tell her that she is taking too much leave of absence.”

  “Yes, Your Majesty.”

  “And send her to me … as soon as she comes.”

  The Duchess of Marlborough was with her daughter Mary when the Queen’s letter was delivered to her. Mary sat sullenly watching her mother while she opened the letter.

  The young girl’s blue eyes were fretful, her mouth—so like Sarah’s—was petulant. She was longing to return to St. Albans. He would be waiting for her. She would slip out in the evening and they would plan the future. Perhaps they would have to elope for it was certain that Mamma would never allow one of her daughters to marry a simple country gentleman. And that was all he was, even though he was the most handsome, most perfect man in the world. Wasn’t it enough that Henrietta’s husband was Lord Rialton and would be the Earl of Godolphin when his father died? Anne was Lady Sunderland and Elizabeth, Lady Bridgewater. Grand marriages for all three. They had married where their mother wished them to; so why shouldn’t Mary the youngest choose for herself?

  She was so young yet; and dared say nothing, for she knew well enough how fierce Mamma could be when she did not want something—and she would certainly not want this marriage.

  “But it is going to be,” said Mary to herself; and in her face was all her mother’s determination.

  Watching Sarah reading the letter Mary thought: I shall hate her for ever and ever if she stops our marriage.

  “H’m!” said the Duchess. “Sometimes I think that woman grows madder every day.”

  Mary knew to whom she referred when she spoke in that slighting way. Mamma loved to speak contemptuously of the Queen, who had done so much for her. Perhaps, thought Mary, she will send me back to St. Albans with Abigail Hill in charge. That would be wonderful. One could do exactly what one liked with Abigail Hill. One could bully and browbeat her into accepting just anything.

  “Is it from the Queen?” asked Mary.

  “It is. She is a jealous old fool. She cannot bear that I should be with anyone but herself. What next!”

  “Mamma, do you propose to send Abigail Hill to St. Albans with me?”

  “No I do not. She is too useful at Court. The Queen would not like that at all.”

  “She would not wish to lose Abigail then?”

  Sarah let out a spurt of laughter. “Abigail! She cares nothing for her. She’s a good chambermaid … nothing more. The Queen likes her there because she does what is expected of her without obtruding. But she is so jealous of my noticing anyone … just anyone … that she thinks of a plain little chambermaid as an enchantress. Think of that! Abigail Hill.”

  “I was only thinking, Mamma, that you might have wanted her to be in charge of me. It would take me off your hands if Abigail and I went back to St. Albans.”

  The Duchess’s glittering eyes were fixed on her daughter.

  “Both you and Abigail stay precisely where you are,” she said coolly.

  Mary quailed. How much does she know? she wondered.

  How pleasant it was in the green closet! Abigail poured the tea and brought it to her mistress, so quietly, so efficiently, just the right amount of sugar. Why was it that it was never quite the same when others made it? George sat in his chair, so contented now—except of course when his asthma troubled him, and even then so patient … so resigned. Dear George! He seemed not to mind that he had never fulfilled his early promise of becoming a great soldier or sailor, just as she had accepted the fate of never having had the children they had longed for. Now she dreamed of being a great Queen. Often she talked to Hill about her hopes, for to talk to Hill was like talking to oneself. She never shouted or contradicted or burst into loud laughter that had a hint of derision in it.

  “I look upon my people as my children, Hill, the children I never had. Then I see myself as the Mother of them all and I want to do what is best for them just as I should for my babies had they lived.”

  “Your Majesty, I believe the people look upon you as the Mother of them all.”

  “Do you think Hill that a Queen can—if she has good ministers—be an inspiration to her people that a King can never be?”

  “I do, Your Majesty. Think of Queen Elizabeth. An inspiration … it is exactly that.”

  Anne nodded contentedly. “When I think of that, Hill, I cease to mourn quite so sadly.”

  “It is God’s consolation,” answered Abigail.

  Dear Hill. So right-thinking! So deeply religious!

  “And there is the Church, Hill. To uphold the Church and the state—that is my duty.”

  “Oh, Your Majesty is good … good!”

  Dear Hill! Not only were her deeds a perpetual comfort but her words also.

  What happy days! And she was beginning to grasp affairs of state. Here in the green closet she received her favoured ministers and how much easier it was to grasp a situation over a dish of tea than at a Council meeting. She felt so at peace, with one of the dogs on her lap and George dozing in his chair and Hill never far distant.

  Samuel Masham was a frequent visitor because he always accompanied the Prince, and he was a young man on whom George seemed to depend as she did on Abigail. Not quite as much, of course; that would be impossible.

  “There is a cold wind today, Your Majesty.” Abigail laid the shawl about her shoulders.

  “I notice it now you mention it.”

  She always anticipated a want. What a creature!

  “The Duchess is still at St. Albans, I suppose.”

  “I believe that to be so, Your Majesty.”
>
  Abigail lowered her eyes to hide the faint mischief in them. The Duchess’s children did lead her a dance. Now it was Mary wanting to marry someone whom the Duchess considered unsuitable. Abigail hoped that little affair would keep Mamma occupied at St. Albans for some time. It was so peaceful at Court without her.

  “How peaceful it is!” said the Queen. “Do you know Hill, I think one of the states most desirable as one gets older is peace. I am sure His Highness would agree with me.”

  “I am sure he would, Your Majesty.”

  How long, wondered Abigail, before she began to understand who was the disturber of the peace, how long would she allow the Duchess to dominate her and set the pattern of her life? Sometimes it seemed as though the answer was: For ever. There were others when Abigail was not so sure.

  “Hill, who is invited to the closet this afternoon?”

  “Mr. Harley, Madam, and Mr. St. John.”

  “Oh yes, yes. Marlborough’s protégés. He seems to think highly of them and he is a very clever man. The Duchess is not so sure of them. Well, perhaps we shall discover, eh, Hill?”

  Perhaps we shall discover! There were moments when Anne lifted her from her position as a chambermaid and made a confidante of her, and to be a confidante of a Queen was to take part in politics.

  “It might be that Mr. Harley would like a dish of tea, Hill.”

  Abigail stood before him and a shiver of excitement tinged with apprehension ran through her. His eyes, betraying nothing of his feelings, rested on her not lightly but as though they would probe the depth of her mind. As he accepted the tea she caught the smell of wine on his breath; he had been drinking before he came. Why not? she asked herself. So had the Prince, over his dinner; that was why he could not keep awake.

  “Thank you, Mistress Hill,” he said. His tone was courteous but his voice harsh.

  “And Mr. St. John?”

  What a handsome young man! Considerably younger than Mr. Harley. Twenty years? Not quite so much as that. Fifteen perhaps. And clearly his disciple. Mr. St. John was too bold. Abigail had heard from Samuel Masham that he had the reputation of being a rake. Now his eyes were on Abigail appraisingly, but differently from the manner in which Mr. Harley watched her. St. John was no doubt noticing her sandy hair, the freckles of which she could never rid herself, the pinkness at the tip of the nose which was too long, the colourlessness of eyes that were too small. He would be dismissing her as unbedworthy. But still he was interested. Yet not so interested as Mr. Harley.