by Jean Plaidy
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.”
“But we shall be together.”
“Together,” he said, “playing the waiting game.”
Lord Godolphin died soon afterwards and Marlborough immediately made plans to leave the country.
Sarah quickly joined him.
QUEEN ANNE IS DEAD
ady Masham waited for Lord Oxford to leave the Queen. She had seen him before he went into her presence; he had staggered a little and he had not bothered to change his coat on which were stains of snuff and wine.
Yet the Queen did not seem to notice the disgusting appearance of her first minister. Nor had she remarked that he was less respectful than he had once been. He must be drinking very heavily, thought Abigail.
It might be that wine dulled his perceptions. He had certainly grown very careless since taking office.
His head was full of financial schemes—so much more to his taste than war. His thoughts were mainly occupied with enlarging British Commerce and he was a governor of that great enterprise known as the “Company of Merchants of Great Britain trading to the South Seas and other Parts of America.” People had rushed to invest their money believing that they would make a fortune in a very short time. He was also involved in the slave trade which he believed could bring a great source of revenue. The word assiento was on every lip. This meant the right to provide Spanish colonies with slaves.
Lord Oxford, nodding over his wine, sleeping the sleep of intoxication every night, dreamed dreams of doing for England through commerce what Marlborough had done through war.
Abigail was pregnant once more and this brought home to her the fact that she would soon have a growing family for which to provide. Samuel would never do very much and it rested with her. Her son would be Lord Masham in due course, but she wanted to give him something more than a title.
When Lord Oxford left the Queen and she met him as if by accident, he would have bowed and passed on. She was angry although she gave no sign of it, and there was more than one reason for her emotion. What a fool he was! With all his chances, to throw them away as surely as Sarah Churchill had thrown away hers. Why was it that success corrupted? Why, when people achieved it, did they lose their sense of proportion? Why did they build an image of their importance which no one accepted but themselves? If he had been different … if he had been a warm-hearted man, capable of loving a woman—capable of loving Abigail Hill as Marlborough loved his wife—how different everything might have been!
She was angry now for frustrated hopes, for the reckless disregard for a career which together they could have made great.
“My lord …”
“Why, ’tis Lady Masham.”
“You seem surprised. It is true we do not meet as frequently as we did once.”
“Lady Masham will understand that there are many duties to claim my attention now.”
Yes, thought Abigail; and so old friends who have helped you to your place can be forgotten.
She said: “It is agreeable for your old friends to see your success.”
“I would not deprive them of their pleasure for the world.”
“I am sure you are not the man to forget old friends.”
“I regret I have little time for brooding on the past—an occupation not suited to my talents; and it is an astonishing thing how many are ready to claim old friendship now who were once on little more than nodding acquaintance with me.”
“You cannot count me among those,” retorted Abigail sharply. “And for that reason I wished to ask you for a little advice regarding some investments. I am not a rich woman.…”
Oxford waved his hand lightly. “My dear Lady Masham, I am sure that one of my secretaries will give you all the advice you need.”
He bowed; she could scarcely hold her expression until he had passed.
How dared he! After all he owed to her! In all the vast profits he had made he was not ready to give one bit of recognition.
She was a woman with children, whose future she wished to make secure. Very well, Robert Harley—Lord Oxford as he had become through her good graces—would see that if he would not have her for his friend, he could have her for his enemy.
The Queen was enjoying a return to health. Peace was at last in sight; and the Marlboroughs were abroad. It was surprising what an effect these two facts had upon her. She never ceased to marvel with her two dearest friends Lady Masham and the Duchess of Somerset.
It was exciting to hunt at Windsor, riding furiously in the chaise she had used in the past which was drawn by one horse, so that she could follow the stag as though she were actually on horseback. It was long since she had been able to enjoy that form of relaxation.
How good it was to feel well again—or almost. Her feet were swollen and sore but her dear friend’s ministrations soon soothed them; then they would settle down to gossip and cards. What pleasure! She was reminded of the old days in the green closet when Abigail Masham—who was Hill then—used to bring in Mr. Harley for their secret conferences.
Mr. Harley! There was a faintly disturbing thought. He was a little uncouth in his appearance. And last time he had come to her he had had the appearance of being intoxicated.
She would not have believed it, but she had seen the quick glance Masham had given him and then herself … as though she were wondering if she, Anne, had noticed.
Masham would be concerned, for she had always thought so highly of Lord Oxford and they were related, though obscurely.
Oh dear, Anne hoped there was not going to be trouble there, just as she had believed everything was going so well.
Such busy days! She even went to the Datchett races. These pleasures must not interfere with her state business of course; and she performed all the public duties which her rank demanded. She was seen at church; she received in her drawing room; and she ordered that an announcement should be put into the London Gazette reminding the people that she would touch people afflicted with the Evil in her palace at St. James’s; and as a result the people flocked there.
She sat benign, the mother of her people; and in the streets it was said that the bad days were over. No more war; prosperity was coming; and England was going to be merry under Good Queen Anne.
Abigail had dressed with special care to receive her visitor. She was excited. What transpired at this encounter could be very important to her. She must be wary; she must remember her rival’s downfall and nev
er make the mistake Sarah had made of believing herself to be superior to those about her. She must never lose sight of the astuteness of her enemies, but remember she was playing a dangerous game when she set herself to teach the head of the Government a lesson.
But she had a powerful friend.
He bowed over her hand. How different from Lord Oxford. He was younger and so much more handsome. Henry St. John was a rake; he had had countless mistresses and would doubtless have countless more and could never contemplate a relationship with a woman which was not a sexual one. In his youth he had run naked through the park for a wager; and not long ago when he had become Secretary of State and had rode through the town in his carriage, the madam of one of those establishments to which he was a frequent visitor, had amused the crowd by shouting to her girls, “Five thousand a year, my beauties, and all for us!”
Now Henry St. John had become Viscount Bolingbroke but he was the same elegant, aristocratic man of pleasure who had delighted the madams of London by his extravagant patronage of their establishments.
He came to confer with Lady Masham.
He was disgruntled and made no effort to hide such an obvious fact, and as he bowed over Abigail’s hand and lifted his eyes to her small pale face; he fully understood how they might work together; Abigail was pregnant yet even at such a time he was wondering when she would become his mistress—such a consideration being automatic with him.
“So, I greet Viscount Bolingbroke,” said Abigail.
“A Viscountcy! No Earldom! Our friend—should I say our one-time friend—wants no rivals. An Earldom for him, so therefore I must be a mere Viscount.”
“I think we have been somewhat mistaken in our one-time friend.”
“He sees himself as the mighty dragon breathing fire to destroy all his enemies.”
