Courting Her Highness

by Jean Plaidy

Sarah, therefore, reading his dignified offer, was flattered; he must have a very high opinion of her, for one thing she had to admit she lacked was noble birth. Of course as Duchess of Marlborough she stood as high as any, and she would have everyone know it; but such a man as Somerset would certainly consider the Jennings’s and Churchills very humble folk.

  Sarah took some pleasure in her reply. “If I were young and handsome as I was, instead of old and faded as I am, and you could lay the empire of the world at my feet, you should never have the heart and hand that once belonged to John, Duke of Marlborough.”

  Having despatched this reply she went to John’s study; her thoughts were back to the past and the terrible sense of loss was as strong with her as it had ever been.

  She decided that she could no longer delay sorting out his belongings and as she went through the treasures he kept in his cabinet she came upon a package; and when she opened this her own golden hair fell out.

  She stared in astonishment. Her hair! Then she remembered that occasion when in a fury she had cut it off and thrown it on his desk. So he had gathered it up and preserved it.

  She discovered that she was crying—not the tempestuous sobbing which was characteristic of her—but quietly, heartbrokenly.

  She put the hair back into the packet and went to her room. There she lay on her bed, quietly weeping.

  “Marl,” she murmured, “why was it so? You should never have left me. We should have gone together. For of what use is life to me without you.”

  She continued to battle her way through life—but much of the old zest was gone. Life had little meaning without Marl. But she was the same Sarah—bellicose, furious, quarrelsome, impulsively going to battle. She had a new name now. “Old Marlborough.” And she was old; she had been sixty-two when the Duke died.

  She might have found some contentment in those last years. She was an extremely rich woman—and she had always loved money. She had only two daughters it was true but many grandchildren. But she could never live in harmony with them. She could never resist meddling—neither in the affairs of the country nor those of the family.

  She would not be excluded from the country’s affairs and since she had always sought for her opponents in the highest quarters chose the Prime Minister Robert Walpole as her number one enemy and Queen Caroline, wife of George II—who had now succeeded his father—as the second. Nor did she neglect her own family. Mary, who was perhaps more like herself than any of the others, could never forget how her mother had prevented her marrying the man she believed she had loved. It was true she had been little more than a child at the time, but the memory of that romance remained with her and all through her unsatisfactory marriage she thought of what might have been and blamed her mother.

  “You are an ill wife, a cruel daughter and a bad mother,” Sarah screamed at her daughter. “I married you to the chief match in England and if it hadn’t been for me you might have married a country gentleman with nothing more than two thousand a year.”

  Mary turned on her mother and cried: “You are an interfering old harridan. You interfered in our lives when we were unable to stop you. You shall not do so now.”

  Mary stalked out of her mother’s house and declared she would never enter again.

  And Sarah went about the house complaining to everyone who listened—and none dared do otherwise—that she had the most ungrateful daughter in the world. “And as to Montague her husband, he’s a fine specimen of man, I declare!” she shouted. “He behaves as though he’s fifteen although he’s all of fifty-two. He thinks it fun to invite people to his house and into his garden where he squirts them with water. And in his country house he puts vermin in his guests’ beds to make them itch. There’s the Duke of Montague—my daughter Mary’s husband!”

  No one pointed out to her that shortly before she had been boasting of marrying Mary to the chief match in England; no one had ever dared point out anything to Sarah, except her daughters, and she quarrelled with them, or her husband, and he was dead.

  Nor were her relations any better with Henrietta, who had become the Duchess of Marlborough on the death of her father, for it had been agreed that since the Duke had no sons the title should go to his daughter.

  Henrietta was causing quite a scandal. She had always been fond of play-acting and play-actors and had long ago formed a very close friendship with William Congreve, the playwright. She took him into her house, for her husband, Lord Godolphin, gave way to her in all things and when Henrietta went to Bath, Congreve went with her. Henrietta was brought to bed of a girl and it was rumoured that she was Congreve’s daughter.

  “A pleasant scandal,” commented Sarah, “for one who bears the proud title of Duchess of Marlborough.”

  But there was little she could do about that, for when she called on her daughter she was informed that she was not at home, although Sarah was certain that she was.

  She had tried to make Henrietta’s son William, now Lord Blandford, her favourite; and for a time succeeded in doing so. He was affectionately known as Willigo and Sarah fancied she saw a resemblance in him to his grandfather. But only in features. Willigo quickly became known as Lord Worthless, for he loved gay company and was too fond of the bottle. His mother disliked him, although she doted on her youngest daughter—Congreve’s! said Sarah—and consequently Sarah sought to win the affection which he might have given to his mother. But there was little comfort from Willigo. He met a burgomaster’s daughter when he was on the Continent and married her before Sarah could forbid the match.

  Still eager not to lose him, Sarah met the girl and even found her charming.

  But a year after the marriage Sarah was overcome with grief when Willigo died in a drunken fit. As usual her emotions were manifested in rage.

  “I hope the Devil is picking the bones of the man who taught him to drink!” she cried.

  She was growing more and more aware of loneliness.

  To be old and lonely—it was a sad fate. There was only one member of the large family who had any real regard for her; and was it due to pity on Lady Dye’s part? Sarah never stopped to consider. She was always right, she believed; and any who disagreed with her was wrong. She told Dye she would call her Cordelia for that was a name most fitting, because she saw herself as a Lear who was driven near to madness by the ingratitude and cruelty of those about her. She could not forbear to meddle, and occupied herself with matchmaking for her grandchildren; and with some difficulty married off Harriet Godolphin to the Duke of Newcastle. She produced Dukes for six of her granddaughters, though for her darling Lady Dye she had looked higher and had selected none less than the Prince of Wales. This was an amazing feat and she almost succeeded in bringing the affair to a successful climax. There were so many points in her favour. Frederick was unpopular and hated his parents, and Sarah and he had this hatred in common for she was at this time deep in her quarrel with Walpole who was supported by the Queen. It was a daring plan. Lady Dye to become a Princess and the royal family to be discountenanced all in one stroke. Frederick had many debts and Sarah was reputed to be the richest woman in England, so there was much to recommend such a marriage.

  Such a victory, Sarah believed, would have equalled that of Blenheim. What would Marl think if he could look down from Heaven and see his granddaughter Princess of Wales?

  Alas for Sarah! Robert Walpole, the enemy, heard of Sarah’s plans and put an end to them. And Sarah had to be content with the Duke of Bedford for Dye.

  And when Dye was married she could not stop herself interfering, telling her granddaughter what was wrong with her town house, what improvements should be made, and quarrelling fiercely with her husband.

  It was twelve years after the death of Marlborough when death came again to Langley Marsh.

  Abigail lay in her bed, her family about her and her mind drifted back and forth from past to present. Her son Samuel knelt by her bed. Her husband was there too with her brother John and her sister Alice.

  She
knew she was dying; and as she looked at her sister and her brother she was reminded of the day Sarah Churchill had called and how they had received her, trembling with awe and expectation.

  Alice was plump and unmarried still; she had lived well and contentedly during the years; John was an old man, his life behind him, and for her and Samuel there were the children.

  If Sarah Churchill had not come to them, if she had not given them a helping hand, where would they all be now? No one had had a greater effect upon her life than Sarah—or perhaps than she on Sarah’s.

  She saw her coming into the shabby house—resplendent in her power and beauty.

  “The beginning …” she whispered.

  And those about the bed looked at each other significantly.

  Abigail had left them forever.

  Sarah lived on for another ten years. Eighty and as vigorous as ever in mind if not in body, she continued to harry those about her.

  Lady Dye had died when she was only twenty-five after only four years of marriage; next to the death of Marlborough that was the greatest blow of Sarah’s life.

  It occurred to her then that she was living too long; that too many of those she loved were going on before her.

  She thought little of the past; she did however write her memoirs which was an account of how she had first governed the Queen and then been ousted from her favour by Abigail Hill.

  Momentarily she recalled all the venom she had felt for that whey-faced creature whom she had taken from a broom.

  If I had never taken pity on her, if I had never found a place for her in the Queen’s bedchamber … everything might have been so different. She was the true enemy. She with her quiet ways, her respectful curtsies and her “Yes, Your Grace!”

  “No, Your Grace!” Who would have thought that one so plain, so insignificant … such a nothing … such an insect … could have made so much mischief in the life of people such as herself and the great Duke of Marlborough!

  That gave her pause for thought … for a while. But she was never one to brood on the past.

  Occasionally she took out John’s letters to her and read them through and wept over them.

  “I should destroy them,” she said. “They can give me nothing but pain now.”

  But she could not destroy them. She took out the coil of golden hair which he had kept and which she had discovered in his cabinet and she wept into it.

  Then resolutely she put away these souvenirs of the past which so bitterly recalled his love for her; and went once more into battle.

  But she was old; and even she could not live for ever.

  She was in her bed and the doctors were there, whispering … waiting for her to die.

  “She must be blistered or she will die,” they murmured.

  But she lifted herself from her pillows and shouted: “I won’t be blistered and I won’t die.”

  Nor did she … just then.

  But even she could not stave off death for ever; nor did she wish to.

  There was nothing in her life now to make her cling to it even if she was the richest woman in England.

  Deliberately she made plans for her burial. She would be buried in Blenheim chapel where she had had John’s body brought from Westminster Abbey.

  “It is meet and fitting that we should lie together,” she said.

  “Old Marlborough is dying.” The news spread through the Court. No one cared. She was a tiresome old woman who was amusing because she was continually making trouble, nothing more.

  And on an October day in the year 1744, twenty-two years after the death of the Duke, Sarah died.

  She was buried as she had wished; and although the members of her family attended her funeral, there was no one to mourn her.

  BIBLIOGRAPHY

  Memoirs of the Duke of Marlborough with his original correspondence. 3 vols.

  William Coxe

  An Account of the Conduct of the Dowager Duchess of Marlborough

  Sarah Jennings Churchill Marlborough

  Sarah, Duchess of Marlborough

  Kathleen Campbell

  Duchess Sarah: The Social History of the Times of Sarah Jennings

  Mrs. Arthur Colville

  John and Sarah: Duke and Duchess of Marlborough

  Stuart J. Reid with introduction by the Duke of Marlborough

  Sarah Churchill

  Frank Chancellor

  Marlborough’s Duchess

  Louis Kronenberger

  Robert Harley, Earl of Oxford: A Study of Politics and Letters in the Reign of Queen Anne E. S. Roscoe Lives of the Queens of England Agnes Strickland Anne of England

  M. R. Hopkinson

  That Enchantress

  Doris Leslie

  Notes on British History

  William Edwards

  Journal to Stella

  Jonathan Swift, edited by Harold Williams

  Three Eighteenth Century Figures

  Bonamy Dobrée

  Letters of Two Queens

  Lt.-Col. The Hon. Benjamin Bathurst

  British History

  John Wade

  Dictionary of National Biography

  Edited by Sir Leslie Stephen and Sir Sidney Lee

  The National and Domestic History of England

  William Hickman Smith Aubrey

  Bishop Burnet’s History of His Own Time

  Gilbert Burnet

  England Under the Stuarts

  G. M. Trevelyan

  History of England

  G. M. Trevelyan

  English Social History

  G. M. Trevelyan

  England Under Queen Anne

  G. M. Trevelyan

  Marlborough, His Life and Times

  Winston S. Churchill

  TURN THE PAGE TO READ AN EXCERPT

  FROM JEAN PLAIDY’S SIXTH BOOK IN THE

  NOVELS OF THE STUARTS SERIES:

  ROYAL

  SISTERS

  978-0-307-71952-2

  $15.00

  A HUSBAND FOR ANNE

  he Princess Anne, walking slowly through the tapestry room in St. James’s Palace—for it was a lifetime’s habit never to hurry—smiled dreamily at the silken pictures representing the love of Venus and Mars which had been recently made for her uncle, the King. Tucked inside the bodice of her gown was a note; she had read it several times; and now she was taking it to her private apartments to read it again.

  Venus and Mars! she thought, Goddess and God, and great lovers. But she was certain that there had never been lovers like Anne of York and John Sheffield, Earl of Mulgrave, Princess and Poet.

  Her lips moved as she repeated the words he had written.

  “Of all mankind I loved the best

  A nymph so far above the rest

  That we outshine the Blest above

  In beauty she, as I in love.”

  No one could have written more beautifully of Venus than John Sheffield had written of her.

  What had happened to Venus and Mars? she wondered idly. She had never paid attention to her lessons; it had been so easy to complain that her eyes hurt or she had a headache when she was expected to study. Mary—dear Mary!—had warned her that she would be sorry she was so lazy, but she had not been sorry yet, always preferring ignorance to effort; everyone had indulged her, far more than they had poor Mary who had been forced to marry that hateful Prince of Orange. Anne felt miserable remembering Mary’s face swollen from so many tears. Dear sister Mary, who had always learned her lessons and been the good girl; and what had been her reward? Banishment from her own country, sent away from her family, and married to that horrid little man, the Orange, as they called him—or more often Caliban, the Dutch Monster.

  The exquisitely sculptured Tudor arch over the fireplace commemorated two more lovers whose entwined initials were H and A. Henry the VIII and Anne Boleyn had not remained constant lovers. That was indeed a gloomy thought and the Princess Anne made a habit of shrugging aside what was not pleasant.

  Sh
e turned from the tapestry room and went to her own apartments. Delighted to find none of her women there, she sat in the window seat and took out the paper.

  Soon, the whole Court would be reading the poem, but they would not know that those words were written for her. They would say: “Mulgrave writes a pretty verse.” And only she would know.

  But it was not always going to be so. Why should they hide their passion?

  Her father had always been indulgent, and she preferred to believe he would continue so. Her uncle too, but state policy could come into this—as it had with Mary.

  Anne was suddenly frightened, remembering that terrifying day when Mary had come to her, bewildered, like a sleep walker. “Anne, they are forcing me to marry our cousin Orange.”

  Matters of state! A Princess’s duty! Those words which meant that the free and easy life was over. An indulgent father and a kind uncle were yet Duke of York and King of England; and matters of state must take precedence over family feeling.

  Anne refused to consider failure. It was a trait in her character which had often exasperated Mary. Anne believed what she wanted to believe, so now she believed she would be allowed to marry Mulgrave.

  Reaching her apartment she went at once to the window and, as she had expected, she saw him in the courtyard below, where he had been walking backwards and forwards hoping for a glimpse of her.

  They smiled at each other. He was not only the most handsome man in her uncle’s Court, thought Anne, but in the world.