When the Duke and Duchess came in haste to Twickenham there was a tremor of excitement all through the house. The Duke went straight into the nursery and picking up Mary kissed her tenderly before looking earnestly into her face.
“My little daughter is well?” he asked anxiously. “Quite well?”
“Your Grace,” said her nurse, “the Lady Mary is in excellent health.”
“And her sister?”
“The Lady Anne also.”
“Begin preparations without delay. I wish to leave within the hour.”
The Duchess was fondling Anne, feeling in the pockets of her gown for a sweetmeat to pop into that ever ready mouth.
“Well, there is no time to be lost,” said the Duke.
He looked at the Duchess who had sat down heavily with Anne on her knee. She held out her arms for Mary who ran to her and was embraced while her Mother asked questions about her daughter’s lessons. But Mary sensed that she was not really listening to the answers.
The Duke watched his wife and their two daughters, and in spite of his anxiety and the need to hurry he had time to remind himself that he was pleased with his marriage. Not that he was a faithful husband. Charles was furious with him at the moment, because he had tried to seduce Miss Frances Stuart whom Charles’s roving eyes had selected for his own. There was not much luck in that direction, either for himself or Charles, he feared. Arabella Churchill was more amenable, so was Margaret Denham. Ah, Margaret! She was an enchanting creature. Eighteen years old and recently married to Sir John Denham who must have been over fifty and looked seventy. Denham was furious on account of this liaison, but what could he expect? The King had set the tone at Court, so no one expected his brother to live the monogamous life of a virtuous married man.
Anne objected of course, but mildly. Anne was clever; her only folly seemed to be her over-indulgence at the table. Nor was her desire to gratify a perpetual hunger obvious at the table only. In her apartments there were boxes of sweets in most drawers and on tables so that she found them at her elbow wherever she happened to be.
He had not been so unwise after all when he married Clarendon’s daughter, although Clarendon was fast falling out of favor. Poor old man! He had suffered real terror at the time of the marriage and now declared that his fortunes had begun to sink ever since his headstrong daughter had married the heir presumptive to the throne.
Anne had been upbraiding him for blatantly indulging in his affair with Margaret Denham when news had reached them of the outbreak of plague in Twickenham. That had sobered them both. Of what importance was her obesity, greed, and dominating ways, or his unfaithfulness compared with the safety of their children!
Perhaps more than anything in the world, he mused, he loved his elder daughter.
“Mary,” he said, “come here, my child.”
He noticed with pleasure how eagerly she came to him.
“My darling,” he said, “you are a big girl now, old enough to understand a great many things.”
He lifted her on to his knee. She was delighted by the satin of his coat, the lace ruffles at his neck and sleeve, his long dark curls which seemed all the more wonderful because they could be taken off and put on a stand.
“We are going away, Mary.”
“Now?”
“We are leaving in an hour. You will like to be with me … and your mother?”
“Anne is coming?”
“Certainly. You do not think we would leave Anne behind?”
She laughed with happiness; and he put his lips to the smooth cheeks. He told himself that he would rather anything happened to him than that that delicate cheek should be raged by plague spots, and a sense of urgency seized him. Every moment might be important. He would not rest until they were far away.
“Where are we going, Papa?”
“To York, my dearest, they are preparing for our departure now.” He called to the nurse: “Is the baggage ready? Then begin to prepare the children. It is a long journey to York.”
“But Papa,” said Mary, “you are York.”
He patted her head; even in his haste marveling at her. What Charles would give for a child like this! he thought. Even though she is a girl.
“My love, York is also a city … our city. And from there I shall be near the fleet and we will watch out for the wicked Dutchmen and keep them from our shores.”
“Tell me about the Dutchmen, Papa.”
“Later,” he said. “When there is time. Now we are leaving at once. See, your nurse is waiting to dress you for the journey. Why, my little one, you and I will have many a talk in the days to come. I want you to know about what is happening to our country. You must never forget that you are my daughter and His Majesty’s niece.”
Mary remembered and believed herself to be the luckiest little girl in England. Her father was the best man in the world; her mother was the best mother; and in addition, she had for an uncle the one to whom everyone must bow and, she was certain although she believed it might be a secret between them, to her he was not a great King at all, only Uncle Charles, who could make her laugh and all the time wished she were his daughter instead of her father’s.
It was a happy family that stayed at York during those months which followed the retreat from Twickenham.
There was reconciliation between the Duke and the Duchess, for the Duke was not near enough to his mistresses to pay court to them, which was a matter of great satisfaction to the Duchess, and since the Duke was ready to concede to her in everything but his affairs with women, the household was harmonious.
They both agreed that it was like returning to those first weeks of marriage when it had seemed the whole world was against them and they had determined to stand together whatever the consequences.
Together now they supervised the education of Mary, who, they believed, was very intelligent. The Duke liked to have her with him when he received officials from the Navy and he would often call attention to her.
“I tell you this,” he said one day to Samuel Pepys, who had come to see him with some Navy estimates, “the Lady Mary of York understands much of what you are saying.”
It was an exaggeration, but Mary always listened attentively, for her greatest joy was in pleasing her father.
She worked hard at her lessons so that she could have his approbation and looked forward to those hours when he came to the nursery to be with her. Often when Anne was with her mother, Mary and her father would be together, and the Duke’s servants said that their master loved his daughter Mary beyond everything in the world.
One day he came to her a little sadly, and lifting her on to his knee and putting his cheek against her hair, told her that he would have to leave her. “But only for a little while,” he consoled.
“Oh, Papa,” she answered blankly and he wept as he kissed her.
“Listen, my little one,” he went on, “Uncle Charles is in Oxford and I have to join him there because that is where the Parliament is. There is much work to do when you are a King and the brother of a King. Do you understand?”
She nodded, lacing her fingers in his and gripping them as though to indicate that she would not let him go without a struggle.
“That is good because you will have to understand the duties of kingship. Why, my love, it could so come about that you might one day be a Queen of England … a Queen in your own right, sweetheart. Think of that.”
“And Anne?”
“Oh, Anne is your little sister. You are before her. But Uncle Charles has no son.”
She was puzzled thinking of handsome Jemmy, whom she loved so much and who was known as Monmouth. She had thought he was Uncle Charles’s son.
“No, he has no sons who could inherit the throne,” went on her father, “so therefore if Uncle Charles died I should be King. And if I were to die …” She looked alarmed and he kissed her tenderly. “I shall not for years and years … but one day I shall be a poor old man and you will be a woman with husband and children of your
own. Then, my love, if Uncle Charles had no children at all and you did not have a little brother, you could be Queen of England.”
It was all very complicated to her, but he was glad he had told her; it was as well to learn as early as possible what part one might have to play in the country’s affairs.
Then he changed the subject abruptly; he told her wonderful stories of how he had been a soldier in Europe and he and Uncle Charles had been two wandering exiles because the wicked Oliver Cromwell had driven them from England. He had many exciting adventures to relate; but what Mary liked best was the story of how the people decided that they wanted no more of the puritan rule and sent to Europe for the Princes. She liked to hear how he and Uncle Charles came back to England, how the bells rang out and the people strewed their way with flowers while they danced in the streets and laughed and embraced each other because England had ceased to be a somber place.
“They knew Uncle Charles would make them laugh again,” said Mary.
Her father nodded. She was right. Charles had made them laugh at his witticisms, at his careless good nature, at his never ending adventures with women.
When James left soon for Oxford, Mary missed him sadly, discovering that she loved him better than anyone in the world—better than her mother, better than cousin Jemmy, better even than Anne.
Each day Mary hoped to hear that her father would be with them; she worked hard at her lessons, wishing to surprise him, and her mother was proud of her, but Mary knew that secretly she loved Anne best, although the child never made any effort to win affection; she smiled placidly at everybody, and grew fatter every day.
There were occasions when the Duke paid a visit to York and they were the happiest days for Mary. She would be at his side all through the day; and even when important people came to see him she was not dismissed. He would hold her on his knee while he talked; and she listened because she knew that was what he wanted her to do. Thus she learned a little about the wicked Dutchmen who were threatening England on the high seas; she also heard news of the terrible plague.
One day her mother sent for the little girls and taking Anne on her lap and drawing Mary into the crook of her arm, she said: “How would you like to go back home?”
Home? But this was home. Home was where her mother was, where her father came when he could escape from his duties.
“You are going to have a very happy time,” explained the Duchess, popping a sweet into Anne’s mouth. “You are going to live in Richmond Palace, where a nursery is being prepared for you, and you will have a lady governess and other little girls to be your companions.”
Mary was a little puzzled; but her mother was smiling while Anne contentedly crunched, and later when she heard the servants talking about it and understood how happy they were to be going, as they said, “home,” she was happy too.
Lady Frances Villiers, the youngest daughter of the Earl of Suffolk who had married Colonel Edward Villiers and given him a family, was congratulating herself on her appointment.
“For,” she told her husband, “it seems clear that the King will never have an heir; and in that case the most important children in the country will be under my care.”
The Colonel agreed that the position looked promising for the future.
“Edward and Henry are well placed at Court,” went on Lady Frances, “and the girls will now have their opportunity. They will be close companions of the Lady Mary and the Lady Anne, and I shall impress upon them the importance of making that friendship firm.”
“I am sure you will, my dear,” her husband answered.
“In fact,” went on Lady Frances, “I shall speak to Elizabeth without delay.”
She sent one of her maids to find her eldest daughter and when Elizabeth stood before her she surveyed her with a certain uneasiness. Elizabeth was disquieting. Although only ten years old, she seemed already wise; she would be the eldest in the royal nursery and for that reason, as well as because of her character, would attempt to take charge.
“Elizabeth,” said her mother somewhat peevishly. “Stand up straight. Don’t slouch.”
Elizabeth obeyed. She was graceful, but there was a cast in her eyes which gave her a sharp yet sly look.
“The Lady Mary and the Lady Anne will soon be arriving. I trust you realize the honor which the Duke and Duchess are bestowing on you by allowing you to be their companion.”
“Is it an honor?” asked Elizabeth.
Yes, she was sharp, alert, and a little insolent.
“You are foolish. It is a great honor as you know well. You know the position of the Lady Mary.”
“She is only a little girl … years younger than I.”
“Now you are indeed talking like a child. The King is without heirs; the Lady Mary is the Duke’s eldest daughter and he has no son. If the King has no children and the Duke no son, the Lady Mary could be Queen.”
“But the King has sons, and they say …”
“Have done,” said Lady Frances sharply. “You must remember that you are in the royal service.”
“But I do not understand. We are the Villiers.”
“Then you are more foolish than I thought. Even a child of your age should know that every family however important must take second place to royalty.”
“Yet they say that my cousin Barbara Villiers is more important than Queen Catherine.”
She was indeed sly? And how old? Not eleven yet. Lady Frances thought that a whipping might be good for Miss Elizabeth. She would see.
“You may go now,” she said. “But remember what I have said. I should like you and the Lady Mary to be friends. Friendships made in childhood can last a lifetime. It is a good thing to remember.”
“I will remember it,” Elizabeth assured her.
Lady Frances, her daughters ranged about her, greeted the Princesses as they entered the Palace.
She knelt and put her arms about them. “Let us forget ceremony for this occasion,” she cried. “Welcome, my Lady Mary and my Lady Anne. I think we are going to be very happy together as one big family.”
Mary thought they would be a very large family. There were six daughters of Lady Frances: Elizabeth, Katherine, Barbara, Anne, Henrietta, and Mary. Barbara Villiers was a name Mary had often heard whispered; but she did not believe that this little girl was that Barbara whose name could make people lower their voices and smile secretively.
Lady Frances took her by the hand and showed her her apartments. Anne’s she was relieved to find were next to her own. Lady Frances seemed kind but Mary wanted to be back in York with her own mother and the possibility of her father’s coming any day; she was disturbed because she sensed change, and she did not like it. Anne was not in the least worried; she believed that she would be petted and pampered in Richmond as she had been in York.
Mary was not so sure. She was constantly aware of Elizabeth Villiers, who was so much older than she was, seemed so much wiser, and was continually watching her, she was sure, in a critical manner.
Those days became faintly uneasy; and it was mainly due to Elizabeth Villiers.
Supper was being prepared in the King’s apartments. Barbara Villiers, Lady Castlemaine, would be his chief guest; Rochester, Sedley, and the rest would be present; and it would be one of those occasions on which the King could indulge his wit, and afterward they would all leave except Barbara with whom he would spend the night. A pleasant prospect, particularly for a man who had known exile.
It had been said that “Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown,” he ruminated, which was true enough. Not that he was a man to worry unduly. He had had enough of cares and intended to enjoy life, but there was one anxiety which haunted him; he had made a declaration never, if he could help it, to go a-wandering again, and there had been more determination and sincerity behind that declaration than there often was in his utterances.
He could laugh at himself—seeing in the King of England a sinful man. I should be a good King, he thought, if women were
not so important to me. But his need of them had been born in him, as it was in James. James would be a contented and happy man, if it were not for women.
We are as we are because we must be, mused Charles. And he tried to remember the stories he had heard of his maternal grandfather, who it had been said was the greatest King the French had ever known; yet he too had had this failing.
It was well enough to love a woman—even if she were not one’s wife. Another French King, Henri Deux, had proved that in a most sober relationship with Diane de Poitiers. But this was different. This was not a woman; it was women. And while he was entertaining Barbara he was thinking of Frances Stuart and the pretty little actresses of Drury Lane—and others. He was thinking too of his poor sad little wife Catherine who had had the misfortune to fall in love with him before she had given herself time to discover the kind of man her husband was.
The trouble was that he was so fond of them all; he hated hurting them or displeasing them; he would promise anything to make them smile, unfortunately promises should be redeemed. Perhaps one of the reasons why he clung to Barbara was that she was ready to rage and scream rather than weep and plead.
These were frivolous thoughts at such a time. His reign had been far from peaceful; what if the people decided that kings brought a country no better luck than parliaments? There was war with the Dutch and it was but a short time ago that his capital city had been devastated by the great plague, when death had stalked the streets of London, putting an end to that commerce on which he had relied to bring prosperity to the land. It had been one of the greatest disasters the country had known; and the following year another—almost as terrible: the great fire.
He knew the people asked themselves: “Is this a warning from heaven because of the profligate life led by the King and his Court?” In the beginning they had loved the pageants, the play, and the magnificence of gallants and ladies. They had said: “Away dull care! Away prim puritans! Now we have a King who knows how to live and if he makes love to many women that is the new fashion.” What amorous squire, what voluptuous lady, was not amused and delighted by such a fashion? “Take your lovers! It is no crime. Look at the King and his Court. It is the fashionable way of life.”
The Three Crowns Page 2
