Her stepmother, heavily pregnant, also tried to reassure her.
“When I came here I was your age. I hated your father and now I love him dearly.”
“But this is Orange,” persisted Mary. “He is not like my father.”
“Yet you will come to love him. You must because he will be your husband.”
They could not understand. It was not only that they had given her this most unattractive man; it was the contemplation of marriage itself.
Her sister Anne was moved out of her usual placidity.
She came running to her sister, her face puckered in distress.
“Mary, they are saying that you will go away.”
The sisters clung together.
“But you cannot, you cannot. How can we be parted?”
“They will send me to Holland … with William, Anne.”
“It will never be the same again.”
“They say that nothing ever stays the same forever.”
“But you are my sister and we have always been together … we always should be.”
They could only cling together, weeping in their despair.
That day Mary wrote to Frances. She must find some means of coming to her, for she was so desolate that she thought her heart was breaking. She must talk of her trouble, for the most distressing calamity was about to fall upon her.
The King sent for his niece. Lady Frances Villiers was anxious because Mary was in no condition for such an occasion; hours of weeping had made her eyes red and swollen.
She was dazed as she was helped to dress. Elizabeth Villiers watched her in silence. What a child she was! thought Elizabeth. Hadn’t she considered that a girl in her position would be forced into marriage at an early age, and that all these matters were arranged for such as she was. Those like Elizabeth had to look out for themselves. How different she would have felt if a brilliant marriage were being arranged for her! Mary had always been a simpleton.
“My dear lady Mary,” mourned Lady Frances, “you look so wretched.”
Mary’s lower lip trembled and for a moment it seemed as though she would burst into further tears. “I am … wretched,” she stammered.
“You must not look like that or the King will be displeased.”
“I don’t think he will. I think he will understand.”
“Come,” said Lady Frances catching at a stool to steady herself, for her limbs felt as though they did not belong to her today. “You must not keep His Majesty waiting.”
Listlessly, Mary allowed herself to be conducted through the corridors of Whitehall to the royal closet. Those who accompanied her, Elizabeth Villiers among them, waited outside.
When Charles came into the closet his smile was kind.
“Why,” he said, “this is an important occasion for my little niece. But I no longer regard you as my niece, Mary my dear. From now on you are my daughter.”
Mary knew that she should have expressed gratitude for these gracious sentiments but when she opened her mouth to speak, her sobs prevented her.
Charles patted her shoulder, as the door of the closet was thrown open and William was brought in.
“Ah, nephew, you are indeed welcome,” said the King. “Now it is not good for man to live alone, so the Scriptures tell us, and even kings should not argue with them. Therefore I have a helpmate for you.”
The Princess Mary was brought forward and stood before her cousin, her eyes downcast, her mouth sullen.
William looked at her in astonishment. This was not the same girl who had talked animatedly to him at their last meeting. She was scarcely recognizable. Her lovely eyes were almost hidden by her swollen lids; her expression was forlorn, even sullen. He could not understand what had brought about the change.
“You two will be well matched, I doubt not,” said the King. “And remember this, nephew, love and war do not agree well together.”
The King turned to his brother. “The Duke wishes to give his consent to the marriage.” He nodded to James who murmured that he was willing to give his daughter into the care of the Prince of Orange.
“Then all is well,” said the King. “I doubt not that our lovers will wish to be together. They will have much to say to one another.”
He signed to Lady Frances to stay with them and all the others left the closet.
William’s puzzled gaze was on his bride-to-be.
He said: “Something has displeased you?”
“Yes.”
“There is something you want and cannot have?”
“Yes.”
“And you have been weeping because of this?”
She nodded and turned her head away.
“You were different at our last meeting.”
“I did not know then that I should be forced to marry you.”
He drew back as though her words were a lash which had cut into his flesh. He could not believe that he had heard her correctly.
There was a short silence; then the Lady Frances began to remonstrate with the Princess.
“You should remember to whom you speak, my lady.”
“I do not forget. I do not want to marry.”
The Prince was looking haughtily at Lady Frances, who said hastily: “Your Highness, you must understand that the Princess is very young. She had no notion that she was to be married and the idea has shocked her a little, but she will recover from the shock and realize her good fortune.”
“Good fortune!” cried Mary bitterly.
Lady Frances looked imploringly at the Prince. “Have I your permission to take the Princess to her apartments?”
The Prince inclined his head; and Lady Frances, greatly relieved, took Mary by the arm and led her away.
William looked after them; his cold expression was in contrast to the fierce anger which was burning in him. How dared she! Those red eyes, those sullen looks were there because she was to marry him! When he had last seen her, she had had no notion that she was to be betrothed to him, and therefore she had been gay and clearly happy. Then she had been told of her—as he believed—good fortune; and she had promptly wailed and moaned and, being completely undisciplined, had made it clear to all that she had no wish for the marriage.
What insolence! What childish tantrums! And this was the one they had given him for his wife!
He had an impulse to go at once to the King, to tell him that he had decided to return to Holland a bachelor. He wanted no reluctant bride.
Then he thought of those three crowns. To be King of Britain—well, was it not worth a little sacrifice.
Besides, she was a child; he would soon teach her the kind of conduct he expected in a wife. He must not jeopardize his future in a moment of pique over a spoilt child—especially as, after the marriage, he would have the whip hand.
No, he would marry this foolish child; and he would teach her who was master.
All the same his pride was hurt. She had made him see himself as he must appear to her—a man undersized, who stood awkwardly because his back had grown crooked, and wheezed a little because it was not always easy to breathe. Since the death of the de Wittes he had forgotten that image of himself. He had become a great leader, a man whom the King of England wished to please; he had ceased to think of himself as that pale young man who found it always necessary to assert himself.
She had brought back that image—that spoilt child!
He would show her.
Angrily he strode from the room and as he did so he almost collided with a young woman. He was brought up sharp and looked full into her face. She flushed and lowered her eyes, which he noticed were unusual; one seemed larger than the other and there was a cast in them. In his present mood the slight abnormality seemed to him attractive.
“I beg Your Highness’s gracious pardon,” she said.
The sound of her voice, humble, a little alarmed, soothed him.
“It is given,” he answered.
She lifted those strange eyes to his face and her look was one of r
ecognizable adulation.
His lips moved slightly; it was not quite a smile, but then, he rarely smiled.
She passed on in one direction, he in another; then on impulse—strange with him—he turned to look after her at the very moment when she turned; for a second they gazed at each other; then she hurried away.
He found the memory of the girl with the unusual eyes coming between him and his anger with Mary. That girl had by a look and a few words restored a little of his lost pride. He wondered who she was; presumably she belonged to Mary’s suite; if so, he would see her again. He hoped so, for she had made quite an impression on him.
The Prince had made an impression on Elizabeth Villiers.
She knew what had taken place in the closet. How foolish Mary was! But Mary’s folly might well prove to the advantage of Elizabeth Villiers. She had been anxious. It was hardly likely that the Princess Mary would select her when she was in a position to choose her own household. Elizabeth Villiers would be no favored friend. But if not the friend of the Princess, why not the friend of the Prince?
Was she arriving at false conclusions, was she seeing life working out a certain way because that was what she wanted?
Well, that was a necessity which often occurred to an ambitious woman.
Mary, in her apartment, wept steadily throughout the day. Anne sat at her feet leaning her head against her sister’s knees crying with her.
Nothing could comfort either of them.
Elizabeth Villiers had been unexpectedly sympathetic to Mary; she did not attempt to persuade her to try to control her dislike of the marriage.
She was with her when, red-eyed, her body shaken by an occasional sob, Mary received the King’s Council and listened in silence to the congratulatory speeches.
The Prince of Orange was often present and although he gave no sign, he was very much aware of Elizabeth. In fact if she were not there he would have felt very angry but, by the very contrast to his betrothed, she made him feel less slighted by the insults Mary was giving him.
It was gratifying that through the country the news of the marriage was received with wild enthusiasm. The sky glowed with the reflection of hundreds of bonfires; although Mary Beatrice was pregnant and expected to give birth any day, not much hope was given to her producing a son and Mary was looked upon as the heiress to the throne. It was well, therefore, the people of England believed, that she was making a Protestant marriage.
The King was delighted with the people’s enthusiasm for the marriage. He told James that he should be, too.
“This is particularly important to you, James,” he reminded his brother. “You will see that people will not hate you quite so heartily when your daughter has married a Protestant. We’ll get this marriage made and consummated here on English soil before our bride and groom leave for Holland. You look ill-pleased.”
“I was thinking of Mary.”
Charles was momentarily downcast. “Poor Mary!” he said. “But peace, James … peace abroad and at home. Mary must do what is necessary for the sake of that.”
James was silent, thinking of his daughter’s unhappiness and the Prince of Orange whom he would never happily accept as a son-in-law.
The last day of freedom. A dull dreary day. Mist and cold outside the Palace of St. James; inside, dark foreboding.
Anne spent much of that day with her. Poor Anne, she was almost as wretched as her sister; and Mary tried to comfort her.
“We shall see each other often,” she told her.
“How?” asked Anne.
“You will come to Holland and I shall come to London.”
“Yes,” cried Anne. “We must. I could not bear it if we did not see each other very, very often.”
When they clung together Mary thought Anne seemed a little feverish. She mentioned this and Anne said: “It is because I am so unhappy at your leaving us, dear sister. And what shall I do while I am waiting to go to Holland and for you to come to England?”
“You will be at home,” Mary replied. “Think of me, far away in a strange land with a strange husband.”
And the thought of that calamity set the tears falling again.
Nine o’clock in the evening in the Palace of St. James. The hour of doom. In the bedchamber of the Princess Mary those who would participate in the ceremony had assembled. There was the bridegroom, pale and stern, gazing with distaste at the red eyes and swollen face of his bride. Henry Compton, the Bishop of London, had come to perform the ceremony and the Duke and Duchess of York had now entered with the King.
James’s eyes went at once to his daughter and he came to her side and embraced her.
“My dearest Mary,” he whispered, “my little one.”
“Father …?” she murmured and there was an appeal in her eyes.
“My dearest, if I could … I would.”
Mary saw that her stepmother, who was as round as a ball expecting as she was to end her pregnancy at any moment now, was trying not to weep.
“I shall miss you so much,” she whispered.
The King was approaching, and seeing the tears of the bride and her stepmother, the sullen looks of his brother, and the grim ones of the bridegroom, he was determined to make as merry an occasion of the wedding as was possible in the circumstances.
“Come now, Compton,” he said, “we are all impatient to be done with the necessary business.”
Charles laid a hand on Mary’s shoulder and pressed it affectionately. Poor child! he thought. But she would soon recover; she was a Stuart at heart and the Stuarts were gay by nature. Moreover, she was pretty enough to find herself someone who would please her as it was certain dour William would not.
He was sorry for her but he had long learned to feel emotions lightly, and while he was outwardly tender and kind to his sad little niece he was less concerned with her misery than anyone else at the melancholy wedding.
He looked slyly at William who, he knew, was hoping through this marriage to have the throne in time. An ambitious man, the bridegroom. Strange how big dreams often filled the hearts of little men.
“Come, Compton,” cried Charles, “make you haste or my dear sister the Duchess may give birth to a son before the ceremony is over and so disappoint the marriage!”
William’s expressions scarcely changed. He was becoming accustomed to his uncle’s sly witticisms.
William had placed a handful of gold and silver coins on the book as he promised to endow his bride with all his worldly goods. “Take it and put it into your pocket, niece,” whispered Charles, “for it is all clear gain.” The bridegroom had put the little ruby ring on her finger. The ceremony was over.
Mary stood shivering beside the man who was her husband. She was becoming more and more fearful, for the worst was yet to come.
The crowded room had been stifling hot in spite of the cold November air outside. Mary was bemused by the congratulations, the hot wine had gone to her head and she felt dizzy.
Queen Catherine, her stepmother and the Duchess of Monmouth were with her now; they had come to prepare her for bed.
They were kind, all of them, infinitely sorry for the fifteen-year-old child who was being forced into marriage. They tried to comfort her, but they could only do so by their gentleness; no words could help.
They led her to the bed. They had taken away her clothes; she and William were together and the King was there smiling at them. He had insisted that he would be the one to pull the bed curtains.
And now that moment had come.
He did not look at Mary; he could not face her pleading eyes. So he laughed and shouted: “Now, nephew, to your work. Hey! St. George for England!” as with a flourish he drew the bed curtains.
Alone in the darkness—alone with the grim dour man who was her husband.
Mary felt him grasp her shuddering body; and shutting her eyes tightly, although it was dark enclosed by the curtains, she gave herself up to … horror.
William had left her and Mary was being dres
sed by her attendants. She was dazed by the experiences of the previous night. Intimacy had not endeared William to her nor her to him. Her shuddering distaste had been an affront to his pride which he was going to find it hard to forgive. He was determined to subdue her to absolute obedience. As for Mary, she could only contemplate that the last night was but a prelude to her future life, that it would go on and on like that for as long as she would live; nor, very soon, would she wake to the familiar surroundings of St. James’s and Whitehall. She would be in a land of foreigners, with a strange dour Dutchman as her master.
“There is someone at the door,” said Sarah Jennings; and she gave the permission for whoever was there to come in, which it was not her right to do, but Sarah Jennings constantly assumed rights which were not hers, and Mary was too miserable to care about such trivialities now.
The arrival was Bentinck—the right-hand man of the Prince of Orange; he came, he said, with a gift from the Prince to the Princess of Orange.
The women were clustering around him, their eyes eager with anticipation. What had the Prince sent to his bride? He had not appeared to be the most generous of men. They could scarcely wait to see.
Bentinck came forward, bowed and put a box in Mary’s hands.
“Please thank the Prince,” she said listlessly.
Bentinck bowed and retired; and as soon as he had left, the girls implored Mary to relieve their curiosity and open the box. When she did so Mary drew out a row of pearls from among the ruby and diamond ornaments.
“They are magnificent,” said Elizabeth Villiers, her eyes sparkling with sudden excitement.
“I doubt not it is the Dutch custom to present these very jewels to each bride of Orange after her wedding night,” replied Mary.
“A pleasant morrowing gift,” said Anne Trelawny, holding a ruby emerald against Mary’s throat.
“Worth a fortune,” declared practical Sarah Jennings. “I’d say somewhere in the region of … thirty or forty thousand pounds. Just look at those pearls!”
Mary looked at them. I would rather have my freedom, she thought, than all the jewels in the world.
It was inevitable that there should be festivities to celebrate the wedding since it was the wish of the King. There must be a ballet, dancing, and revelry. The palaces were a little shabby, because the King was always in need of money and in no mood to forego other extravagant pleasures for the sake of refurbishing them. But his courtiers could be relied on to provide a witty entertainment.
The Three Crowns Page 21
