by Jean Plaidy
A pleasant life, made wonderful for Mary by this deep friendship. When she was at Richmond she constantly longed to be at St. James’s because Frances lived there with her parents Sir Allen and Lady Apsley. Their friendship was unusual, Frances had said, because she was so much older than the Princess; and this gave it a piquant flavor. Yet the difference in their ages seemed unimportant for Frances was as attracted by Mary as Mary was by Frances.
There was always so much to talk about; and to sit close beside Frances, holding her hand, seemed to Mary complete happiness. Mary realized that this was how she had wanted to love her father and perhaps Jemmy; but she never could because between them was the shadow of some shame, not quite understood but ever present. Lampoons had been written about them; they were untrustworthy because of this; they were in a sense shameful and could never enjoy a relationship of idealistic love such as that which existed between Frances and Mary.
“Frances,” said Mary on one occasion, “I shall never marry. I could not bear to marry. I shall call you my husband and I shall be your wife, and perhaps one day we can leave the Court and have a little house together.”
Frances laughed and said it was because Mary was young that she talked in this way; but Mary shook her head, and when she next wrote to Frances she called her her husband and signed herself her loving wife.
She was sitting with her sister one day drawing with the Gibsons when Lady Frances came into the room. She was carrying a letter in her hand, and Mary started up in dismay for she recognized it as one which she had written to Frances Apsley.
Lady Frances dismissed the dwarfs and Princess Anne and when they had gone she put the letter on the table.
“My lady,” she said, “this is your handwriting?”
Mary admitted that it was.
“It is addressed to ‘my dear husband’ and signed ‘your wife Mary’.”
Mary did not answer.
“And addressed to Frances Apsley. What does it mean?”
“It means,” said Mary, “that she is my dear friend and … I wrote to her.”
“You seem very fond of her.”
“She is the dearest person in the world.”
“H’m,” said Lady Frances. She picked up the letter and tapped the table with it. “I do not think you are wise to write so extravagantly to this young woman.”
“But I say nothing that I do not mean.”
Lady Frances was faintly worried.
As soon as Lady Frances had disappeared the Princess Anne came quietly to her sister who was sitting thoughtfully at the table—the letter which she had taken from Lady Frances still in her hand.
“What was wrong?” demanded Anne.
“I am accused of writing extravagantly to a friend.”
“What friend?”
“A very great friend.”
“Please tell me,” wheedled Anne, sidling up to her sister.
Mary wanted to talk of Frances Apsley and having begun found it difficult to stop. Frances was perfect, she explained, so good and unsullied, there was no one in the world as beautiful or as good as Frances and Mary loved her passionately.
Anne was interested.
“I have seen her,” she said. “I want to be her friend too.”
“You always wanted to copy me, Anne.”
“Not always,” her sister corrected her. “You eat like a little bird.”
“And you like a lion. Yes, that’s true.”
“But all the same,” said Anne, “if you have a dear friend, I must have one too.”
Mary Beatrice was no longer the serious girl who had wanted to be a vestal virgin. She found great pleasure in the entertainments which were the fashion at her brother-in-law’s Court. No one had been more thrilled to see the pageant which had featured her husband against the Duke of Monmouth when they had reconstructed the siege of Maestricht for the amusement of the Court. How thrilled she had been to see James in action as a general, building trenches and giving orders and showing what a brilliant strategist he was. The King looked on with great amusement and many witty asides to his friends. Charles realized as fully as anyone present that there was more than play in the rivalry between his brother and his natural son. James wanted to show the Court that he was a better general than Jemmy could ever be, while Jemmy was burning with zeal to show them that youth, energy, and boldness were a better choice than age and experience.
Such a situation was bound to amuse Charles and his friends, but it was impossible to know whose side Charles was on. He doted on Jemmy, but he was never a fool where his affections were concerned and saw the loved one’s faults as clearly as the virtues. In any case, Charles was not a man to love for virtue. He knew that his handsome brash Jemmy was so fond of his father largely because of what he hoped to attain through him, and that his exasperating brother was a man of honor. He never forgot that James was the legitimate heir of England and that although the people deplored his religious views they would always remember that he was the legitimate son of a King.
So the siege of Maestricht played out on a stage was more than a pleasing pageant.
Mary Beatrice, watching it, was deeply conscious of her husband. She would not have believed it possible when she first came to England that she could have such strong feelings for that man. He was twenty-five years her senior; he was a sensual man; he made demands on her which she had never thought it would be a pleasure to fulfill; but how wrong she had been. Mary Beatrice, once longing for the virgin’s life, had now become a woman passionately in love with her husband.
It was a marvel to her that she who had once lain in the nuptial bed shivering at the prospect of his approach, now lay waiting for him, her only fear being that he would not come but decide to stay with one of his mistresses instead. She was passionately jealous of his mistresses; she had remonstrated with him about them, but although he was always kind, and implied to her that they were not as important in his life as she was, he would not give them up.
She had discovered a great deal about her husband’s first marriage—for she never tired of hearing about it and asked numerous questions. She knew that he had loved Anne Hyde his first wife so much that he had defied his formidable mother, his brother, and all his family for her sake. They had made life unpleasant for poor Anne Hyde, except the King who, when he saw that everyone was against her, sought to be kind to her.
She could well believe that. Had he not been kind to her? Looking back now she believed the change in her had begun when she had met the King.
Now she watched her husband and she prayed that he would triumph over Monmouth, because she knew that Monmouth hated James; but she believed James to be too kindly to hate his nephew.
She was pregnant and as she put her hands on her body which was beginning to swell, she was filled with love and tenderness for the child who would be born in five months’ time. Her child and James’s. She longed to have the child; she wanted to protect it from all the misfortunes which could beset a royal infant.
And when she looked at James, there in the mock battle against the King’s bastard, she wanted to protect him too.
The Princess Anne must follow her sister whenever possible, so as soon as she saw Frances Apsley she became violently attracted by her.
Mary was not altogether displeased; she was delighted whenever anyone admired Frances, and as she loved her sister dearly she found it hard to be angry with her. But she was tortured that Frances might prefer Anne to herself, which she thought might be possible. Anne, with her easygoing nature, was popular; people understood Anne more readily than they did Mary; so it seemed to the elder sister that Frances might very well find the younger more attractive.
Mary had given Frances the name of Aurelia—a character from a Dryden comedy—the Aurelia of the play being a delightful creature, whose company was greatly in demand. Mary herself was Clorine, a shepherdess from one of the Beaumont and Fletcher works—a faithful character who was constantly misunderstood.
When Mar
y could not see Frances her only consolation was in writing letters to her. To her beloved Aurelia she told of her undying devotion, imploring her always to love her exclusively and to remember that she was the loving husband to her Mary-Clorine.
As Lady Frances Villiers did not approve of this correspondence and Mary was in constant dread that something would be done to stop it, the letters had to be smuggled out of Richmond Palace to St. James’s. The dwarfs, Mr. and Mrs. Gibson, who loved their mistress and wished to please her, conveniently obliged and did the carrying. So a pleasant atmosphere of intrigue had been created and when Mary looked back to those dull days before she had known Frances Apsley, she wondered how she had endured them.
Anne refused to be left out. She even bestirred herself to write to Frances, although writing was an occupation which held little charm for her.
One day Mary found her bent over a letter and looking over her shoulder saw that she was writing to her beloved Semandra.
Anne put her hands over the letter, pretending to hide it.
“Who is Semandra?” asked Mary.
“Well, if she is Aurelia to you she cannot be to me.”
“Semandra! That is one of the characters in Mithridate.”
Anne nodded. “Mrs. Betterton wants me to act in it. And Ziphares is in it too. So while Frances is Semandra I shall be Ziphares.”
“Anne, why do you always have to copy me? Can’t you think of anything for yourself?”
Anne looked astonished. “But why should I, when I have my dear clever Mary to think of everything?”
Mary wanted to feel angry and exasperated; but how could she? She loved Anne and could not imagine ever being without her.
She thought then that she would like to spend the rest of her life in a little house—far from the Court. She and Frances together. They would have cows and she would do the milking; and she would cook like a country woman. Anne should visit them … often, very often.
She was smiling at her sister. “Really, Anne, you ought to try and do something of your own.”
Mary Beatrice was longing for a son. The people expected it of her; if she had a boy he would be the heir to the throne; it was no wonder that everyone watched her with apprehension during those waiting months.
When she was indisposed her health was the main topic of conversation. Every night she prayed for a son.
Poor barren Queen Catherine spent much time with her and they became good friends, for it seemed that since Catherine could not provide the heir to the throne she was content for her sister-in-law to do so.
It was a great responsibility.
She guarded her health with the greatest care all during the cold dark autumn days, and early in January she went to St. James’s Palace to await the birth.
On the ninth of that month she knew her time was near; and with relief and apprehension waited for the beginning of her ordeal.
Outside the snow had begun to fall and the bitter wind blew along the river. Her women were bustling round her.
This was the most important birth in the kingdom.
She awoke on a dark Sunday knowing that her time had come; she called to her women.
It seemed to Mary Beatrice that all the world was waiting breathlessly for the child she would have.
She was aware of voices as she emerged from unconsciousness. The room was lighted by many candles and her pains were over.
Someone was bending over her.
“James,” she said.
“My dear.”
“The child?”
“The child is well and healthy. And you must rest now.”
“But I want to see …”
He said: “Bring the child.…”
The child? Why did he continue to say the child? She knew of course. Had it been a boy he would not have said the child.
They brought the little bundle; they laid it in her arms.
“Our little daughter,” said James tenderly.
“A daughter!”
But when she held the child in her arms she ceased to care that it was not a boy.
It was her child. She was a mother. She laughed scornfully at that foolish girl who had believed that the ultimate contentment could only be found within the walls of a convent.
She lay in her bed, drowsily content. My daughter, she thought. There would be others. Next time a son. But she was entirely content that this one should be a daughter.
She thought of the future of the child. Should she be brought up with her half-sisters? But they were much too old. Moreover they were in the care of the Protestant Bishop of London. The Protestant Bishop! Why should her child be brought up as a Protestant? She was a Catholic, James was a Catholic; even though he was not publicly known as one. Why should they not be allowed to bring up their children as they wished?
When James came to see her she told him that she wanted the child baptized as a Catholic.
“My dear,” said James, “that is not possible.”
“But why? I am a Catholic and so are you.”
“Our little daughter is in the line of succession to the throne. The people of England will not accept a Catholic baptism.”
“This is my daughter,” said Mary Beatrice obstinately.
“Alas, my dear, we are servants of the state.”
He did not discuss the matter further, but Mary Beatrice lying back on her pillows continued to brood. Why, because she was young, should she be continually told what she must do? She had been married against her will and nothing could alter that, even though she was now glad that she had been. She was not going to allow anyone to dictate to her where her child was concerned.
She sent for her confessor and when he came she said: “Father Gallis, I want you to make ready to baptize my daughter.”
Father Gallis raised his eyebrows, but she went on: “I want no interference. Indeed I will have no interference. My daughter shall be baptized in accordance with the rights of my Church. I care not what anyone says. That is what I have decided.”
Father Gallis, secretly pleased, obeyed his mistress and the little girl was christened on her mother’s bed, according to Rome.
Charles came to call on his sister-in-law.
He sat by the bed smiling at her.
“I have come to welcome my new subject,” he said genially.
The baby was brought to show him.
“She is charming,” he said, and he smiled from James, who had accompanied him, to the beautiful mother.
“You are very proud of your achievement,” he went on, “and rightly so. Have you decided on her names?”
“Yes, Your Majesty,” answered Mary Beatrice, “she is to be Catherine after Her Majesty.”
“A pretty compliment,” murmured Charles, “and one which will satisfy the Queen.”
“And Laura after my mother.”
“Who, rest assured, will be equally gratified. Now, let us talk about the arrangements for this blessed infant’s baptism.”
Mary Beatrice’s heart began to beat fast. It was one thing to talk defiance to her confessor; another to do so to the King’s face.
“Your Majesty,” she said slowly and she hoped firmly, “my daughter has already been baptized in accordance with my Church.”
Charles was silent for a few seconds then he smiled. “Catherine Laura,” he said. “What charming names!”
Mary Beatrice lay back on her pillows. She had won. She should have known that the easygoing King would let her have her own way.
The Queen came to visit her.
“I am so touched that the baby is to be named after me,” she said.
“I should perhaps have asked Your Majesty’s gracious permission.”
Catherine laughed. “It would have been readily given as you knew. And the King has asked me to discuss the baby’s baptism with you.”
“But …”
“It is His Majesty’s wish that it should take place in the chapel royal where the bishop will perform the ceremony.”
“But of course.”
“When did His Majesty request you to come to see me?”
“Only half an hour before I arrived.”
Mary Beatrice lay back on her pillows. He had shown no signs of anger. But then he rarely did. He had merely smiled and then made plans to have it done the way he wished it.
She was afraid then that some punishment would fall on Father Gallis for what he had done, and as soon as the Queen had left she sent for him and told him what had happened.
He said they could only wait for the King’s vengeance.
They waited. Nothing happened. And then the baby was baptized according to the King’s desire and the rites of the Church of England. Her sponsors were the Duke of Monmouth and the baby’s half-sisters, Anne and Mary.
The King did not refer to the matter again. He hated unpleasantness, Mary Beatrice was to learn; but at the same time he liked to have his way with as little fuss as possible.
Mary was in despair. The family of her dear Aurelia were moving from St. James’s Palace to St. James’s Square.
“What will this mean to us?” she demanded. “How can we meet when you are not at the Palace?”
“My dearest,” answered Aurelia, “we must content ourselves with letters when we are apart; my family will often be at St. James’s or Whitehall and you must contrive to be there when I am.”
Mary was a little comforted.
“I shall give you a cornelian ring so that when you look at it you will always remember me,” said Aurelia.
“It will comfort me,” answered Mary.
When she returned to Richmond she was pensive. Frances in St. James’s Square was no longer easily accessible but they would meet and there would be letters; it was a warning that life did not go on indefinitely in the same pleasant pattern.
