by Jean Plaidy
Change came.
Daily she waited for Gibson to bring her the cornelian ring. Anne, who had wept with Mary when she had heard that Frances was moving from the Palace, declared that she too must have a ring for remembrance; and when the cornelian did not arrive Mary believed that Frances had sent it to Anne instead.
She poured out her jealous anguish in a letter.
“Not but that I think my sister do deserve your love more than I, but you have loved me once and now I do not doubt that my sister has the cornelian ring. Unkind Aurelia, I hope you will not go too soon, for I should be robbed of seeing you, unkind husband, as well as of your love, but she that has it will have your heart too and your letters, and oh, thrice happy she. She is happier than I ever was for she has triumphed over a rival that once was happy in your love, till she with her alluring charms removed unhappy Clorine from your heart …”
But Anne did not have the cornelian ring; and all in good time it came to Mary.
A happy day, which almost made her forget that communication would be more difficult now that Frances was going to St. James’s Square.
In spite of her love for Frances, which was all absorbing, Mary still had an affection for her cousin Monmouth; and now that she was growing up and was a great deal at Court she had many friends among the maids of honor. She was mildly fond of a number of them, but her passion for Frances meant that she had little room in her heart for others.
Eleanor Needham, a beautiful young girl, was a friend of both Mary and Frances; so that when Eleanor was in trouble and she had to confide in someone, she chose the Princess Mary.
But this did not happen until the interfering Sarah Jennings had made it necessary.
Sarah dominated whatever household she found herself in; her passion for management was irresistible to her. She had quarrelled with most of the maids of honor and was continually trying to call attention to herself. She had made the Princess Anne her special charge, but since Mary had become so attached to Frances (and Anne must follow her sister in everything) Anne had become less friendly with Sarah.
Sarah was alert; there was little she missed; and she it was who warned the Duchess of Monmouth to watch her husband and Eleanor Needham, for she was certain something was going on there.
The Duchess told Sarah to mind her own business, to which Sarah retorted that if she could not take a warning she was welcome to the consequences of her blindness. The Duchess accused her husband, mentioning Sarah, at which Monmouth called on Sarah and told her that if she did not keep her sharp nose out of his affairs she might not be in a position to much longer, for that same nose would not reach the Court from the place to which he would have her banished.
Sarah was furious; but then Sarah often was furious. All the same she was aware of the power of the King’s favorite son; and although she might talk of upstart bastards out of his hearing, she was a little afraid of what he might do. Sarah knew that it was most essential for her to keep her place at Court if she were going to make the marriage that was necessary to establish her social position.
So before Eleanor came to Mary she had had an idea of what was happening and now that she was so knowledgeable of how people at Court conducted themselves, she was not surprised at the outcome.
“My lady,” said Eleanor, “I am with child and I must leave the Court very soon.”
“Is it Jemmy’s?” whispered Mary.
Eleanor nodded.
“Poor Eleanor. But what will you do?”
“Go right away from here and no one shall ever hear of me again.”
“But where will you go?”
“Do not ask me.”
“But Eleanor, can you look after yourself?”
“I shall be all right.”
“But I must help you.”
“My dear lady Mary, you are so kind and good. I knew you would be. That is why I had to say good-bye to you. But I shall know how to look after myself.”
“You should stay at Court. No one takes much account of these things here.”
“No, I shall go. But I wanted to say good-bye.”
Mary embraced her friend.
“Promise me that if you need help you will come to me?”
“My good sweet lady Mary, I promise.”
Mary told Anne what had happened, and how sorry she was for poor Eleanor.
“Sometimes,” said Mary, “I think I hate men. There is Jemmy who is as gay as ever while poor Eleanor is so unhappy she has to go right away. How different is my love for Aurelia.”
Anne nodded, and taking a sweet from the pocket of her gown, munched it thoughtfully.
Mary went into her closet and sitting at her table wrote that she was taking up her new crow quill to write to her dearest Aurelia.
She told her about the quarrel between that busybody Sarah Jennings and the Duke and Duchess of Monmouth, which was on account of Eleanor Needham. It was sad, wrote Mary, that a woman should be so ill-used. They had both been fond of Eleanor, and now she had left the Court to go, as she said, where no one would hear of her. How Mary longed to escape from the Court where such intrigues were commonplace.
“As for myself, I could live and be content with a cottage in the country and a cow, and a stiff petticoat and waistcoat in summer, and cloth in winter, a little garden where we could live on the fruit and herbs it yields.…”
Little Catherine died in convulsions ten months after her birth.
Mary Beatrice was heartbroken for a long time; Mary did her best to comfort her and for a while James deserted his mistresses and became the devoted husband.
There would be other children, he assured her; she was so young.
The little girl was buried in the vault of Mary Queen of Scots in Westminster Abbey; and after a short period of mourning Mary Beatrice was obliged to take her part in Court functions.
The devotion of her husband and the company of her two stepdaughters did a great deal for her over this unhappy time.
Although Mary mourned her half-sister, life had become too exciting for brooding on what was past. There was the gaiety of the Court, the friendships with the girls, none of which rivaled that with Frances, but Mary had much affection for friends such as Anne Trelawny. Her sister was very dear to her, and although at times she would feign exasperation because of Anne’s imitative ways and her refusal to change her mind once she had made it up, even when as in the case of the man in the park, she was confronted with the truth, the two sisters were inseparable.
Their stepmother was not in the least alarming. A little imperious, sometimes, a little pious often, but as she recovered from the death of her baby, ready to play a game of blindman’s buff, hide-and-seek, or “I love my love with an A.”
Then there was dancing, in which Mary was beginning to excel, and acting which was amusing. Sarah Jennings generally managed to infuse intrigue into the household which made it a lively one.
The years were slipping past and so absorbed was Mary by her own circle—and in particular Frances—that she forgot she was no longer a child: she had little interest in affairs outside her own domestic circle. A crisis occurred when there was a question of a husband being found for Frances.
A husband! But they had no need of men in their Eden.
“No one could ever love you as I do,” wrote Mary. “Marriage is not a happy state. How many faithful husbands are there at the Court, think you? They marry, tire of their wives in a month, and then they turn to others.”
It was alarming to contemplate. It reminded her of what she had seen when she surprised Jemmy and Henrietta Wentworth; it reminded her of the stories she had heard about her father and her uncle.
Unpleasant thoughts which it was best to avoid, but how could she avoid them when there was talk of Aurelia’s marrying!
For some months her anxiety persisted; and then the matter seemed to have been forgotten and the serene state of affairs continued: meetings with Frances on Sundays and holy days; and always those letters which must be smu
ggled out to the Apsley home. Her dancing master Mr. Gorley, the Gibsons, and very often Sarah Jennings and Anne Trelawny acted as go-betweens. It was a pleasant intrigue, for it must be carried on without the knowledge of Lady Frances Villiers who did not entirely approve of the correspondence.
So life went on merrily until Mary was nearly fifteen.
It was the day of the Lord Mayor’s feast and the King was dining at the Guildhall. This was one of the greatest occasions in the City of London and when Charles had told James that he thought Mary and Anne should be present James guessed that his daughters would soon be called upon to play their part in state affairs.
Anne’s favorite form of entertainment was attending banquets; as for Mary she enjoyed the pageantry. Both their uncle and father watched how the crowd cheered the girls; and how charmingly they responded. James was not surprised therefore when, on the day following the banquet, Charles sent for his brother, in order, said Charles, to discuss some small projects concerning the Lady Mary.
“James,” said Charles, “how old is Mary?”
“Fifteen.”
“Old enough, most would say.”
“For marriage, you mean?”
“What else? My dear brother, don’t look downcast. You must have realized that before long it would be necessary to find a husband for her.”
“She seems but a child to me.”
“Still, you would wish a brilliant parti for her?”
“I suppose it will be necessary.”
“Then the sooner the better.”
“She seems such a child.”
“It matters not what she seems but what she is. She is fifteen. Time she was betrothed. Have you a husband in mind for her?”
James hesitated. “There is Louis’s son,” he said at length. “I should like to see Mary Queen of France—and France is not so very far away.”
Charles grimaced, and James went on hotly: “Our own cousin, Charles. Why not?”
“Our little Mary is an important person. We must not forget that, as matters stand now, she could follow us to the throne. If you had a son, James, Mary’s marriage would not have been a matter of such deep concern.”
“Where could she make a better marriage than with France? The Queen of France. That is a position I should like to see her hold.”
“Alliance with a Catholic monarch, James?”
“With one of the greatest powers …”
“The people want a Protestant marriage, and I have thought of a likely husband for Mary.”
“And who is this?”
“Our nephew, William. William of Orange.”
THE THREE CROWNS
Twenty-seven years before Charles decided to marry his nephew to his niece, William of Orange was born into a house of mourning. Eight days before his birth his father had died suddenly and his mother had ordered that her lying-in chamber should be hung with black crêpe; and even the cradle was black.
“A dismal welcome for a child,” mused the midwife, and she shook her head for she believed it to be an evil omen.
If the child were a boy, he would be the Prince of Orange; his father was lamentably dead, it was true; but she believed that the entry of a child into the world should be a matter for rejoicing.
The Princess of Orange was English. She was considered one of the most fortunate members of the unlucky Stuart family in those days of exile which had followed the execution of Charles I. She had helped her brothers, Charles and James, by giving them refuge in Holland; she had been devoted to them both and one of her most cherished hopes was to see Charles restored to the throne of England.
And now she had to face her own tragedy. The death of her William, Stadtholder of Holland, only a short time before she hoped to give him a son.
The child must be a son, she was thinking, as she lay in her darkened room. The child must be strong; he would be born ruler of his country. Never, it seemed to Mary of Orange, had a birth been so important; never would one take place in more tragic circumstances.
Mrs. Tanner, the midwife, bustled about the chamber giving orders. The Princess of Orange lay on her bed waiting.
In the anteroom Mrs. Tanner found several of the Princess’s women, and paused, for she could never resist a gossip.
“The mourning should be taken away,” she said. “It is not good. A little one coming into the world to black crêpe! What a welcome!”
“But he has no father, Mrs. Tanner,” said one of the women.
“Well, there’s no need to greet the baby with that knowledge. ’Tis something the little mite should come to know in time. And don’t call the child ‘he’ before you know the sex. That’s another bad omen.”
“The Princess is praying for a boy.”
“That’s tempting fate. Show as you’ll be pleased with what you get, and like as not you’ll get what you want.”
The women looked with respect at Mrs. Tanner, for she had attended so many births that they felt she knew what she was talking about.
“Then ’tis to be hoped the Princess gets what she wants—for if this little one’s a boy he’ll be the Stadtholder. They’ll call him William after his father and …”
“Hush I say. Hush. The air is full of omens tonight. I sense them.”
The women looked at each other in awe; and Mrs. Tanner left them. “For,” she said, “the child will be with us soon. I know it.”
She was right. Almost immediately the Princess’s pains had begun.
The welcome cry of a child! How often was that waited for in the palaces of kings? The words: “It is a boy.” How welcome and how rarely they came! It seemed that boys could be born in humble cottages but royal palaces were less favored. This was one of those occasions when wishes were granted.
William Henry, Prince of Orange, was born.
Mrs. Tanner, gossiping afterward to the women, assured them that it was no ordinary birth. Her little William—he was already hers—was destined for a great future. This day was one which was going to be remembered in the history of Orange.
“She was crying out in her anguish, our poor sad Princess; and I knew that the birth was near. Poor soul, she had forgotten the tragedy of her loss; there was nothing for her but the pain and the agony. And then … there he was … the blessed boy. And at that moment all the candles went out. So he came into a world of darkness. Poor blessed royal mite! He yelled; and I took him in my arms and shouted for light. I said: ‘This is a boy.’ And they all took up the cry and I had to remind them that I must have light. And then … while I was waiting for the lights to be brought … I saw it clearly. The darkness helped; and afterward I asked myself did the lights go out that I could see the symbol?”
“What symbol, Mrs. Tanner?”
Mrs. Tanner’s eyes were narrowed. “Three haloes of light … right about the baby’s head.”
“Does it mean he is going to be a monk and holy man, Mrs. Tanner?”
“Monk and holy man indeed! They were crowns. He’ll have three crowns, that blessed infant. I saw, I tell you.”
For a few days everyone talked about Mrs. Tanner’s vision. Then it was forgotten. After all, Mrs. Tanner was a romancer, several of them believed, for all that she posed as being such a wise woman. And of course this was an important little boy. He was the heir of Holland; more than that, the tragic death of his father made his birth the more joyous event. The Princess of Orange had a reason for living. The people of Holland had their new Stadtholder.
YOUNG WILLIAM
To young William the Palace in the Wood was home. This was a very beautiful house which his grandmother had had built within a mile or so of the state palace. Here he lived with Lady Stanhope, the governess chosen for him by his English mother—a serious little boy whom none were very sure of because he prided himself on keeping his opinions to himself. The fact that he was not strong was a great anxiety to his mother and those whose duty it was to care for him. William in his grave and serious way decided to make the utmost advantage of everythi
ng; therefore his weakness seemed an asset rather than a fact to be deplored. Because he was inclined to be asthmatical, his governess was in perpetual terror on his account. He was delicate and because his father was dead and there could be no other of the same line, he was very precious indeed.
William was aware of this, but in his cool judicial manner he knew exactly the reason why. He was small of stature and this hurt his pride; he could not compete with boys of his own age in sport; for one reason he had not the physique, for another his governors and governesses were always in fear of his overtaxing his strength.
“Oh,” he would say, “they will not allow me to do this or that.… It is because I have no father and am the Prince of Orange.”
That was well enough to say to others; but he accepted the true state of affairs. He had been born a Prince but of such weak body that he could not enjoy rough games. One could not have everything in life; therefore he would try to make up for physical imperfections by cultivating wisdom.
He was alert and missed little; he had heard an account of what Mrs. Tanner had seen at his birth. Three crowns! That sounded wonderful; when he stood beside tall strong boys he reminded himself of what Mrs. Tanner had seen at his birth. He would be ready to take the crowns when they came to him as he was sure they would. It would not matter then that he was not very tall and that he sometimes found breathing difficult.
He quickly learned that a country was not happy when its hereditary ruler was a minor. He was descended from great William the Silent who had won the gratitude of the Dutch because of what he had done for them in their struggle against Spain and the Inquisition, but his father was dead, he himself was a child, and de Witte with his Republicans was ruling Holland at this time. The office of Stadtholder had been abolished by the de Witte government soon after young William was born; and although he was the Prince of Orange and the son of rulers, while de Witte was supreme he could not be regarded as the future ruler.
