by Jean Plaidy
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 dressed 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 King liked to amuse himself, surrounded by the fair ladies whom he favored at the time; as he was far too kindhearted—and too lazy—to dismiss those who no longer excited him, there were always a gathering of beauties about the throne. Monmouth could be relied on to enliven the company.
Besides the banquets and balls which celebrated the Protestant marriage, there were revelries in the streets. This was a defeat for popery, said the people. God save the King and the Princess Mary!
But while the bridegroom glowered and made it clear that he was heartily sick of England, his perfidious uncle, his sullen father-in-law, and his constantly weeping bride, and while the bride could not restrain her distaste for her marriage and h
er repulsion for her bridegroom, the revelries went on.
The Duke of York was cool to the bridegroom and it was clear that he was longing to shatter his hopes by becoming the father of a son in the next few days. Mary Beatrice, hourly expecting, had yet time to feel sorry for her little stepdaughter who had been more like a sister to her.
And in her apartments the bride’s only comfort was in weeping, which she did so frequently that it was quite impossible to hide the fact, and when she was receiving ambassadors or other state officials who had come to congratulate her, the tears would start to flow.
Two or three days after the wedding William came to her apartments when she was alone. She started up when he entered, her hand to her throat. He frightened her because he always looked so contemptuous and severe.
“Weeping again?” he said, in his cold voice.
She did not answer and he went on: “It would seem I have cause for grief. You have a stepbrother.”
Mary stood up, her fear forgotten. “So … it has happened.”
“Your stepmother has given birth to a son and your father is jubilant.”
He was looking at her with disdain, and she knew what he meant. It was as her uncle had suggested it might be: the marriage was disappointed. Now that she had a stepbrother she had lost her place in the succession, and William was thinking that the marriage was no longer the desirable union it had been a few days ago. He was saddled with a foolish child who spent most of her time in tears, who was quite insensible of the honor he had done her, and had no longer a crown to bring him which would have compensated for all these failings.
“We depart for Holland at the earliest possible moment,” he said sharply, and left her.
There followed days of ceremony and waiting for inevitable doom during which the son of the Duke and Duchess of York was christened Charles after his uncle, and the King himself, with the Prince of Orange in attendance, acted as the boy’s sponsor, while Lady Frances Villiers stood as proxy for his fifteen-month-old sister Isabella.
Three days after the christening Mary was in her apartments being prepared for yet another ball when Sarah Jennings—always first with any news—burst in with her usual lack of ceremony.
“My lady,” she cried, “Lady Frances is very ill. There is great consternation throughout the palace because they are saying it is smallpox.”
Mary stood up, startled out of her grief. “You must not go to her, naturally,” said Sarah practically.
“But I must be assured that she is well looked after.”
“That is being taken care of. We are not to go near the sickroom. Those are firm orders.”
Mary stared at her reflection. The curls bunched on either side of her head gave a look of coquetry which was incongruous with that sad little face.
Lady Frances ill of the smallpox! Her secure and happy world was disintegrating. What next? she asked herself.
There was the unexpected joy of a visit from Frances Apsley. They embraced fervently.
“Oh, Frances, what shall I do? How can I endure this?”
“My dearest Mary-Clorine, you must endure it. It is cruel, but it had to be. You must write to me every day. We must comfort each other with our letters.”
“And not to see each other … ever!”
“We may be able to arrange meetings.”
“Oh, Frances, dearest husband, you say that to comfort me. Have you seen … him?”
“Yes, my dearest.”
“Then you know.”
“He looks stern. He looks as if he could be cruel. But you must remember you are a Princess, and he gains much by this marriage, a fact which you must not let him forget.”
“He terrifies me, Frances.”
“He is only a man, beloved—and not very old.”
“He is years older than I.”
“You think that because you are so young. You must not show your fear.”
“How can I hide it, dearest husband? How can I? Oh, Aurelia, beloved, it is you with whom I should be leaving the Court. Do you remember my dream of a cottage in the country?”
“I remember, my love, but it was a dream which we knew could never be a reality.”
“Aurelia, you will remember me always. You will never forget your poor Clorine who loves you more than she can express. You must never forget that only your letters will assure me of your fidelity. You must write to me … every day … every day …”
They could only assure each other of their undying love. They met and made their vows; but they knew that there could not be many more meetings.
Lady Frances Villiers was dying and the Princess Anne had taken the smallpox.
Mary was in desperation. She had been fond of Lady Frances and to contemplate her death made her very sad; but the fact that Anne was in danger, terrified her. Her distasteful marriage no longer filled her mind; if Anne could be well again she would be ready to accept anything, she told herself.
She wanted to go to her sister, to nurse her herself, but she must not even see Anne—and this when there was so little time left to them!
William came into her apartments and told her that she was to prepare at once to leave St. James’s Palace for Whitehall.
“Although I cannot visit my sister yet I wish to be close to her,” she answered.
“Do you not understand anything?” he asked coldly.
“I certainly do not understand what you mean,” she retorted.
“There is smallpox in this place and it is possible that you may catch it.”
“I wish to remain near my sister,” she said stubbornly.
“It is obvious that you have no conception of what this means—I begin to think you have little conception of anything!”
“I know that the smallpox is deadly. It is killing Lady Frances.” The tears came to her eyes again, and William turned away impatiently muttering: “Tears. Tears. Can she offer me nothing but tears?”
“She was my guardian … she was like a mother to me. And now that my darling Anne …” Her voice broke.
William said impatiently, “Prepare at once to leave for Whitehall.”
“No,” she retorted firmly.
He gave her a look which contained more than contempt. It might have been hatred; then he left her.
That she should openly defy him was something he found very hard to forgive. If they had been in Holland, he assured himself, he would have enforced obedience; it was not so easy here where she was surrounded by her family and friends. So she stayed at St. James’s—the little fool. What if she succumbed to the smallpox? She might die—as he almost had, and would have, but for his dear friend Bentinck. She might be disfigured; how could she hope to please him then? With her pretty delicate complexion and almond-shaped eyes she had pleased him—before she had known he was to be her husband, then her reluctance to accept him, her actual repugnance had so wounded him where he was most vulnerable, that he intended to make her very sorry for her actions. If she were disfigured by smallpox, if she failed to bring him the crown of England—of what use was she?
Had he been a more passionate man he would have hated her; as it was he merely disliked her.
But because she had humiliated him, he was determined to humiliate her.
Everyone noticed that at the ball which Charles had insisted should be given in spite of the smallpox being in St. James’s Palace, Mary’s husband ignored her completely; he would not dance with her nor sit with her if he could avoid it; but when he had to do so he showed his indifference by not addressing a single remark to her.
His conduct was noted.
What a sullen clown the Prince of Orange is! was the general comment, and many felt sorry then for the Princess Mary.
The Princess Anne was in a state of high fever.
“I must stay in England until my sister is better,” declared Mary.
“We shall sail as arranged,” William told her.
She looked at him pleadingly, but he pretended not to see her. She had re
fused to leave St. James’s for Whitehall when it was known that he had commanded her to; and he had in fact gone to Whitehall and left her at St. James’s—and everyone had noted that the bride and groom already had separate lodgings. He had shrugged aside her recalcitrance. Let her wait till she was without her family to support her. Then she would see who was the master and she would be forced to obey him.
They were to sail on the sixteenth of November and as the fifteenth was Queen Catherine’s birthday the King had said there should be a ball which would celebrate his wife’s birthday and at the same time be a farewell to the Prince and Princess of Orange. Since the newly married pair would be leaving on the next day, they should retire early and say good-bye to all their friends at the ball.
Mary was dressed in the jewels which he had given her, but their luster only called attention to her wretched appearance. So much crying had made her eyes swollen and she could not disguise her misery.
Anne was desperately ill; Mary did not know when she would see Frances Apsley again; and the next day she would say good-bye to her family and leave with William.
If only Anne or Frances could have accompanied her she felt she could have borne her wretchedness more easily. Frances could not come because her father was ill; and who should be her attendants had been settled by the King and her father. The Villiers were well represented. Barbara Castlemaine had seen to that; so Elizabeth and her sister Anne were to be in the suite in addition to a cousin of theirs—Margaret Boyle, who was Lady Inchiquin. Lady Inchiquin, being married and more mature than the others, had been given the post of head of the maids; she it was who would keep them in order and pay their salaries. Mary was delighted that her friend, Anne Trelawny, was coming with her and that her nurse, Mrs. Langford, would be there too. She believed she could have been almost happy if she could have substituted Frances Apsley and her sister Anne for Elizabeth Villiers.
