The Three Crowns epub

by Jean Plaidy

  But here she was on what would very likely be the very last night she would spend with her family; and instead of throwing herself on to her bed and giving vent to her misery, she must go down, receive congratulations, and try to smile while she accepted good wishes.

  She would not have believed a few months ago that life could change so much.

  In the ballroom a glittering company was assembled.

  The King smiled kindly at his niece and led her in the dance.

  “Would I were King of the winds, Mary,” he said, “instead of merely of these Islands. Do you know what I would do? Send forth my commands and there would be such a gale that no one—not even the Prince of Orange—would dare set sail.”

  “If that were possible,” she sighed.

  He pressed her hand. “Troubles come and go,” he said. “There was a time when I thought I should never return to England … but I did.”

  “Your Majesty was a King … and a man. I, alas, am only a woman.”

  “Do not say ‘only,’ my dear niece. In my opinion women are the most delightful of God’s creations. I cannot command that wind, Mary, but I might pray for it. Though perhaps the prayers of sinners are never answered. What think you? Or is one more likely to receive blessings because one rarely asks for them?”

  He was trying to amuse her; she loved him; but her sad smile told him there was only one way of relieving her misery and that was to free her from this marriage.

  When the dance was over the King took her to her father who smiled at her with pride and told her that she looked beautiful.

  “Such jewels,” he said. “They become you well.”

  She shook her head and he, fearing that the tears would start again, said quickly: “The Duchess and I will visit you in Holland. Dear child, you are not going to the other end of the world.”

  “Anne …” she began.

  Anne. He thought of his beloved daughter who lay desperately ill and his expression darkened. To lose one daughter to Orange and the other to death would be unbearable.

  “Anne shall come with us,” he said. “You will see, Mary, that we shall take the first opportunity.”

  She nodded. “I shall wait for that day,” she assured him.

  “And your stepmother sends her love to you. She wishes that she might be with you … to comfort you. She says that she knows how unhappy you are. And she calls you her dear little Lemon—because you are paired with an Orange.”

  Mary smiled. “Pray tell her I love her … and the little boy.”

  “The little boy is frail, Mary, but we believe he will live.”

  “I shall pray for him,” said Mary.

  “Daughter, we shall pray for each other. We shall all remember, shall we not, that we are of one family. Although we are apart, that is something we shall remember till we die.”

  Mary nodded. “And my dearest Anne …”

  “She does not know that you are leaving England. We fear the news would make her very unhappy and she needs all her strength.”

  “Oh, Father, how sad life can be!”

  “Mary, I beg of you, do not weep here. You are watched, and tears do not please your husband.”

  “There seem to be so many things about me that do not please him.”

  James’s face hardened. “If he should be unkind to you, Mary … let me know.”

  “Of what use?” she asked.

  “I would find a way of saving you.”

  “Would that you had thought of it before the marriage.”

  “Oh, Mary, my dear, dear daughter, circumstances were too strong for us.”

  She remembered those words later. Circumstances were too strong. She reflected then that it was a phrase used by those who wished to excuse their weakness.

  The hands of the clocks were approaching eight—that hour when she must leave the ball, take off her satin gown and her jewels, and prepare herself for the journey.

  All those who would accompany her were in her apartment, many of them chattering with eagerness, for the journey to Holland was for them an adventure. Even Anne Trelawny could not keep the excitement out of her eyes. The Duke of York had taken her aside and asked her (because he knew that of all her ladies his daughter loved her best) to take care of Mary and let him know if aught went wrong with her. Anne Trelawny believed she had a special mission. Lady Inchiquin could not hide the pleasure she found in her new authority. Jane Wroth, a pretty girl, was frankly looking forward to the adventure. Anne Villiers was heartbroken on account of the serious illness of her mother, but nevertheless glad to be going to new surroundings; then there was Elizabeth, subdued and different, so that Mary wondered whether she was capable of deeper feelings than she had imagined. Elizabeth had changed very much of late and Mary, who was always ready to forgive, now accepted the fact that their childish quarrels must be forgotten.

  They took off her jewels and carefully put them away; they helped her change her dress.

  Then the party set off for Gravesend.

  There was after all a respite. Mary remembered the King’s words and wondered whether his prayers had been answered, for such a gale arose that it was impossible to sail and the party were forced to return to Whitehall where, said the King, they might have to reconcile themselves to a long stay.

  As he said this he smiled at Mary and she thought then that her uncle would be one of those whom she would most sadly miss.

  William was angry. His great desire now was to be back in his own country. He stood glowering at the windows watching the river and listening to the howling wind. The King said they should occupy themselves with a little amusement while they waited. There should be dancing or cards. What did his nephew think?

  Neither, said William, were diversions which appealed to him. He preferred to watch and wait for a change in the wind.

  It was two days and nights before there was a change; then William gave rapid orders. They were to set out at once before the wind changed again; the King smiled tolerantly and took barge with the Queen and Duke and Duchess of York, the Duke and Duchess of Monmouth, and the bride and groom.

  Mary looked back at her home as they sailed along the river and exerted all her control that she might not distress and exasperate with further tears. But she was unable to restrain them. How could she sail along this beloved river without asking herself when she should see it again? How could she look back at St. James’s Palace without thinking of dearest Anne whom she might never see again, of Frances, the true husband to whom she had not even been able to say good-bye.

  Queen Catherine was beside her. “My dear Mary,” she said in her quaint accent, “you will make yourself ill with so much crying. This is no worse than what happens to us all. Why, when I came to England I could not speak English and I had never even seen my husband.”

  “Madam, you came into England,” replied Mary sadly. “I am going out of England.”

  Those who heard those words knew there was nothing to be done to comfort her.

  The Prince heard them and his expression was grim.

  Good-bye! Good-bye!

  The words seemed to go on repeating themselves in her brain. They had started on their journey at last, for although William had been told that it was unwise to set sail, he would not listen. He would wait no longer, and was determined to reach Holland without further delays.

  He stood on deck, watching the louring clouds being harried across the sky.

  “Your Highness.” The captain was at his elbow. “We should not go on. We must put into Sheerness, and wait there until the storm blows itself out.”

  He was furious; but the expression on his pale face did not change.

  “Very well,” he said, “to Sheerness.”

  And he thought: Nothing will induce me to go back to Whitehall. I’ll have no more tearful farewells. I never knew a woman could shed so many tears. But when we are in Holland it will be different.

  Wistfully he looked across the stormy sea. How he longed to shake the dust o
f England off his shoes forever … No, not forever. But until that time when he could come back—not as a Prince, but the King. For if this child did not live … and it was a sickly child … well, then, this humiliating ordeal, these tears of his silly little wife, would have been well worth the enduring.

  The wind had dropped suddenly and the ship was becalmed; there was nothing to be done but to go ashore at Sheerness. Mary felt a faint relief because as yet she was still in her own country.

  Sheerness had little hospitality to offer royal guests, so the Prince, his Princess, and some of their suite, took coach to Canterbury where they put up as ordinary travelers.

  William was quick to sense the mood of the people and their approval of the Protestant marriage was obvious. They would have preferred the child which had been born recently to the Duke and Duchess of York not to have been a boy because it was very probable that he would be brought up as a Catholic; and if he came to the throne, which if he reached manhood he certainly would, there would be a Catholic monarch. Their attitude delighted William; it seemed to him that the birth was not quite the calamity he had thought it to be. He was anxious to ingratiate himself with the people and finding himself short of money with which to pay for the stay at the inn he asked the Corporation for a loan, letting it be thought that he had been reduced to this state by the meanness of his uncles. Although the Corporation would do nothing, Dr. Tillotson, the Dean of Canterbury, brought money and gold plate to the inn and begged the Prince to accept it.

  William did so with expressions of gratitude which delighted Tillotson who was certain that if—and this was not exactly unlikely—the Princess Mary were ever Queen of England and William, her consort, King, they would remember the Dean of Canterbury.

  The news of the royal party’s state spread through the neighborhood with the result that good things were constantly brought to the inn for the royal table.

  The fact that messages were arriving on behalf of the King and the Duke of York, inviting the Prince and Princess to return to Whitehall, was not known to the people; and William felt that, after all, those days of idleness at Canterbury were not wasted.

  It was while they were at Canterbury that news of the death of Lady Frances Villiers reached them. Mary felt more desolate than ever, and thought sadly of the past when Lady Frances had ruled her life. But there was little time for brooding.

  On Sunday the twenty-fifth of November William and Mary attended a service in the Cathedral; the next day, when the party prepared to embark at Margate, the rain pelted down and the wind began to howl; Charles sent a message to his nephew reminding him of his warnings about weather and once more suggesting a return to Whitehall until a more clement season.

  Mary, hearing of this, was hopeful, but William soon put an end to that.

  “I will not be delayed much longer, even by wind or weather,” he declared.

  A few days passed; then he decided. The wind would now be behind them, and would help to blow them across the sea.

  They set out, carried along by the fierce wind; and all the ladies—with the exception of Mary—were seasick.

  “As for me,” said Mary, “I am only sick at heart.”

  The journey was not long, thanks to that violent wind, and on the morning of the twenty-ninth of November Mary had her first glimpse of her husband’s country as the Montague, the ship which had carried them safely across, arrived at the fishing village of Terheyde—not a great distance from The Hague.

  AT THE ORANGE COURT

  It was several months since Mary had left England; and the new life was strange no longer; there were even occasions when she ceased to mourn for England for a week at a time. Her sister had recovered and wrote now and then; regularly, loving letters came from Frances which brought her image clearly to Mary’s mind, and Frances provided her greatest comfort.

  She was changing; perhaps she was growing away from childhood. She did not understand her feelings for the reserved man who was her husband. One thing she had learned: he expected complete obedience and if he did not receive this he could make her wish that she had not defied him. He never harmed her physically; what she found so difficult to endure was his coldness, the manner in which, by a short sentence, or a disdainful look, he could convey utter contempt.

  Should she care? Strangely enough she did. She tried not to think of him but he had a way of forcing himself into her thoughts. He was, after all, her husband; and she was at heart a romantic, longing for an ideal relationship; she wished that their marriage could have been an example to all young people, and would have been prepared to give the obedience he demanded for a little tenderness, a little outward display of affection which would have soothed her. Perhaps, she told herself, I grew up among those who showed their feelings too readily. When her father, her uncle, Jemmy, Frances, and Anne loved they made no secret of the fact; they considered it no shame to care deeply for another person. But could William ever care deeply for another person?

  Lovemaking was almost like a state duty. It was desirable to have an heir; and that was the sole purpose of their embrace. It was true in a way and William was too honest to make any pretense. All the same, it would have been comforting and very pleasant if at times he could have behaved a little like a lover.

  He often disapproved of her actions and when he did so never failed to point out her folly. She must cease to be such a child, he told her; she must learn better sense. These scoldings invariably produced the tears which irritated him but which she could not restrain. She cried too easily, just as she laughed too easily—or had in the old days.

  A certain wistfulness was becoming apparent in her attitude toward William. She wanted him so much to be a beloved husband.

  She understood that he had little time to be, because he was such an indefatigable worker. She noticed that while many people in Holland respected him, there were one or two, whose duty it was to live close to him, who loved him. There was no mistaking Bentinck’s feelings, which were something near idolatry. A man who could inspire such devotion, Mary assured herself, must be worthy of it. If only he would be kinder to her! If only he did not always seem so contemptuous!

  She saw very little of him during the day; they sometimes supped together, but he never discussed state matters with her, and when she timidly attempted to, he dismissed her questions with exasperation.

  There were times when she wrote vehemently to Frances—“her dearest best beloved husband”—and told her how she longed to see her, how she would never forget their love and hoped Frances would not do the same. Sometimes she would weep because of the sadness of her thoughts; then she would try to curb her tears, remembering how he despised them.

  There was enough to occupy her days; she wrote numerous letters, for she had always felt happy with a pen in her hand; she sewed, a talent at which she excelled and her needlework was very much admired by the Dutch; she had her collection of china and her plants; William was interested in plants too; he had helped to plan some of the palace gardens; she showed great interest in them but as yet he had received her congratulations coolly.

  She had begun to realize that life was never completely wretched, just as she supposed it was never completely happy. From the day of her arrival she had sensed the approval of her husband’s subjects. She was so much more friendly than William, and the people liked it, while at the same time she had a natural dignity and air of royalty which appealed to them. She walked beside her husband with a meekness which was apparent; and she was attractive; her dark hair and eyes being unusual in this land of the flaxen-haired; she danced exquisitely and played delightfully on the harpsichord, viol, and lute. The people clearly believed that their Prince had made a worthy match; and since she was the heiress to the English throne—for the little boy who had “disappointed the marriage” had died shortly after his birth—she was very welcome in Holland.

  Mary sensed this and it helped her to settle down more happily.

  The cleanliness of her new country
delighted her, for after the shabbiness of St. James’s and Whitehall the palaces were magnificent. There were three at The Hague. The Hague itself, the Old Court, and the Palace in the Wood. It was at this last that Mary had taken up residence and to her surprise she quickly grew to love the place which was situated about a mile from The Hague in one of the most beautiful settings Mary had ever seen, surrounded by oak trees and magnificent gardens.

  To compare these palaces with those at home surprised her, because her husband’s were so much more modern than those of her uncle. The murals were exquisite and the domed ceiling of the ballroom with its Vandycks was fascinating. In all the palaces there were pictures and some of these represented Mary’s intimate relations. Her aunt, William’s mother, was there; and there was one which delighted her of her martyred ancestor Charles I portrayed trampling on anarchy. There were portraits naturally of William the Silent, the Dutch hero; and when Mary heard stories of his greatness she thought he was very like her husband who bore the same name and could, as reasonably, have been given the title of Silent.

  Her husband was a man of ideals. That she must accept. When she listened to stories of William the Silent she began to picture her husband as the hero of them. This pleased her; and she found that William was often in her thoughts—not so much the brusque indifferent husband of reality, but the hero, the idealist, who, because he was so concerned with righting the wrongs of his country, had little time to become a romantic lover.

  The little group sat over their needlework, and they were all occupied with their own thoughts.

  Mary was thinking of home and wondering what her sister was doing. Talking, she guessed, with Sarah Jennings. Perhaps writing to Frances, her dear Semandra. Mary was momentarily jealous. Lucky Anne to be so near the loved one.