by Jean Plaidy
She glanced away from her needlework, for her eyes often tired her and although she loved to do fine work she did feel the need to rest continually.
Elizabeth Villiers was smiling at the pattern of her tapestry as though she found it slightly amusing. She had changed since she had come to Holland. The death of her mother has made her more gentle, thought Mary.
Then there was Elizabeth’s sister Anne, who had always been gentle—so different from Elizabeth—meek and kind. There was Jane Wroth and dear Anne Trelawny. Were they dreaming of home as they worked?
She would have been surprised if she could have read their thoughts, for Mary was inclined to endow others with her own innocence.
Anne Villiers was thinking of William Bentinck, who had begun to show that he was interested in her. She had been interested in him from the moment she had first seen him. Anne Trelawny was telling herself that the Princess was being badly treated by her boor of a husband. Caliban! Anne secretly called him, a name given him by Sarah Jennings before they left England. Anne loved Mary dearly; every time she saw the tears start to her eyes she felt furiously angry; and it occurred to her that someone ought to tell them at home how badly her husband behaved toward her.
Jane Wroth was dreaming of her lover William Henry Zuylestein who but a few weeks before had succeeded in seducing her. He had promised to marry her and she was wondering whether he would, because it was doubtful if here in Holland they would consider the daughter of Sir Henry Wroth, an English country gentleman, worthy to marry into the Dutch royal family—for Zuylestein was royal, although on the wrong side of the blanket, and the prince accepted him as his cousin and was in fact quite fond of him; he had loved the young man’s father who had been an illegitimate son of his grandfather’s, and his guardian until the de Wittes, disliking his influence on the Prince, had removed him in favor of their man. The elder Zuylestein had been suspected of being deeply involved in the murder of the de Witte brothers and when he had been almost hacked to pieces in battle many thought this was in retribution.
But he was dead and his son was a kinsman of the Prince—and the lover of Jane Wroth.
Jane could not think of the future beyond this night. They had an assignation. He was so dashing, handsome, and so persuasive that it was impossible to say no. How different from the Prince. Poor Princess of Orange, with a husband who was scarcely a man! She would have no conception of the ecstasy enjoyed by her maid of honor.
There was another in that little circle who was thinking of the Prince of Orange. Elizabeth Villiers felt certain of eventual victory, and it might be tonight. Perhaps tomorrow. The circumstances would have to be exactly right; but it was coming nearer. He was pretending that this was not so, which was natural enough, but she would know how to act when the moment came.
She was a sensual woman; and oddly enough his very coldness appealed to her. She would destroy that coldness which should be reserved for others, never for her. It would be a constant battle and that was what she wanted; she did not ask for an easy victory. After all, she had been patient enough.
Not yet to bed after all these months! she thought ruefully. And the first time we met … before the marriage … I knew it would come.
She had believed she had been foolish in alienating Mary when, in the days of her adolescence, she had been unable to curb her sharp tongue and had been so envious of the Princess. The King and the Duke had doted on her so and she was a silly little thing with her constant tears, her sentimental ideas, and her pretended relationship with Frances Apsley. Dear husband indeed! Her real husband’s infidelity would be her just deserts. In any case she would never know how to manage William. She, Elizabeth Villiers, would know perfectly, and she would do so for as long as it interested her. Which might be for a very long time, because not only was he ruler of this little country but one day he could become King of England, for if Mary ever inherited the throne, it was certain that William would still be her master—and the one who ruled the sovereign was the true ruler.
Her unusual eyes with the slight cast in them were enigmatic, which was as she intended them to be. No one was going to guess what thoughts were going on in her mind.
Mary said suddenly: “My eyes are tired with this close work. Let us put it away and sing for a while. I have a fancy for the lute.”
“Your Highness sings so sweetly to the lute,” said Elizabeth Villiers gently.
How she has changed! thought Mary. She is growing older and wiser. I believe she begins to be a little fond of me; perhaps we all grow closer together when we are far from home.
Elizabeth brought the lute and watched Mary while she played and sang so prettily, and they all joined in the choruses.
It could well be tonight, thought Elizabeth. It must be tonight.
William was deeply concerned by matters of state and his personal life.
How could he trust his English allies? Charles was the most slippery friend with whom he had ever had to deal. How could he be sure what his uncle was planning with the French while he feigned friendship with Holland? And the Duke of York hated him. The fact that he was now his father-in-law had not altered that; it might even have increased his hatred. William knew that there were people at the Court of The Hague who made it their business to inform James that his daughter was not treated with the respect due to her. Her chaplains, Dr. Lloyd and Dr. Hooper, were not to be trusted. They suspected that he was trying to make a Calvinist of her. They were wrong. He was far more tolerant in his outlook than they were; he had always hated the thought of religious persecution; it was strong in one who was a true son of a land which had suffered more from bigotry than any other. William the Silent had fought against the Spanish Inquisition, its intolerance and religious persecution, and stern Calvinist that he was, William would like to see tolerance in Holland.
Yet those two prelates reported ill of him, although Mary would not say a word against him he was sure. She was reckoned to be beautiful and he supposed she was. She had never aroused great passion in him, but then he was not a passionate man; he did not believe that any woman was going to play a very important part in his life. To plan a battle was to him the most exciting adventure; the seduction of any female a mild diversion.
Was this entirely true? He thought of the woman who was never far from his thoughts. She was unlike all other women he had ever known; those extraordinary eyes with the cast were fascinating; she was clever, he knew, and she read his thoughts. He pictured himself making love to her—not with any heat of passion, but as he thought of it—efficiently. His body had not been fashioned to make of him a great lover. He was no Charles or James of England, and well aware of the differences between himself and such men. All the better, he had told himself; he would never be diverted from important state matters through his desire for a woman.
Yet, secretly, he longed to be an ideal of manhood; and it was no use pretending the physical side of such an idea did not exist. The perfect man must be virile. What ideas were these! He was a man with a mission, the leader of a small country which could at any moment be in acute danger from her enemies. It was absurd to allow the thought of a woman to occupy his mind for a moment.
He had a wife who was a beautiful young girl, but he could never forget those eternal tears. He believed he would always dislike women who cried. She had been happy before she had known she was to marry him. What a different creature she had been! He had been quite excited at the prospect of marrying her; and then they had presented to him that red-eyed, sullen child. He could never forgive those who insulted him and Mary had insulted him in a manner he would never forget. He thought fleetingly of Elizabeth Charlotte, the companion of his childhood, whom many had thought enchanting. She was married now to Philippe, brother of Louis XIV. He had once thought she might be his bride, but he had no regrets there. She would have been impossible to subdue.
His thoughts went back to the fiasco of the wedding night: Mary’s shuddering body; her repulsion. These could not inspi
re desire in a man who was never passionate. Because she had insulted him he took pleasure in humiliating her; even if he tried he could never show any warmth toward her. Yet now she was changing; she was ready to be friendly. Friendly indeed! He did not want her friendship.
And there was one thing which he longed for and yet dreaded. He had married her for the sake of the three crowns: England, Scotland, and Ireland. Those he was sure were the crowns Mrs. Tanner had seen about his head when he was born. And if Charles and James were dead and there was no male heir, it would be Mary who was acclaimed as Queen of England. And William? Her consort! He would never accept that. She should never be Queen to his consort. He wanted to talk to her, to make her sign a document in which she resigned all her rights to him. But that would not be possible. There would be the English to stand in the way of it. They had not liked him, many of them; and they did like Mary. Of course they liked her; she was meek, she did as she was told.
“By my ancestors,” he swore, “she shall do as she is told … as I tell her.”
As he went toward his own apartments, he had an idea that he would meet Elizabeth on the way. She would have arranged the encounter for she was eager to become his mistress. He had read that in those amazing eyes; and he was eager too … in his mild way. He liked her eagerness; she was clever; she hid her feelings from others while she showed them to him. He was convinced that she was no ordinary woman.
When he saw her he paused and said it had been a pleasant day.
She curtsied charmingly, he thought, and there was a faint flush in her cheeks. He suddenly wanted to touch those cheeks and he put out a thin white finger and did so.
She caught his hand and kissed it. He had never felt so excited by a woman.
She had thrown herself against him and lifted her eyes to his face.
“Let me not wait longer, my lord.”
The choice of words exhilarated him. She was in deep need of him, and she was merely putting in words what she had told him in looks and gestures before.
His heart was beating a little faster. This was how he felt when he achieved a victory on the battlefield—a great man, a man whom the world looked up to and forgot his lack of inches.
He put out a hand and touched her. She put her lips on his and he was caught for a moment in her passion.
“I beg of you … tonight … my lord.”
He said in a cool voice. “I will see that I am alone at … midnight.”
She gave a little sigh which in itself made him feel like a conqueror.
That night Elizabeth Villiers became the mistress of the Prince of Orange. He was astonished and greatly bewildered. He knew that he had missed something in his life before, without being aware of it. He wondered how he was going to do without Elizabeth Villiers.
Elizabeth did not wonder, for she was determined that he never should.
Mary was pregnant. At first she told no one because she wanted to be absolutely sure; she imagined William’s pleasure which would be restrained but nonetheless deep for all that; she could also imagine his contempt if she had made a mistake.
How wonderful to have a child of her own! It was difficult, keeping the secret; she wished her sister Anne were here so that they could whisper together about this enchanting prospect. Anne would immediately want to have a child. Had she not always wanted to imitate her sister?
If Frances were here, how she would enjoy confiding in her! But Frances was her “dear husband” and how incongruous it was to have to tell one’s husband that one was about to have another man’s child!
Frances, of course, must be the first one to know. It was long since she had written to her dearest one, but before she had believed herself to be pregnant she had suffered from the ague which had attacked her since her stay in Holland. Anne Trelawny said that the climate did not suit her; and Anne was very grave when she said this, meaning more by the climate than the weather.
Dear Anne, she loved Mary so much that she was ready to be angry with anyone who did not share her tender devotion. It was useless to explain to her that William was a man whose mind was occupied with noble ideals so that the follies of his wife seemed trivial and at times he showed his contempt for them. There! She was doing what she did so often. Making excuses for William’s neglect and even cruelty to her.
It is because I am beginning to understand him, she told herself.
All the same, what fun it would have been if Frances were in truth her husband and they were to have this child. How different indeed! Gentle, loving Frances instead of harsh, stern William. Was it because women were able to give more to love; men such as her husband had their careers to occupy the greater part of their minds; their loves were diversions. Even her Uncle Charles—reckoned to be one of the greatest lovers of his day—was never entirely involved with a woman.
The cottage in the wood; the little piece of land to be cultivated; the dogs they might have had. The world would have passed them by and she would have cared for the comforts of her dear husband who would have been capable of giving her all the love and protection she needed in another little house in the wood.
But that was not the way of the world. The love of two women was frowned on, because it was unproductive. Poor Lady Frances Villiers had deplored the writing of those passionate letters. Yet it seemed to Mary that there could be a closer bond between two of the same sex. Herself and Frances, William and Bentinck. In Frances’s company she was happier and more relaxed than she could ever be in any man’s; and William, she was sure, had more respect for Bentinck than any other person.
But the first one to know that she believed she was to have a child must be her beloved Frances, so she went to her closet and taking up her quill began to write. She wanted Frances to know that she was the first to hear the news and that she had not even told her stepmother who had begged her “dear Lemon” to give her such news as soon as she believed it possible.
“I would hardly give myself leave to think on it and nobody leave to speak of it so much as to myself. I have not yet given the Duchess word though she has always charged me to do it. But seeing it is to my husband I may, though have reason to fear because the sea parts us and you may believe it is a bastard …”
She paused and smiled thinking of Frances reading that.
“… If you have any care for your wife’s reputation you ought to keep this secret since if it should be known you might get a pair of horns …”
Those ever ready tears came into her eyes. It was a game of make-believe. William would call it the utmost folly. Was it?
Was she growing older? Was she beginning to stretch out for reality and was there a desire to escape from fantasy? How could she and Frances ever share a cottage in a wood? How could they live in comfort and peace? What child’s letters were these she was writing, what silly pretense! She would have been happiest living with Frances; but she was William’s wife; she was pregnant by him. That was the reality of life and she should accept it. One must stop craving for that old relationship; she must accept the reality and banish the shadow. But how could she when he was so cool, so disdainful and for her there must always be the ideal.
Perhaps when she held his child in her arms it would be different. Perhaps she would grow up then. As yet she wanted the comfort Frances could give her. She could not release her hold on one dream until she could take hold of another.
She took up her pen and wrote:
“Dearest Aurelia, you may be very well assured though I have played the whore a little, I love you of all things in the world. And though I have spoken to you in jest, for God’s sake don’t tell it because I would not have it known yet since it cannot be above six or seven weeks at most, and when you hear of it by other people never say that I said anything of it to you.”
She laid down her pen.
She pictured Frances reading the letter. It would make her smile; perhaps it would make her long for the companionship of her little “wife.”
It may be, thought Mary,
that I shall never see her again.
When William heard of the pregnancy he was more pleased with Mary than he had been since the wedding; his smile was restrained but nevertheless it betrayed his pleasure.
“I trust,” he said, “that you will take every precaution for the sake of the child. I insist that you do. There must be no more dancing …” His lip curled distastefully. “No more games of hide-and-seek in the woods. It may well be that now you are to become a mother—and a mother of my heir—you will agree that it is beneath your dignity as Princess of Orange to indulge in such pastimes.”
Mary replied: “I wish you could have seen my father—who was a great Admiral—sitting on the floor playing ‘I love my love with an A’.”
“I consider myself fortunate to have been spared such a sight.”
Mary flushed and wished she had not spoken. He looked at her coldly and she was terrified that the tears would come to her eyes. The fact was that because she so fiercely tried to suppress them they came even more readily.
With others she could be the dignified Princess; with him she was the foolish child who wept when scolded or disappointed or afraid.
When the child is born, she promised herself, it will be different.
She wanted it to be different. She longed for him to smile at her, just once, in approval.
Mary was sitting with her women, painting a miniature while the others took it in turns to read aloud to her.
She was happier than she had been since she had heard she was to marry. When she had taken her exercise in the gardens that morning William had joined her; he had walked beside her, and her ladies had fallen into step behind them. He had said very little but then, of course, he never did; but he had looked at her not unkindly, a little anxiously, watching she guessed for some outward sign of pregnancy.
