by Jean Plaidy
Her days were passed almost in seclusion; there were her needlework, her flowers, her fowls, her miniatures; and occasionally those treasured interviews with William. She had heard that her sister Anne had been involved in an unfortunate affair with Lord Mulgrave and for that reason it had been decided that a husband should be found for her without delay. Anne was now married to George of Denmark and wrote to Mary that she was very happy. Mary would always love her sister; she did not forget how close they had been; but even Anne seemed far away now. In her letters Mary caught glimpses of the somewhat frivolous life her sister led. She was pregnant and thrilled at the thought of becoming a mother; she wanted Mary to send her stuff for a bedgown because she had a notion that just what she wanted could be found in Holland; Anne was content with her dear George and her dearest Sarah whom she would never allow to be very far away from her.
Then life began to change with the arrival of the Duke of Monmouth at The Hague.
Jemmy was still one of the most attractive men Mary had ever seen and now that she was older, now that she knew that even William was guilty of adultery, she viewed his peccadilloes less severely. Jemmy came with his mistress Henrietta Wentworth and he seemed a different man from that gay—and perhaps heartless youth—who had fascinated her a little in the past.
For one thing his love for Henrietta was so deep; or perhaps it was Henrietta herself who made something beautiful of that relationship. She, a great heiress in her own right, had sacrificed all hopes of a conventional and comfortable life for the sake of Monmouth. He was aware of this and did his best to return her devotion. Henrietta was naturally beautiful and her love for Monmouth transfigured her so that she could not enter a room without everyone’s being aware of her, but she herself was conscious only of her lover. Such a devotion could not but have its effect on Jemmy.
He was more serious; beneath his natural gaiety and great charm there burned a zeal. He wanted to mount the throne of England; he was the son of the King and because he could ensure the continuance of Protestantism in England he believed his cause was righteous.
William, whose great enemy was James, tentatively offered friendship to Monmouth, but he would only do this as long as Monmouth’s bastardy was recognized.
It was a delicate situation.
Moreover Jemmy was in Holland because of the discovery of the Rye House plot—the object of which had been the murder of Charles the King and his brother the Duke of York.
William and Monmouth were closeted together and Monmouth passionately explained that he had had no part in the plan to murder his father; he swore that that intention had been kept from him.
“It was to be a revolt against the threat of Catholicism, to bring back the liberties which my father took away when he installed the Tory sheriffs and confiscated the city charters. My father has always wanted to rule without the Parliament … as our grandfather did. My father has been lucky. He has enjoyed great popularity. Because he is the man he is, they have never tried to chop off his head as they did our grandfather’s. But the people of England do not want an absolute monarch. And this was the object of the plot.”
William regarded his cousin steadily. “And because of this you are sent in exile?”
“I was in the first plot but not the second. By God, William, you know my feelings for my father. Those near him love him and I am his son. I have had great affection from him; the only thing he has ever denied me is my legitimacy and if it rested with him …”
William nodded. Charles did dote on this handsome son who was more than a little like himself. William thanked God that Charles’s sense of rightness had prevented him from giving his beloved son his dearest wish.
“My father and uncle were to be waylaid coming from the Newmarket races … and murdered. It was kept from me. I swear it, William, you know I would never harm my father.”
“I know it,” answered William.
“Russell, Algernon Sidney, and Essex are dead—Sidney and Russell on the scaffold, Essex in his prison—some say by his own hand. They wanted me to give evidence against them and I could not. They were my friends, even though they had kept me in ignorance of the plot to murder my father and uncle. And it is due to my father that I did not share their lot, William. It is due to him that I am here.”
“And what do you propose to do now?”
“What can I do? I cannot return to England.”
“Do you claim that your mother was married to your father?”
Their eyes met and Monmouth flinched. “I make no such claim,” he said, “for my father has denied it.”
William’s lips curled in a half smile.
“Then you can take refuge here. You will understand that I could not shelter one who put my wife’s claim in jeopardy.”
Monmouth bowed his head; he understood that he could rely on a refuge in Holland, but Mary must be recognized as the heir who would follow her father (or perhaps her uncle) to the throne.
William visited his wife in her apartments and at his approach her women, as always, promptly disappeared. Mary looked up eagerly and was dismayed to find herself comparing him with Monmouth. They were both her cousins—and how different they were! Monmouth, tall and dark with flashing eyes and gay smile. It was difficult to imagine William gay; his great wig seemed too cumbersome for his frail body and one had the impression that he would not be able to maintain its balance; his hooked nose, slightly twisted, seemed the more enormous because he was so small; he sat hunching his narrow shoulders, his small frail hands resting on the table.
“You realize the significance of Monmouth’s visit?” he asked coldly.
“Yes, William.”
Her face was alight with pleasure. She was always delighted when he discussed political matters with her.
“I think we must be watchful in our treatment of this young man.”
“You are as usual right, William.”
He bowed his head in assent. He was pleased with her; he was molding her the way he wanted her to go. She was beautiful too; her shortsighted eyes were soft and gentle; her features strong and good. He had always wanted a beautiful wife, but of course docility had counted more than beauty. In her he had both—or almost. When she stood up she towered over him; he could never quite forget her horror when she had learned she was to marry him; he could never forget his shuddering bride. He knew that she did not always agree with him but when she did not she bowed her head in tacit acceptance that it was a wife’s duty to obey her husband. On the other hand he must never forget the Zuylestein affair and that she was not the weak woman she sometimes gave the impression of being; on occasions she could be strong; and how could he ever be sure when one of those occasions would arise?
This made him cautious of her, and cold always.
“I have received a warning from Charles that I should not give him shelter here.”
She was alarmed. “We should not offend my uncle …” Then he was pleased to see that she realized her temerity in daring to tell him what he should do. She amended it. “Or William, what would be the best thing to do?”
“Monmouth shall have refuge here and I do not think in giving it we are going to offend our uncle. I will tell you something. When I was last in England he showed me a seal. He must have expected trouble with Monmouth—and indeed who would not? Your father is causing so much anxiety in England.”
She looked worried for it was almost as though William blamed her for her father’s misdeeds.
“He showed me this seal, and said: ‘It may be that at times I shall have to write to you about Monmouth. But unless I seal my letter with this seal do not take seriously what I tell you.’ ”
Mary caught her breath in wonder. “He must have a high opinion of you, William. And it so well deserved.”
He did not answer that, but added, “These instructions were not sealed with the King’s special seal; therefore we need not take them seriously.”
He half smiled; Mary laughed. She was so happy to share
his confidences.
Mary was reading a letter from her father.
“It scandalizes all loyal people here to know how the Prince receives the Duke of Monmouth. Although you do not meddle in matters of state, in this affair you should talk to the Prince. The Prince may flatter himself as he pleases, the Duke of Monmouth will do his part to have a push with him for the crown, if he, the Duke of Monmouth, outlive the King and me. It will become you very well to speak to him of it.”
When Mary read that letter she realized how deep was the bitterness between her husband and her father. She wept a little. She so wanted them to be friends. If only she could make James understand how noble her husband was; if only she could make William see that for all his faults and aptitude for falling into trouble, her father was at heart a good man.
She went with it to William who, when he had read it, regarded her sternly.
“I see,” he said coldly, “that you are inclined to listen with credulity to your father.”
“William, he is a very uneasy man.”
“Let us hope he is. He should be, after his villainies.”
“William, he never intends to behave badly. He sincerely believes …”
William interrupted her. “Am I to understand that you are making excuses for your father?”
“I would wish that you could understand him.”
“I would wish that I had a wife of better sense.”
“But William, of late …”
“Of late I have tried to take you into my confidence. I can see that I have been mistaken.”
“No, William, you are never mistaken.”
He looked at her sharply. Was that irony? No, her smile was deprecating; she was begging to be taken back in favor.
He relented very slightly. “Because this man is your father you are inclined to see him as he is not. You should write to him and say that you can do nothing, for the Prince is your husband and your master and you are therefore obliged to obey him.”
“Yes, William,” she said meekly.
“In all things,” he added.
Monmouth was prepared to spend the winter at The Hague. James wrote furiously to his nephew; William ignored his letters; instead he gave orders to his wife.
“I wish you to entertain the Duke of Monmouth. There is no reason why we should not give a ball. Please see to it.”
Mary was delighted. A ball! It would be like old times. “Yet how shall we know the latest dances?” she cried. “But Jemmy will know them. I must have a new gown.”
William eyed her sardonically. She had not grown up as much as he had thought. Now she looked like that girl who had delighted him when he had first seen her—vivacious, gay, a typical Stuart, as he was not, perhaps because he was half Dutch. Mary was like her uncle Charles in some ways and to see her and Monmouth together made one realize the relationship between them.
They were two handsome people. Monmouth had always been startlingly attractive and so was Mary now that she was in good health and preparing to lead the kind of life she had enjoyed in England.
She was beginning to believe that this was one of the happiest times of her life. William was growing closer to her and allowing her to share confidences; she knew what was going on in England and every day there would be a conference between them. How she would have enjoyed these if her father’s name was not constantly brought into the discussions and she was expected to despise him! But since she was beginning to believe the stories she heard of her father’s follies, even that did not seem so bad.
Then there was Henrietta—what a dear friend she had become! Monmouth declared that she was his wife in the eyes of God and although Mary had loved the Duchess of Monmouth dearly, she had to accept Henrietta; for Henrietta was not the frivolous girl who had danced in Calista but was a serious woman with a deep purpose in life which was to give Monmouth all he desired and to live beside him for the rest of her life. Henrietta’s feelings for Monmouth were like those Mary held for William. They were two women determined to support their men.
Then there was Jemmy himself. It was impossible not to be gay in Jemmy’s company. Whatever great events were pending, Jemmy had always time to play. He could dance better than anyone else and he was very fond of his dear cousin, Mary.
She believed that he understood her feeling for William and that he was sorry for her. She did not resent pity from him because she was so fond of him, and because she felt so close to him that she could accept from him what she could not from almost anyone else.
There were times when his beauty and grace enchanted her; when she saw him and Henrietta together she found herself thinking that Henrietta must be the luckiest woman in the world. She looked forward to those evenings when Jemmy taught her the new dances.
“Do you remember Richmond?” she asked him.
And he smiled at her and said: “I shall never forget dancing with you at Richmond.”
Again she caught herself comparing William with Monmouth; and she stopped that at once.
They are so different! she assured herself. Each admirable in his way.
Then more severely: William is the idealist. He would never have indulged in all the pranks Jemmy indulged in. Jemmy was wild in his youth as William would never be. Jemmy might be handsome and charming but it was William who was the great leader.
She thought of Jemmy’s wild past, how again and again his father had stepped in to save him from disgrace and disaster. She remembered poor Eleanor Needham who had left court when she was seduced by him and about to bear his child. Now she had five of his children; the Duchess had six and Henrietta two. Thirteen children that she knew of and there were probably others—and she had not one. How could she possibly compare William and Jemmy!
There was Elizabeth Villiers.… She shut her mind to that affair. She saw Elizabeth frequently but she had convinced herself that that trouble was over. William had too much with which to occupy himself; he simply had not time for a mistress. It was over. It was to be forgotten.
She was dining in public nowadays which was something she had not done for a long time. William no longer wished her to live like a recluse, and he was always anxious that people should know that they were in accord.
One day while she sat at table a dish of sweetmeats was placed before her and as she looked at them idly she saw a small fat hand descend on the dish and pick up handfuls of the sweetmeats.
She gasped with surprise and a pair of blue eyes were lifted to her in fear. They belonged to a small boy who had seen the sweetmeats placed there and had found them irresistible.
“Your Highness, I pray you forgive him …” The boy’s terrified nurse had seized him; she was trying to hold him and stay on her knees at the same time.
Mary smiled. “Come here, my child,” she said.
The boy came.
“So you wanted the sweetmeats?”
He nodded. “They are very nice.”
“How do you know until you have tried them? Come, sit here beside me and eat one now.”
He looked a little suspicious until Mary signed to the nurse to rise. Then the boy sat down and ate one of the sweets.
“Is it good?” asked Mary.
“It’s the sweetest sweetmeat I ever tasted.”
“Well, won’t you try another?”
He did, and Mary, watching the little round head with the flaxen hair, the golden lashes against a clear skin, felt a great emptiness in her life. If he were but my son! she thought.
She talked to the boy and he answered brightly while his nurse stood by marveling at the success of her charge; and when Mary reluctantly let him go she told him that whenever he wished for sweetmeats and saw them on her table he should present himself because she would prefer to give them to him than that he should attempt to steal them.
When she danced with Monmouth that evening, he having seen the incident with the child, said: “Mary, do not be too grieved that you have no children. You will … in time.”
She fl
ushed. “Sometimes I think not, Jemmy.”
“But that is not the right attitude.”
She could not tell him that William rarely gave her an opportunity of having a child and that she had begun to fear that he was incapable of begetting one which would live. Perhaps Jemmy understood that though, for he was very worldly wise.
She always tried to make light of her misfortunes and she was now afraid that her treatment of the little boy that day had made many understand the void in her life and feel sorry for her.
“You who have so many should know. But I believe, Jemmy, that you often had them when you had no great wish to.”
“The perversity of life,” he remarked. “But, Mary, do not grieve for the children you never had … to please me.”
“There is little I would not do … to please you,” she said.
He pressed her hand and it was love she saw in his eyes. Her own responded.
Jemmy was devoted to Henrietta and she to William; but there was love between them for all that.
Monmouth had changed the dour Court of The Hague; he had changed Mary’s life. Often she wondered how she could ever go back to live as she had lived before—almost like a prisoner! Rising early, spending much time in prayer and with her chaplain, sewing or painting miniatures when her eyes permitted, being read to, and her greatest diversion of course—playing cards.
She wondered why William had allowed this change. Was it because he wanted to show the world that he allied himself with the Protestant cause? The troublous matter of the succession in England was in fact one of Catholic versus Protestant. Her father would never have been so unpopular if he had not shown himself to be a Catholic.
But whatever the reason, the change had come; and when in December Monmouth told her that he was returning to England for a secret visit to his father, she was melancholy.
