by Jean Plaidy
“I will be back,” he told her. “Needs must. I am still an exile.”
So he and Henrietta returned to London that December; and Mary was melancholy, wondering when she would see them again.
It had been a bitterly cold January day and it looked as though it were going to be a hard winter. Mary had slipped back to the old routine, rising early and retiring early.
On this particular evening she had decided to retire early as she intended to be up at a very early hour that she might take communion. Anne Trelawny and Anne Villiers, who was now Anne Bentinck, were helping her to undress when a messenger came to the apartment.
The Princess is to come at once to the Prince’s chamber, was the order.
Anne Trelawny said indignantly: “The Princess has already retired.” Anne Trelawny, indignant because her mistress was not treated with the respect due to her, was often truculent to the Prince’s servants.
The messenger went away and came shortly afterward. “The Prince’s instructions. The Princess is to dress and go to his chamber at once.”
Even Anne Trelawny had to pass on such a message to her mistress and when she heard it Mary immediately dressed.
When she presented herself at her husband’s apartments she gave a cry of pleasure, for Monmouth was with him.
“You are back sooner than I had hoped,” she cried.
Monmouth embraced her.
“And how do you find events in England?”
“Much as before,” answered Monmouth. “Your father is determined to have my blood. My father is determined that he shan’t.”
“And so you are to stay with us for a while?”
“I throw myself on the hospitality of you and the Prince.”
“You are welcome,” put in William. He looked at his wife. “There should be a ball in honor of our guest,” he added.
She smiled happily.
This was a return to all that she had begun to miss so much.
Observers were astonished by the behavior of the Prince of Orange, in particular the French Ambassador, the Comte d’Avaux, who reported to his master, the King of France, that he and Monmouth stood for Protestantism. He did not know what they were plotting together, but it might well be that should Charles die they would make an attempt to put Mary on the throne.
Mary, he reported, was sternly Protestant, adhering to the Church of England; she was a woman he did not understand; she seemed to form no fast friendships with anyone about her; she was completely the dupe of the Prince. And yet she was not a stupid woman; one would have thought she had a mind of her own. In fact over the affaire Zuylestein she had shown she had. He was following events closely, for William was throwing her constantly into the society of the Duke of Monmouth, who had not a very good reputation.
Orange was determined to fête Monmouth; he had given him free access to his private cabinet at any time—a privilege accorded only to one other person, his faithful friend Bentinck. It was a strange state of affairs and the French ambassador could only guess that he wanted the world to know he stood firmly for Protestantism.
Meanwhile Mary and Monmouth were constantly together.
A frenzied excitement seemed to possess them both. He was thinking that if they had married him to Mary he would have realized his ambition and become King of England. She was happy as she used to be in those long-ago days at Richmond. She loved to dance, laugh, and chatter without wondering whether what she said would be considered stupid. With her cousin she could be carelessly gay, she could talk with abandon; she could laugh and sing and dance.
“Dear God,” she thought, “I am so happy.”
“There should be theatricals,” said Monmouth, “as there used to be in the old days.”
“I should love that!” cried Mary, and then wondered what William would say.
But William made no objection. “Let there be theatricals,” he said.
So they played together—she, Monmouth, and Henrietta. William was a spectator—aloof but coldly indulgent, sitting there close to the stage watching. She could not act freely when she thought of him there. But it was at his command.
Because of the hard frost there was skating, and Monmouth expressed his pleasure in the sport.
“The Princess should skate with you,” William said.
“But, William, I have never skated.”
“Then learn. I doubt not the Duke will teach you.”
“It will be a pleasure,” Monmouth told Mary.
And so it was, after the first misgivings. How she laughed as she leaned against him, iron pattens on her feet, her skirts tucked up above her knees. Many times she would have fallen, but Jemmy was always there to catch her.
The French Ambassador was horrified. A most undignified sight, he commented. The Princess of Orange would only have so demeaned herself at the command of her husband, he was sure.
“We can depend upon it,” he wrote, “that this fawning on Monmouth can mean only one thing. Orange and Monmouth are planning an invasion of England and Orange wishes the world to know that the heiress to the throne is with them in this plot.”
Everywhere Mary went there was Monmouth; there was no need, William implied, of a chaperone. He trusted his dear friend.
“What a gay life you lead here in Holland,” said Monmouth one day.
“It has only been gay since you came,” she told him.
He kissed her on the lips for he was deeply moved. She stood very still and said: “Jemmy, have you ever wanted a certain time of your life to go on and on …?”
He answered, “I have always been one to believe that the best is yet to come.”
“But Jemmy,” she cried, “what could be better than this?”
He took her arm and they sped over the ice. It was firm and strong at the moment; but a little change in the weather and the change would set in. That was inevitable. He felt it was symbolic but he did not call her attention to this.
She was charming, his cousin. They should have married them. But he loved Henrietta, and Mary was bound to William; thus their emotions were continually checked and they were safe from disaster.
But they were so happy together … and life might have been very different for them both.
A feverish excitement caught them. That evening they rode on sleds to Honselaarsdijk where there was a ball in honor of Monmouth.
William insisted that Mary and Monmouth lead the dance; his asthma prevented his taking a part; but he sat, watching them; and he saw his wife’s excitement and he thought: she has honored our guest but she must never forget who is her master.
Shortly after the Honselaarsdijk ball, came that day of mourning which Mary had always observed throughout her life. The thirtieth of January—the day of the execution of Charles the Martyr.
“There will be no dancing today,” she told Anne Trelawny, as she dressed in her gown of mourning. “Today I will pray for the soul of my grandfather and we will pass the time in sewing for the poor.”
“It will do you good to have a rest from all the gaiety,” replied Anne, “although I must say you don’t look as if you need it.”
“I could dance every day of my life,” replied Mary.
“The Duke has done you the world of good. It seems strange that …”
Anne dared not utter open criticism of William before Mary, who was well aware that her friend did not like her husband.
During the day William came to her apartment. She rose delighted to see him and as was their custom her maids hurried away and left them together. She was astonished to see that William was more gaily dressed than usual—not that his garb was ever anything but somber; but she thought he must have forgotten what the day was.
“I like not that gown,” he said curtly.
“Oh, it is dull is it not, but fitting to the day, I believe.”
“Change it at once. Put on a brightly colored gown and wear jewels.”
She stared at him in astonishment. “William, have you forgotten what today i
s?”
“I have made a simple request and I expect it to be obeyed.”
“William, it is the thirtieth of January.”
“I am well aware of that.”
“And yet you suggest I wear a bright color … and jewels!”
“I do not suggest, I command.”
“I cannot do it, William. It is our grandfather’s day.”
“Enough of this folly. Put on a bright gown. You are dining in public today.”
“But, William, I never do on this day. I spend it in seclusion.”
“Do you mean that you will flout me?”
“William, anything else I will willingly do, but always this has been a day we observed.”
“Let me hear no more of this nonsense. I shall expect to see you differently dressed and ready to dine with me in public.”
He left her and when her women came back they found her silent and bewildered.
“What now?” whispered Anne Trelawny to Mrs. Langford. “What new tyranny is this?”
Mrs. Langford, the wife of a clergyman who had been one of Mary’s devoted servants for a long time, shared Anne Trelawny’s dislike of William.
“He wants to show who is master, that’s all,” she retorted.
“Your Highness,” said Anne, “what has happened?”
“I wish to change my dress. Bring out a blue gown and my diamonds and sapphires.”
“But this is the thirtieth of January, Your Highness.”
“It is the Prince’s wish that I dine in public with him and show no sign of grief for my grandfather.”
Anne Trelawny and Mrs. Langford lifted their shoulders and looked at each other.
What a wretched meal that was! Mary could eat nothing. William watched her critically as the dishes were placed before her and taken away.
How could he? she was thinking. This was a deliberate insult to their grandfather—his as well as hers. Everyone knew she spent this as a day of mourning and although he had not mourned as she did, he had never before prevented her.
After the meal he told her that they were going to the theater together.
“You are going to the theater, William?” she asked.
“I said we were going together.”
“But you dislike the theater.”
“And you love it.”
“Not on this day.”
“We are going,” he said.
This was significant. He was telling the world that she and he dissociated themselves from that policy of Divine Right, which had lost their grandfather his life, which his son Charles had followed and his brother James was threatening to do.
William wanted the people of England to know that he stood for a Protestant England and an England which was ruled by a Sovereign who worked with his Parliament.
Thus there was no need to feel regret for one who had done the opposite.
Anne Trelawny and Mrs. Langford were talking of the affair while the Prince and Princess were at the theater.
“I have never known a Princess so shamefully treated,” said Anne.
“He wants to show her that he is master.”
“Why she doesn’t stand up to him I can’t imagine.”
“Oh, she’s gentle. She wants him to be a perfect husband. I know my Princess. She pretends he is one—and that she feels is as near as she’ll get.”
“Caliban!” muttered Anne. “I often wonder what her father would say if he knew the way she was treated.”
“She’s being turned against him. It’s unnatural, that’s what it is.”
“I wish there was something we could do.”
“Who knows, perhaps one day there will be.”
Mary found it difficult to fall back into the old gaiety after the January day. How could William have behaved as he did? She had been so unhappy. She thought she would never forget the misery of that public meal and afterward going to the theater and sitting there, not listening to the actors, just thinking of her grandfather and all that he had suffered.
It was like dancing on a holy day.
Her father would hear of it. Her father! What had happened to their relationship? She knew that she must love and obey William but there were times when it was very hard.
Monmouth tried to cheer her.
“You take life too seriously,” he told her.
“Don’t you, Jemmy?”
“No, never.”
“There are times when you seem serious now.”
“Ah, I have a feeling that this is the turning point of my life.”
He was looking at her ardently, and although she reminded herself that that was how Jemmy must have looked at so many women, still she was deeply moved.
She tried to smile when they danced a bransle together, but she could not raise herself from her melancholy. There was something unreal about the strange turn life had taken, she saw now, and it could not last.
“Jemmy,” she said, “how long shall you stay in Holland?”
“As long as I am welcome, I suppose,” he answered.
“You know how long that will be if I have any say.”
“Tell me,” he whispered.
“Forever,” she answered; and turned away, afraid.
On the evening of the sixteenth of February 1685 Mary was in her apartments playing cards with some of her women when a message was brought to her that she must present herself without delay to the Prince in his cabinet.
She rose at once and as soon as she saw William she knew that he was excited, although his expression was calm as usual. But a nerve twitched in his cheek and when he spoke he found it difficult to control his breath.
“News,” he said, “which should have been brought to us days ago. On account of the ice and snow it has been delayed. Charles, King of England, is dead and your father has now mounted the throne.”
“Uncle Charles dead!” she muttered.
He looked at her forgetting to be exasperated by this habit of repeating his words.
“You realize,” he went on, “the importance of this to … us?”
She did not answer. She was thinking of Charles, her kind dear uncle, with his charming careless smile … dead.
“I have sent for Monmouth,” went on William. “He should be with us soon.”
No one could doubt the genuine grief of Monmouth. What had he ever had but kindness from the hands of his father? And what would become of him now that his greatest enemy was King of England?
He remained closeted with the Prince of Orange for many hours; then he went back to the Palace of the Mauruitshuis, which William had lent him during his sojourn in Holland, and there gave way to sorrow.
Bevil Skelton, the new Envoy from England, asked for an audience with the Prince of Orange.
This William granted. He had received a cold, somewhat unfriendly letter from Whitehall which ran:
“I have only time to tell you that it has pleased God Almighty to take out of this world the King my brother. You will from others have an account of what distemper he died of; and that all the usual ceremonies were performed this day in proclaiming me King in the city and other parts. I must end, which I do, with assuring you, you shall find me as kind as you can expect.”
As kind as you can expect. There was an ominous ring in those words.
Great events were about to break and rarely had William felt so excited in the whole of his life.
When Skelton was ushered in he came straight to the point. “His Majesty King James II wishes you to send the Duke of Monmouth back to England without delay.”
William bowed his head. “I shall do as the King of England demands. And now if you will leave me I will have him informed that he is no longer my guest. Then, when that is done, you may make him your prisoner and conduct him to your master.”
Skelton was delighted with his easy victory; but when he was alone William immediately sent a messenger to Monmouth with money, explaining that a plot was afoot to carry him back to England and his only hope was to leave
Holland with all speed.
Thus when Skelton went to arrest Monmouth, he had fled.
Gone were the gay and happy days.
Mary sat with her women thinking of the dances and the skating, wondering what the future would hold.
All through the spring she waited to hear news of Jemmy. There was none.
He will never be able to return to England because my father hates him, she thought.
But in May of that year there was news. Monmouth had left for England.
The tension at The Hague had never been so great. Messengers were arriving at the Palace all day. William was shut up with Bentinck for hours at a time; he hardly seemed to be aware of Mary.
Monmouth was in Somerset. Taunton was greeting him. He had followers in the West of England who would go with him to death if need be for the sake of the Protestant cause.
To William’s surprise there were many to support the King, and his army under Churchill and Feversham was a well-trained force. What chance had the rebels against it?
King Monmouth, they were calling the Duke. King! William gritted his teeth and prayed for the victory of his greatest enemy.
It came with Sedgemoor and debacle. Victory for King James. Defeat, utter and complete, for King Monmouth.
In The Hague William secretly rejoiced. Monmouth, you fool! he thought. You deserve to lose your head and you will, King Monmouth.
Oh, Jemmy, thought Mary, what will become of you? Why did you do this? Why could you not have stayed with us, dancing, skating. We were so happy. And now what will become of you?
She quickly learned. Before the end of July Jemmy was dead. He was taken to the scaffold from his prison in the Tower. He went to his death with dignity and he did not flinch when he laid his head on the block.
THE WIFE AND THE MISTRESS
