Mr. Betterton was also at court and he was coaching the young men in their parts.
Anne had discovered my passion for Frances Apsley. She knew about the letters we exchanged and that Frances was Aurelia and I Clorine. She did what was typical of her; she decided she must have a passionate friendship. I had Frances and, as there was no one to compare with my choice in Anne’s opinion, she must have Frances too.
After all, sentimental friendships were the fashion. So many young women indulged in them and they were generally conducted by letters.
This had nothing to do with her allegiance to Sarah Jennings, any more than mine had toward Anne Trelawny. They were our true friends, our everyday friends. This was different. The object of our devotion in this case was an ideal being, a goddess to be worshipped.
I had found the goddess and she must be Anne’s too.
I often wonder now what Frances thought of our outpourings. When I remember some of the impassioned words I wrote I can smile at my innocence. It did not occur to me at the time that others might think it was not exactly a healthy state of affairs.
However, Anne was soon corresponding with Frances in the same manner. Frances humored her, as I expect she did me. We were the daughters of the Duke of York, heir to the throne, and if there was no son, I was second in line to the throne, Anne third. That had to be a consideration.
Not only was Anne writing to Frances—an example of her devotion and her determination to imitate me, for writing was an occupation she had hitherto avoided and I could imagine what those letters were like—but they must have their private names, as Frances and I had. So Frances was Semandra—from the play, of course—and Anne was Ziphares, another character from it.
It may have been this unusual activity on Anne’s part that attracted Lady Frances’s attention, and she may have felt that she should know what was going on. We were, after all, in her charge. She was especially watchful.
It happened that Richard Gibson, the dwarf, whom we often used as a courier, was away. Sarah Jennings, who was fully aware of the passion Anne and I shared for Frances Apsley, and no doubt laughed at it and clearly considered it no impediment to her domination over Anne, agreed to take the letters while Richard Gibson was absent. Thus, I supposed, she could keep a close check on Anne and share her confidences about what she would consider to be a silly and by no means a permanent arrangement.
One day, when I was having my dancing lesson with Mr. Gorey, our dancing master, Anne was in her closet, writing to Frances—never an easy task for Anne—and before she had time to finish her letter she was called to have her dancing lesson.
She did not want to leave the letter unsealed, so she took it with her to the class and, as my lesson had just finished, she gave it to me, whispering that I might be good enough to seal hers with mine and that Sarah had promised to take them both to Frances.
I went back to my closet and there wrote my letter to Frances, but just as I was finishing, Sarah Jennings came in.
“I shall have to go now,” she said. “So I will take the letters.”
“My sister’s is not yet sealed. Will you please seal it for her while I do mine?”
As I gave her the letter, Lady Frances came in and I had a notion that she might have heard some of the conversation.
I felt my face grow scarlet. Suppose she asked to see the letter? I could not bear to think of those cool eyes reading the impassioned words. She would not understand at all and they would seem quite foolish to such a practical person. I had called Frances my husband and I was her adoring wife.
Sarah was calm enough. In any case, she had nothing to fear. She was just standing there with Anne’s letter in her hand.
As Lady Frances came into the closet, I was so embarrassed. I stammered something about my new gown and asked how she liked it. I turned to the cupboard and opened it so that my back was toward her and she could not see my flushed face.
Lady Frances said: “My Lady Mary, what were you doing in your closet before I came in?”
Sarah stood there with an air of nonchalance, Anne’s letter still in her hand.
“I … had called in Mrs. Jennings to show me a new way of sealing a letter,” I said.
Lady Frances looked at the letter in Sarah’s hand and there was a slight pause before she said: “Mrs. Jennings is very ingenious with such things.”
There was an awkward silence and then she left us.
Sarah shrugged her shoulders. “Let us seal the letters,” she said, “and I will take them to Mrs. Apsley without delay.”
After that I fancied Lady Frances was very watchful and when next I wrote and Richard Gibson was still away and Sarah was unable to deliver the letter, I summoned one of the footmen and asked him to take it, in spite of the fact that Frances had warned me not to send letters unless it was by someone whom I could trust.
I was sure then that Lady Frances was watching us closely, for that letter fell into her hands.
I was horrified when she came to my closet and said that she wanted to talk to me. She was very respectful, as always, but her mouth was set in stern lines and I saw that she was determined to do what she considered her duty.
She said: “You have been corresponding with Mistress Apsley.” She held up the letter which I had given to the footman. She must have ordered him to give it to her.
“You … have read it?” I gasped.
“Lady Mary, your father has put me in charge of this household. It is therefore my duty to know what goes on in it.”
I was trying to think what I had written in that letter. I was always in a state of high emotion while I wrote them, words flowed out and I was never sure half an hour afterward what I had said except that all the letters contained pledges of my constant love.
Then I remembered that I had mentioned something about the scandal concerning the Duke of Monmouth and Eleanor Needham and that the Duchess of Monmouth had taken the matter mightily to heart.
That had been indiscreet, of course, and I should not have referred to it. Nor should I, if I had thought anyone was going to read it other than Frances. I was rather proud of my eloquence and I remembered the end. “I love you with a love that never was known by man. I have for you more excess of friendship than any woman can for woman and more love than even the most constant husband had for his wife, more than can be expressed by your ever obedient wife and humble servant who wishes to kiss the ground where you walk, to be your dog on a string, your fish in a net, your bird in a cage, your humble trout. Mary Clorine.”
I had been so proud of those words when I wrote them; now I blushed to remember them.
Lady Frances was looking at me very strangely. I noticed an uncertainty in her eyes. I had realized that she was not sure how to act.
She began: “His Grace, your father …” Then she shook her head; her lips moved as though she were talking to herself.
“It is a very excessive friendship,” she said at length. “I think it would be better if we did not speak of it. And the Lady Anne … ?”
“My sister writes to Mistress Apsley because I do,” I said.
“I must ponder this matter,” she said, as though to herself.
“I do not understand. Is it not good to have friends … to love?”
“Perhaps it would be well if you did not meet for a while.”
“Not meet?”
“And not … write such letters.”
“I do not understand …”
“No,” said Lady Frances briskly. “I am sure you do not.”
“Not to see her …” I murmured blankly.
“I think you might meet, say on Sundays. You will be in the company of others then. And perhaps on Holy Days.”
I stared at her in dismay. I had been in the habit of taking any opportunity I could to be with Frances.
I said: “Lady Frances, you have my letter.”
She looked at me with caution in her eyes. I knew that she was eager not to displease me. It was a fact that my
stepmother was pregnant, but who could be sure what the result of the pregnancy would be? And if the situation did not change, Lady Frances might be at this moment earning the deep resentment of the future Queen of England.
“We will forget this matter,” she said slowly. “I think, my Lady Mary, it would be well if we were a little discreet.”
She was smiling at me. Gravely I took the letter from her and she left me.
IT WAS A BLEAK JANUARY DAY in the year of 1675. I would soon be thirteen years old. My father had been very disappointed because, instead of the hoped-for boy, Mary Beatrice had produced a girl. He tried not to show it and declared that he was very happy with our little sister.
I found Mary Beatrice in excellent spirits. She confided to me that she wanted the child to be baptized in the Catholic faith and she was afraid there would be some opposition to that.
“Your father desires it, too,” she said. “And I am going to be very bold. I shall command Father Gallis to baptize the baby before anyone else can do anything about it.”
In view of the conflict which was growing over this matter of the Catholic faith, I thought this was a very daring thing to do. I knew that my father was very sad because Anne and I were being brought up as Protestants, and he only accepted this because if he had attempted to stop it we should have been taken away from him altogether and he would probably have been sent away from court.
I was amazed that the usually meek Mary Beatrice could be so bold; but I was learning that people will do a great deal for their faith.
It was no use trying to dissuade her, and Father Gallis baptized little Catherine Laura. The name Catherine was given to the baby in honor of the Queen and she was Laura after Mary Beatrice’s mother.
Mary Beatrice had no qualms about what she had done. I supposed this was due to the fact that, whatever misdemeanor she committed at court was of no importance because she had done right in the sight of Heaven.
However, she did seem a little subdued when she told me, a few days later, that the King had announced his intention of coming to St. James’s to discuss the baptism with her.
I was horrified.
“The King will be angry,” I said. “You have been very bold. It is not that he will care very much. He is careless about such matters. But you have to remember that the people are not very pleased.”
She held her head high, but I could see that she was apprehensive. I begged her to tell me quickly what the King said when he came. I felt she had gone too far, even for his good humor.
She kept her word and I hastened to her. I found her a little baffled.
She said: “I told the King what I had done but it was not as I expected. He did not show anger at all. He just smiled in a rather absent way and talked of other things. I was overjoyed. My baby is a Catholic, even though she was born in this heretic land.”
“Do not be too sure of that,” I said. “There are people around us who could create mischief.”
The next day I was told that the baby was to be baptized in the Chapel Royal, according to the rites of the Church of England, of course, and one of the bishops would perform the ceremony.
I was astounded. Mary Beatrice had said the King had not seemed to hear what she had said.
“He did hear,” I assured her. “He is sweeping it aside, as he does anything that is unpleasant. He understands what you did. Most people would have been furious … banished you to the Tower. But the King does not act like that, so he brushes it aside as though it has not happened. But he will have his way all the same and Catherine Laura will be baptized in the Church of England.”
“But she is a Catholic!” Mary Beatrice was almost in tears. She was bewildered. She did not understand the ways of our court. The King, so charming … smiling, showing no signs of anger, had just swept aside her childish action. As far as he was concerned, it had never happened.
Soon after I heard that my sister Anne and I were to stand as sponsors and the Duke of Monmouth was to join us.
When it was over my father came to see me.
“The Duchess told you that there was a previous baptism,” he said.
“Yes,” I replied. “She did.”
He was frowning and staring before him. “The King has spoken to me very seriously,” he went on.
“The King behaved to the Duchess as though it were of no importance.”
“He understood her motive. ‘She is young,’ he said, ‘and quite ignorant of the significance of her action. She is not to be blamed, but watched that she commits no more such follies.’ If this were known, Gallis would be hanged and quartered. As for myself and the Duchess, he warned me that at least we should be sent away from court. No one must know that this ceremony took place. Please, never speak of it.”
I did understand. I was growing up fast. I saw that my father could be in danger.
I threw myself into his arms and clung to him.
“I promise, I promise,” I cried.
THE ORANGE MARRIAGE
Life had changed since we had been launched on the court. We were often in the company of the King. Both Anne and I looked forward to those occasions, for he treated us with great affection and lack of ceremony, as always the kindly uncle. How differently I see such relationships when I look back now!
In those days I thought all the affectionate words and actions meant he really cared for us. He did, of course, in his lighthearted way, but I know now what his main aim was. We were in his care. We were good little Protestants. We were in line to the throne and my uncle wanted the people to know that, although he himself could not provide them with a Protestant heir, he would make sure that, in spite of his brother’s love affair with the Catholic Church, those who followed him to the throne should be of the approved religion.
Although I know now how this matter was always there in our lives, I did not understand then how very important it was and how it would shape my life.
So we were now at court, and I must say we were finding the experience delightful. We were treated with the utmost respect wherever we went. Lady Frances was almost deferential at times. Elizabeth Villiers was wary, and so was Sarah Jennings. She and Anne were inseparable, in spite of Anne’s passion for Frances Apsley. It was Sarah who was Anne’s alter ego.
I continued to write to Frances and to see her when I could on Sundays and Holy Days; and both Anne and I discovered a pastime which we found fascinating. This was cards. How we enjoyed them! The excitement of picking up the cards to see what had been dealt to us, eagerly scanning them, deciding how we should play them—it absorbed us.
In fact, we became so addicted to the cards that there was criticism of us.
Margaret Blague thought it was sinful and, like all good people, did not stop herself from letting us know it.
“What harm does it do anyone?” I asked.
“It could harm the players,” she insisted. “It is gambling and that should not be indulged in—especially on Sundays.”
Margaret was very puritanical. She would have been happier under Oliver Cromwell, I thought. Hadn’t she believed that playacting was sinful?
My tutor, Dr. Lake, brought up the subject one day.
He said: “It has been noticed that you and the Lady Anne are at the card table almost every evening.”
“It is a pastime we enjoy,” I replied. “What harm is there in it? Do you consider it to be a sin?”
“It is not exactly a sin, but I think Your Highness gives offense by indulging in it on the Sabbath. The people would not like it if they heard of it.”
I knew that we had to be constantly careful not to offend “the people,” and I could understand that there might be some of them who would not like us to play cards on Sundays.
“I will speak to my sister,” I said, “and we shall not play cards on Sundays.”
Dr. Lake looked a little placated and I was so relieved that he did not attempt to curtail card-playing during the week, for that was something neither of us could have agree
d to.
Something very unfortunate happened at this time and, although it was proved to be just the mischief-making of a man of evil reputation, it was very disturbing while it lasted.
A Frenchman named Luzancy announced that the Duchess of York’s confessor had visited him in his lodgings. This Luzancy had been born a Catholic and was a convert to Protestantism. The Roman Catholic priest, he alleged, had held a knife to his throat and threatened to kill him if he did not return to the Catholic faith.
There was nothing more likely to arouse the concern of the people. They would never forget the fires of Smithfield during the reign of that queen whom they called Bloody Mary. Then Protestant men and women had been burned to death for their religious opinions. They had heard gruesome stories of what had happened under the Spanish Inquisition. Never would they have that sort of thing in England.
We were back on the old theme which seemed to be running through my life, and which was soon to be brought home to me in the most significant manner possible. But I suppose this was the case with many people at that time. It certainly affected my father’s life more than any.
The matter of Luzancy was taken so seriously that it was brought before the House of Commons and Lord William Russell, the ardent Protestant, who hated the French and deplored the licentiousness of the court, took the opportunity to bring in new laws against Catholics, and as a result no English subject might officiate as a papist priest in any chapel whatsoever.
This was a criticism not only of Mary Beatrice but the Queen herself, who had been subjected to suspicion since she came to the country.
Even when witnesses to Luzancy’s criminal career in his native France were produced and he was completely discredited, this law persisted.
I believe that Mary Beatrice did not realize the extent of her unpopularity. She was very young and was beginning to grow fond of her husband, whom she found to be so gentle and kindly; she was very fond of her royal brother-in-law; and she had her baby.
Jean Plaidy - [Queens of England 10] Page 6
