“You must not grieve,” he said in a more gentle tone than he had ever used to me before. “It may be that they will have more sons.”
But the smile lingered about his lips and I was sure he was convinced they never would. The way was clear. My father would have the throne, but for how long? The English would never accept a Catholic monarch. No wonder he felt benevolent toward me.
That night he came to supper. There was a change in him. He was less impatient, less critical.
He was implying that the marriage had been worthwhile after all.
I THOUGHT A GOOD DEAL about William. In fact, he was not often out of my thoughts. He was a strange man, so aloof that I felt I should never know him. He had betrayed his feelings a little over the death of my little half-brother, but that had not surprised me. Quite clearly he had no affection for me, though he had a deep regard for my position. He thought I was a silly young girl. He had made that perfectly clear, and never more so than during those periods of “duty.”
I sometimes had a conventional idea that, since he was my husband, I should try to love him. I began to make excuses for him. I pictured what his childhood must have been like, and I compared it with my happy one. Sometimes I felt that if I had not had such devoted parents, and particularly a doting father, I might have been able to understand him more readily.
He had been born fatherless and his mother had died when he was young. All through his childhood he had been taught that it was his duty to serve his country and that he must regain the title of Stadholder.
I had learned something of his country’s turbulent history, of the Spanish oppression, of his great ancestor, William the Silent, who had stood out against the evils of the Spanish Inquisition. William the Silent must have been rather like William himself. They were great men; they were serious men—unlike my uncle Charles and the men of Whitehall and St. James’s, whose main interest was the pursuit of pleasure.
I learned about the de Witts who had governed the country until some six years before, when the French King had invaded the country and William had declared he would fight to the last ditch and never give in.
He was a great soldier and a great statesman, and the people of Holland recognized in him another William the Silent. I heard how they had rallied to him, the Stadholder, and had demonstrated against John and Cornelius de Witt, storming their house, dragging them out and subjecting them to violent deaths by tearing them to pieces in the street.
It was horrible, but so much that was horrible happened to people. William had saved his country and was now recognized throughout Europe as one of the most able statesmen—important enough to marry the daughter of James, Duke of York, heiress to England—himself in line to the throne.
The three crowns! I thought: did he believe in the sign at his birth? I imagined he was no visionary, but it is easy to believe in prophecies which promise us great things, and his whole life had been molded to one aim. Ambition. And the crown of England had been promised him at this birth. For that, it was worth marrying a foolish girl for whom he could feel only contempt.
I was beginning to understand William and it helped to change my feelings toward him in some measure. I still dreaded his coming, but I understood. He could not feel warmth for anyone. He had not been brought up to love.
And then I had a surprise.
I had always known that William Bentinck was a greatly respected associate of his, but I had not realized how close.
One day from my window I saw William riding away from the House in the Woods after one of our nights together, which always left me a little shaken, although I had come to accept their inevitability. William Bentinck came riding toward the palace. He had, I guessed, some message for William. He had almost reached him when the horse shied and Bentinck was thrown from the saddle.
I caught my breath in horror, but the horse had stood quite still and Bentinck hastily picked himself up. It was clear that he was unhurt. It was just a slight mishap. The horse must have slipped over a stone and Bentinck had slid quite gently out of the saddle.
It was what happened afterward that amazed me. William had leaped from his horse and ran toward Bentinck. They were smiling at each other and then suddenly, to my astonishment, William took Bentinck into his arms and held him against him for a moment. Then he released him and they laughed together. I could not hear what was said, but I knew that William must be telling him how relieved he was that he was unhurt. I could not believe it. William looked like a different man. He was smiling as I would not have believed he could smile.
Who would have thought he could feel so warmly toward any man?
AFTER THAT I BECAME VERY INTERESTED in William Bentinck and wondered what it was about him which could attract William in such a way.
Bentinck was a year or so older than William—a nobleman who had been a page in William’s household, a position which had brought them into close contact and, as they were more or less of an age, I supposed they would have interests in common, and so this friendship had begun.
He had accompanied William on that visit to England when the latter had distinguished himself by breaking the windows of the maids of honor’s apartments; but, I learned, it was some years later when the friendship became significant.
I was a little hurt when I heard the story from others. William himself talked so rarely to me and never of his past.
It had happened five years after his return from England. The war in France was in progress and William was at The Hague Palace for a short respite, when he caught the smallpox. There was great consternation. This disease had killed both his father and his mother and people wondered if it were going to take him too. And at such a time when Holland needed his undoubtedly clever leadership!
His life was despaired of, for the usual eruptions did not appear and in such cases death seemed certain.
The doctors had a theory that if a young and healthy person who had not had the sickness would sleep in the bed of the sufferer and hold him in his arms throughout the night, these eruptions would be brought out and possibly save the life. Was there a young and healthy man who would risk his own life to save the Prince’s, for it was almost certain that the volunteer would catch the pox?
I could imagine the consternation among those young men about the Prince. It was William Bentinck who offered to make the sacrifice for the sake of his master and Holland.
For sixteen days and nights he shared William’s bed and waited on him by day. The effect was as the doctors had said it would be. The eruptions were drawn forth and William’s life had been saved. Alas, poor Bentinck had caught the disease very badly and come near to death. However, he recovered and ever since there had been a special friendship between him and William.
I liked the story. It proved that William had some warmth in his heart. He was capable of gratitude and Bentinck had risen high since that episode; he was always at William’s side. William consulted him and shared confidences.
As William was capable then of firm friendship, I began to make excuses for him. His mother had died when he was nine years old and he had been devoted to her since his birth; perhaps it was through her that he had conceived that ambition to possess the English crown. She had been English, my father’s sister—and she had put William in charge of Lady Catherine Stanhope, who had gone to Holland with her on her marriage, having previously been her governess. Then, of course, there was Mrs. Tanner’s vision of the three crowns.
I had begun to feel a little happier after that; and then, a wonderful thing happened. I was going to have a child. There was a long time to wait yet, but it had at last come to pass.
I was so proud. I even felt that all I had suffered would be worthwhile. What would it be like to have a child of one’s own? It would be wonderful. Everyone would be pleased, particularly if it were a boy. If it were a girl, that would be a disappointment, but only a minor one, for I was young. I could have sons, for I would have shown that I was not barren.
Wil
liam was delighted. It was impossible for him to hide his joy. He smiled at me for the first time.
“That is good,” he said. “We will pray for a boy.”
He patted my shoulder. I smiled at him a little shyly and he continued to regard me with approval.
All my ladies were delighted, except Elizabeth Villiers. She congratulated me with the others, of course, but I caught an odd look in her eyes which I did not understand. Anne Trelawny clucked over me as though I were a little chick and she a mother hen.
It was early days yet, for there was a long time to go. I congratulated myself because I should enjoy the waiting period. No more suppers and after. What need of them now? Their express purpose had been achieved.
It was decided that while I was in the early stage of pregnancy it would be a good idea for me to show myself to the people of Holland, and in order to do this I and my ladies should take a journey through the country. The best way of undertaking this was by means of the canals. There I could sail through the land in the utmost comfort.
I looked forward to it with enthusiasm and felt almost happy.
I wrote to my sister Anne, to Mary Beatrice and to Frances Apsley to tell them my news. I had not let Frances know how unhappy I had been; I never allowed myself to criticize William in any way. Now I did not have to pretend so much, for I was no longer miserable.
We had a great deal of fun preparing for our journey. Elizabeth Villiers acted a little strangely. She said she wanted to see me. It was very shortly before we were due to leave.
“I want to ask Your Highness’s permission to remain behind,” she said. “I have a certain weakness of the throat which I know would be aggravated by the damp air and I am afraid I should be ill if I spent much time on the waterways. I have been advised in this.”
I was surprised. I had always thought she was particularly healthy, but I did not protest. I was never fond of her company and felt no great need for it—only a mild pleasure that I should be deprived of it.
That was a very pleasant journey. I was greeted everywhere I went by those kind and homely people. I was impressed by the cleanliness of their dwellings, the manner in which they conveyed their pleasure in seeing me, which seemed very sincere, so that I felt they really were glad to welcome me, for they would not have pretended to be glad if they were not.
There was less ceremony than at home in England. People would come and take my hand; they would bring forward their children for me to admire. I was really happy during those days. There was something peaceful about the flat green land, and when the children brought me flowers which they had picked from the fields, I was reminded that soon I should have a child of my own. Yes, for the first time since coming to Holland, I was truly happy.
The night air was indeed damp and one day, to my dismay, I awoke shivering intermittently. I tried to shake this off, but it persisted. In a day or so I had a fever.
Doctors were called. They said I was suffering from the ague. It was a change of climate, though the air around The Hague Palace was noted for its dampness.
Thus my progress through the country did not end as happily as it had begun. I was taken back to the House in the Woods.
Elizabeth Villiers was there. She looked taken aback when she saw me and, I fancied, disappointed.
“Your Highness is ill?” she said with a pretence of concern.
“It is the dampness of the air, they say,” said Anne Trelawny. “Her Highness is to go immediately to bed.”
Elizabeth continued to look displeased. I did not trust her. She made me feel slightly uneasy.
I began to feel very ill and then … it started.
The pains were violent. I did not know what was happening to me. I lost consciousness for a while and when I regained it I found several doctors at my bedside.
It was morning—that very sad morning—when they came to tell me I had lost my child.
I had never been so miserable in my life.
William came. He looked very angry. The child of our hopes was not to be.
“What did you do?” he demanded.
“Nothing … nothing … it just happened,” I stammered.
He looked at me with scorn. He was so disappointed and angry. Then he left me. It was almost as though he could not trust himself not to do me some harm if he stayed.
I felt a resentment then. I had wanted the child as much as he had. Why did I not tell him that? Why did I allow myself to be treated so? He frightened me. When he was not there I planned what I would say to him, but when he came my courage failed me.
I thought of Mary Beatrice who had only little Isabella left of all her children, and how she had lost the little Prince whose coming had so disappointed William and who, had he lived, would have ruined William’s hopes of the throne, and I thought: am I to be cursed in the same way?
Anne Trelawny tried to persuade me not to despair because it was only the first. That did not help me. I had lost my child. I turned my face to the pillow and wept.
WILLIAM, INSPIRED BY NEW HOPES that there was no impediment to my inheritance, was determined to get his heir, and as soon as my health began to improve his visits continued, and it was not long before I was pregnant again.
One day there was a letter from England. It was addressed to William and it evidently annoyed him to such an extent that he could not help showing the bitterness of his feelings.
It was from my father. The relationship between them had never been cordial. They could not help seeing each other first as Catholic and Protestant. I could sympathize with William in this when I heard how his country had suffered under the Spanish yoke and how the terrible Inquisition had inflicted such extreme torture on the people of Holland. I had heard that some thirty thousand of them had been buried up to their necks and left to die unless they accepted the Catholic faith as the true one. William saw my father as a man who would spread this kind of terror throughout the world.
As for my father, he recalled Cromwell and his Puritans who had murdered his father.
They were born to be enemies. They were so different in every way—my father warm and loving, William cold and austere. How strange that the two most important men in my life should be so different and how sad that they should have been such enemies.
And now here was another cause for enmity.
William said to me coldly: “I have had an accusation from your father that I do not take good care of you.”
“Oh no,” I said.
“But yes. He thinks that it was strange that you should suffer from the ague which you never did under his care. He informs me that the Duchess, his wife, and your sister, the Lady Anne, wish to visit you.”
I could feel nothing but joy. I clasped my hands and could not help exclaiming: “Oh, how happy that will make me.”
“They propose to come, as your father says, incognito. ‘Very incognito’ are his words. They have already sent a certain Robert White on ahead to procure a lodging for them near the palace so that there will be nothing official about the visit.”
“Why do they want to come in this way?”
He looked at me oddly. “They seem to think you are not being well treated here. Perhaps you have given some intimation of this?”
“Why? What do you mean?”
He lifted his shoulders. “The good ladies are to assure themselves—and your father—that you are being treated according to your rank. It would seem they have been led to believe this is not so.”
He was spoiling my pleasure in the anticipation of their arrival.
I said quickly: “You would not …”
“Refuse to allow them to come? I could scarcely do that. Rest assured, the lady spies will be well received when they arrive, though they will be ‘very incognito.’ ”
Nothing could really spoil my delight and I joyously awaited their arrival.
AND WHAT A JOY IT WAS TO SEE THEM. There was my dear, dear sister, who had been so ill when I left, now in radiant health.
I
t was wonderful to see me, she told me.
“When you went away, I wept for days. Sarah thought I should do myself some harm with my sorrow. Dear, dear Mary, and how do you like it here?”
She looked around the chamber. It was attractive, she said, but not like dear St. James’s and Richmond.
She was talking a great deal—for Anne—but this reunion was a very special occasion and even she was moved out of her usual placidity.
Then there was my stepmother. I saw the change in her. Grief had left its mark on her.
I did not mention the recent death of her baby son, but she knew I was thinking of it.
There was so much to talk of. I wanted news of my father.
“He never ceases to talk of you,” Mary Beatrice told me. “He wishes you were back with us and reproaches himself for letting you go.”
“It was no fault of his. He would have kept me in England if he could.”
She nodded. “He could do nothing,” she said. “But he still blames himself. This appears to be a pleasant country. The people are very agreeable.”
“Orange,” said Anne. “It’s a strange name for a country.”
“I call you Lemon … my dear little Lemon,” said Mary Beatrice. “Orange and Lemon, you see. Do I not, Anne?”
“Yes,” said Anne. “She says, ‘I wonder how little Lemon is today among all the Oranges.’ ”
We were all laughing. There was so much to know. How were all my friends—the Duke of Monmouth, for instance. All missing me, I was told.
I said: “It is wonderful that you have come.”
“Your father was so uneasy about you. He would have liked to come himself but he could hardly have done that. It would have made it too official. But when we heard what was happening here …”
“What did you hear?”
Mary Beatrice looked at Anne who said: “People wrote home … some of the ladies, you know. They wrote that the Prince does not treat you well. Does he not?”
Jean Plaidy - [Queens of England 10] Page 11
