There were various versions, but the main one was that it had been far from successful. Elizabeth Villiers, I imagined, was the chief source of information, for she was in constant communication with her sisters who were at the court of England, and that meant she received the latest news from them. It was usually accurate.
It seemed George and Anne had not taken kindly to each other. Poor Anne! I expect she compared him with Lord Mulgrave, and the contrast must have been great.
How I wished I could have been with her, to have known her true feelings. Anne was not a letter writer; she had always avoided taking up her pen. She was quite different from me in that respect and any communication I had from her was brief. I did hope she was not too unhappy at this time.
I heard that George had been averse to the match after meeting Anne and Anne felt the same about him. So there could have been no regrets when the young man was recalled to Hanover and was almost immediately betrothed to Sophia Dorothea of Celle.
So George’s future was fixed, and I was sure someone would soon be found for Anne.
There was sad news from home. Little Isabella had died. I was desolate. I had grown to love my little half-sister when she had been with us and I guessed the anguish Mary Beatrice would be suffering. It was so cruel that this child—the only one who had managed to survive for a few years—should be taken from her.
My father wrote very sadly to me. I knew that he would be going through a very difficult time. The King was not in the best of health and there was uneasiness everywhere. He hoped that I was happy. Dr. Ken had reported that he was not pleased with the manner in which I was treated at my husband’s court.
I wrote to him and said that I was very well and by no means unhappy. Dr. Ken may have exaggerated. He did not really like being away from his own country and he had had some differences about religion with the Prince.
My father also said that he believed there were rumors circulating about himself, and he hoped nothing would be done to poison my mind against him. He wanted my assurances that the feelings we had had for each other were as they always had been.
I assured him that this was so, although I wondered afterward if this was entirely true. In the days of my childhood I had thought him godlike, perfect in every way; but recently I had felt a little impatient with him. I hated the conflict and it was becoming more and more clear to me that if my father had not flaunted his religion in such a way, many of our troubles need never have occurred.
When Dr. Ken went back to England he was replaced by Dr. Covell. Dr. Covell had traveled a great deal and was very different from Dr. Ken. He was more gentle, more inclined to keep his opinions to himself, but I quickly realized that he had no great fondness for William, and I was not surprised, for he was shocked, as Dr. Ken had been, by the lack of respect accorded me.
There was more news from England regarding Anne. This time her suitor was another George—the Prince of Denmark. By all accounts, he appeared to be a rather pleasant person, unassuming in the extreme, and because he was only the second son of King Frederick of Denmark, he could take up his residence in England and Anne would not be expected to leave her home. I could well imagine that this would make the young man very agreeable to her—and when I heard that Colonel Churchill was a friend of the Prince, who in turn thought highly of the Colonel, I was sure that Sarah would approve of him and that would count very highly with Anne. So I was not surprised when I heard she was satisfied with the match, and I rejoiced in this, for I did not want my sister to suffer as I had.
I was living a very quiet life at this time. Anne Trelawny was a great comfort and I also had my old nurse, Mrs. Langford, with me. Her husband was a clergyman and one of my chaplains. There were the Villiers and Betty Selbourne with Jane Wroth—now Jane Zulestein—and a rather pretty Dutch girl named Trudaine.
Another of the Villiers sisters had arrived in Holland. This was Catherine. She had married a Monsieur Puisars, a Frenchman who had a post at The Hague.
My father was writing frequently to me now and I knew that William was very uneasy about this. He kept a close watch on my actions, and did not care that I should appear often in public. On the rare occasions when I did, I was regarded with great interest by the people and I fancied that they liked me. Their smiles indicated this and, although they are not a people to give vent to emotions, they implied that they approved of me. William noticed this and it seemed to puzzle him and did not, I think, altogether please him. He himself was always greeted with the utmost respect but hardly affection. With me it was the reverse, and this made him rather thoughtful and may have been the reason why he did not want me to appear too often.
He had arranged that, in addition to the maids of honor, who were my friends, there should be several Dutch attendants. They were given orders to attend my needs and make sure I was given the utmost care. When they first appeared, I resented them, for they seemed like jailors, but I soon found that they were pleasant girls and grew quite fond of them.
Now that I had so much leisure, I realized that I had not worked as hard as I might have done at my lessons and my ignorance disturbed me. I discovered a special interest in literature, and as there was little to do but walk in the gardens, do needlework, or, if I were at Loo, amuse myself with the poultry, I became involved with my books. I even painted a little, remembering the instructions of my dwarf, Richard Gibson.
With these occupations the days passed pleasantly. More and more people, though, were asking themselves why I allowed my husband to govern me. It was said: “The Princess of Orange lives like a recluse and this seems to be at the wish of her husband.”
But I was enjoying my books and painting. I suppose I have a peace-loving nature. I had never wanted to stress my rank. I think, more than anything, I wanted to live on happy terms with those about me. I have always thought that displays of anger rarely benefit the people who make them. I think, too, that I had become somewhat fascinated by William. I knew he was not handsome, not quite straight in frame, cold, aloof, without tenderness. Set out like that, it would seem he had all the least likeable traits a man could have. But there was something very strong about William. Ambition, I had seen in men, but not that power which I believe is reckoned to hold a certain attraction for some women. It may be that I am one of them.
So I lived my docile life at the House in the Woods, or at Dieren, which I visited from time to time because it was said to be good for me—and of course at the Palace of Loo. And those about me—some of them English visitors to The Hague, Dr. Covell, Betty Sherbourne, Mrs. Langford and Anne Trelawny, continued to complain that the Prince of Orange behaved very badly toward his wife.
The news from England was awaited eagerly. It seemed clear that a crisis was looming. The Exclusion Bill, which was to prevent my father taking the throne in the event of his brother’s death, had failed to go through once more, simply beause the King had prevented it by dissolving Parliament.
The Duke of Monmouth was very much in evidence—Protestant son of the King, though, unfortunately for him—and for England, some implied—born on the wrong side of the blanket. If only he had been the legitimate son, all this unrest could have been avoided.
But it was not impossible to put this matter right.
I could imagine how the King would watch his son’s antics with that amusement he bestowed on all matters, whether of great importance or none at all, as though to say, it is for you to settle when I am no longer here.
My father had returned from Scotland and the King had received him with great joy. Those ministers who had brought about his exile had been overruled by those who wished for his return; but the fact that the heir to the throne had been sent into exile had created a very uneasy situation.
My father had assumed his old duties. He still had his enemies but they appeared to be less powerful and, although he was not popular, it was said that many preferred to have him brought out of exile and at home, where he could be watched.
Everyone di
d not agree with that. Perhaps that was why the Rye House Plot occurred.
That there should be a plot to kill the King seemed incredible. He was as popular as ever, and all hoped that he would live for a very long time, for while he was on the throne all was well. But he had prevented the Exclusion Bill becoming law, and now his brother was back in the country, heir to the throne. To some it must seem that the King’s affection for his brother had overcome his good sense; and there were those who were determined that at all costs the Duke of York should not come to the throne. So they planned to kill him, and with him the King. Hence the Rye House Plot.
Fortunately it was ill-conceived and one of the conspirators took fright and confessed that the assassinations were being planned. The King and his brother were to be murdered on their way back from Newmarket, at a house in Hertfordshire which belonged to a maltster and was called Rye House. I was greatly relieved to hear that my father and the King were safe.
This was particularly interesting to many of the people at The Hague because some of the conspirators were well known there. Lord Russell was one; Algernon Sidney another.
By this time I had guessed, of course, that these men had been at The Hague conspiring with William to be ready for the time when my uncle died.
William was aggrieved, if not for Sidney and Russell—who were executed after the trial, which had shown how deeply involved they were—for the failure of the plot which, had it succeeded, would have removed those who stood between me and the crown.
ANNE WAS MARRIED TO GEORGE OF DENMARK. How I wished I could have been present in the Chapel Royal at St. James’s on that day. By all accounts she had quickly forgotten Mulgrave and was perfectly contented with the bridegroom they had given her. How rarely that happened, and how blessed were those to whom it did!
Anne would sail through life as she always had done, apart from that minor upset over Mulgrave which she should have known was doomed from the start.
Sarah Churchill was with her and would remain so. Anne would arrange that and Sarah would agree, because of the advantages her position brought her.
Meanwhile, I must pursue my quiet life, reading, painting, walking, seeing few people but those in my immediate circle.
It was with great sorrow that I heard that the Duke of Monmouth was suspected of having been concerned in the Rye House Plot.
I believed he was genuinely fond of his father; he had always shown a great affection for him. I knew that he and my father were not good friends. I was sure Jemmy thought my father a fool to parade his Catholicism as he did; and, of course, my father was not pleased to see Jemmy appearing in public with the airs and grace of a Prince of Wales, as though the role were his by right.
Now Jemmy was in trouble. He had been in trouble before but the King had always been lenient and again and again he had been forgiven. Jemmy possessed the Stuart charm in great measure and was like his father in many ways—alas, though, he lacked his wisdom.
He could scarcely be forgiven this time. Sidney and Russell had been executed for their part in the plot, so how could Jemmy go free? The King did what he always did in such a situation. He prevaricated. There was no imprisonment for Jemmy, but he was sent into exile. Brussels seemed the natural haven and to that city he came.
William made sure that he was given a welcome when he eventually arrived in Holland, and this was noted and commented on.
I was told that when the King heard of it, he was highly amused and in his dry way commented that he was surprised that the Duke of Monmouth and the Prince of Orange could be such friends when they were both pursuing the same mistress—by which he meant the English crown.
There was uneasiness everywhere. Everyone waited for what would happen next. I wondered how my uncle felt, knowing they were all thinking of his death. I could imagine the regrets he would feel that he would not be there to see the results of their actions.
Algernon Sidney had been replaced as English Envoy by Thomas Chudleigh who was not accepted very graciously by William. Chudleigh had been sent to be watchful, for William’s preference for Sidney and Russell was well known.
Chudleigh joined the set who were complaining about the Prince’s treatment of me, and who were still writing to England about it.
However, the weeks sped by and in fact I was enjoying the occupations which filled my quiet life. I did not want to be drawn into political conflicts, particularly now when there was a growing hostility between my husband and father.
I thought very tenderly of my father every now and then, remembering incidents from my childhood, but my impatience with him for creating this trouble was increasing.
I was reading a great deal about the doctrines of the Church and I was becoming more and more convinced that the break with Rome was a blessing for England, and that a religion which could tolerate an Inquisition with its accompanying cruelties must be avoided at all cost. It was true that there had been persecution by the Protestants, but there had never been such cruelty in England as there was under the reign of Bloody Mary, and it was right that all steps should be taken to make sure that it never happened again. William would prevent it. My father would bring it back.
William came to me one day and said: “The Duke of Monmouth will be coming to The Hague.”
“To The Hague!” I cried in astonishment. Jemmy had been in Holland and William had shown his friendship to him, but to invite him to The Hague—and if he came it must be as an honored guest—was an insult not only to my father but to my uncle, the King. Jemmy was the latter’s son, of course, but he was in exile.
“But …” I began.
William waved a hand impatiently. He did not enter into explanations. Suffice it to say that Jemmy was coming at his invitation.
“We must give him a good welcome,” he said.
“I?”
He looked at me coldly, annoyed that I should remind him that I was not usually included on such occasions.
“Naturally, you will help to entertain him,” he said. “So you will be ready to do so.”
He did not linger. He did not want to answer questions. So our brief interview was over.
I was puzzled. The thought entered my mind. Should I allow myself to be treated in this way? To be shut away, almost as though I were under house arrest, and then suddenly to be called out of seclusion at a moment’s notice. I knew why—of course. I was my father’s daughter. And my father and Monmouth were enemies.
I was never forceful enough, but there were times when I wanted to protest. I did not understand my feelings for William. He was usually cool to me, never tender, never loving; and yet I behaved in this submissive way. I was always aware of that power in him, that quality which made me forget he was undersized, not physically strong when compared with most men; but somehow he managed to tower over them mentally. I knew enough of him to be aware that he railed against his weakness, that he was often in pain from his aching joints. He would never admit this, of course, and Nature had endowed him with towering mental powers with which to achieve his great ambitions.
There was another reason why I was eager to comply with his request. I was very fond of Jemmy. Both Anne and I had looked forward to his visits. He used to dance with us and tell us wild exciting stories of his exploits, of his daring and unmatched courage. They were all fabrications, and we knew it—but we loved hearing them all the same.
So to see him again, if only for a brief time, would be exciting. I would try to forget my uneasiness concerning the part he may have played in the Rye House Plot. I would just look forward to being with Cousin Jemmy.
It was some time since I had appeared at court. There had been one occasion when I had done so most reluctantly. It was one I could not easily forget.
Always at St. James’s we had remembered the anniversary of my grandfather’s death, and made it a day of mourning. Anne and I used to stay quietly in our apartments, and there had been special prayers for our grandfather’s soul.
I had always kept up
the practice, even since I had come to Holland, and the day had always passed off quietly until the one at the beginning of this year.
I had fasted during that day, wearing a black gown, and was at prayer in my chamber when William came in.
He looked very impatient at the sight of me.
He said: “Enough of this. You are to dine with me tonight.”
I replied: “But I am fasting on this day, which is the anniversary of the murder of my grandfather.”
“Take off that gown,” he said, “and put on the brightest one you have.”
I stared at him incredulously. “I could not do that,” I said.
“Get one of your women to help. You cannot wear that dress of mourning. I wish you to wear your most splendid gown.”
“In England,” I began, “we always …”
“You are not in England now.”
“Here, too,” I said.
“I wish you to appear with me. There must be no hint of mourning. You understand?”
“But …” I began; and at that moment Betty Selbourne came in with Anne Trelawny. I realized he must have sent for them.
He said to them: “The Princess must be ready in an hour. Bring out the most splendid of her gowns.”
Then he left us.
“But it is the anniversary,” began Betty.
Anne was looking at me questioningly. “What does Your Highness want?” she asked.
I hesitated. Then I said: “Bring out the gown and help me to dress.”
I could see that Anne was angry and Betty was already thinking of what she would write home. People there would soon know that I had been commanded to ignore the day of mourning for my grandfather.
I felt numb as they helped me dress, but I was ready when the Prince arrived to take me to The Hague.
I remember so well sitting there while the dishes were placed before me. I could eat nothing. I was choked with misery … for my grandfather who had been brutally murdered, and for the fact that I could be so treated. It was, as Dr. Ken had said, as though I were a slave.
Jean Plaidy - [Queens of England 10] Page 16
