I guessed that Burnet went straight to William and gave him my answer, for William changed toward me from then.
He was more affable; he talked to me of state matters and even showed some affection.
I was delighted and happier than I had been since the days of Jemmy’s visit. I understand now that what had been between us was my greater claim to the throne. Now we were equal and, because he was a man, he believed he had the ascendancy over me.
Strangely enough, I did not resent this; I was so happy because of the change in our relationship.
I HEARD FREQUENTLY FROM MY SISTER at this time. She seemed to be quite contented in her marriage and completely recovered from the loss of Lord Mulgrave. George of Denmark appeared to be a very amiable person; and she had Sarah Churchill, whom she had refused to relinquish, still with her.
Unfortunately Anne had taken a great dislike to our stepmother, which surprised me. The Mary Beatrice I had known had been such a pleasant person, very eager to be on good terms with the family she had inherited. Before I left England I had seen how fond she had grown of our father. She had realized she must accept his infidelities—and did we not all come to that state in time—and she took him for the good-hearted man he was.
What came between Mary Beatrice and Anne I could only guess was this matter of religion—as I feared had been the case with myself and my father.
Mary Beatrice was pregnant. This could be very significant, for if the baby were a boy he would be heir to the throne. I should be displaced, and it seemed certain that an attempt would be made to bring the boy up as a Catholic. It all came back to this perpetual factor.
But Anne was quite fierce in her denunciation. She had always loved gossip and to surround herself in her rather lethargic way with intrigue.
She wrote that “Mrs. Mansell” had gone to Bath and come back looking considerably larger. Mrs. Mansell was the name she had given to the Queen and our father was Mr. Mansell. She had a passion for giving people names. I imagined she felt it gave an anonymity to the information she was about to impart.
I knew and I supposed others did, that she had given names to herself and Sarah Churchill: Mrs. Morely was herself; Mrs. Freeman, Sarah Churchill; and although these two saw each other very frequently indeed, Anne still wrote notes to her dear Mrs. Freeman at every opportunity.
However, I was now told that “Mrs. Mansell” was making a great show of her pregnancy and that she looked very well indeed, although, in the past during such periods, she had looked decidedly wan.
Anne was implying, of course, that our stepmother was not really pregnant, but pretending to be so in order that in due course a baby might appear who was not in fact “a little Mansell” after all.
I think she was enjoying this and I was amazed when I remembered how my father had doted on her—almost as much as he had on me—and he had always tried to make us happy, as best he could, for I must not forget that our marriages were quite out of his hands.
We were, of course, all waiting for the birth of this all-important child, and Anne was not the only one who was suspicious.
Meanwhile Mary Beatrice grew larger.
“She is very big,” wrote Anne. “She looks well and I do think the grossesse of Mansell’s wife is a little suspicious.”
She wrote that they had quarreled recently and “Mansell’s wife,” in a fit of temper, had thrown a glove into Anne’s face. Anne implied that the poor creature must be very anxious and she was wondering how they were going to produce this suppositious child. Anne would make sure that she was present at the birth, to see for herself.
I was sorry for Mary Beatrice. I could imagine how unhappy she must be. She would be worried about my father. Perhaps she could see more clearly where he was going than he could himself.
Again and again I tried to make excuses for him, but I could not get out of my mind those images of Jemmy pleading with him, of Jemmy on the block while they hacked so cruelly at his handsome head. But I still loved my father.
Then the day came and the news was out. The child was a boy. This could change everything. There was an heir to the throne. I had lost my place as successor. What of William? Was he regretting his marriage now?
The child’s birth was indeed significant. It was the climax. It was that factor which made the people decide that my father must go.
The rumors were rife. Anne had not been at the birth after all. In spite of Mary Beatrice’s grossesse, the baby had arrived a month before he was due.
Anne was at Bath taking the waters. Our father had persuaded her to go at that time, although the doctors had not advised it. It seemed that every action of my father and stepmother aroused suspicion. Anne implied that my father had urged her to go because he did not want her to be present at the birth.
Anne wrote; “Mrs. Mansell was brought to bed and in a short time a very pleasant-looking child was brought out of the bed and shown to the people.”
There was an absurd story in circulation about a baby’s being brought into the bed in a warming pan to replace the one which my stepmother had born—or it might be that she had had no child at all, and had feigned pregnancy and waited for the healthy baby to be brought in by way of the warming pan. It was a wildly unlikely story and the fact was that the people did not want to believe that the child was the King’s.
They had made up their minds that my father must go.
ANNE’S LETTERS CONTINUED TO ARRIVE. They chiefly concerned the baby.
“My dear sister cannot imagine the concern and vexation I have been in that I should have been so unfortunate as to be out of town when the Queen was brought to bed, for I shall never have the satisfaction of knowing whether the child be true or false. It may be our brother, but God knows …”
I reread the letter. Could she really believe our father would be guilty of such fraud? I could not, yet I wanted to. I was ashamed, but I wanted it to be right for William—and myself—to have the crown William looked upon as his and had done so all his life because of the midwife’s vision. As for myself, I wanted it for him, for if he did not get it his marriage to me would be a perpetual disappointment to him. There was another reason: I was now fully convinced that Catholicism must never come to England. There was only one way to prevent it and that was to take the crown from my father.
Anne had turned against him, for the same reason I imagined. Why did she dislike our stepmother so? I wanted to believe this story of the warming pan although I knew it must be false.
Anne could never have written so many letters before. I wondered if Sarah Churchill encouraged her to write. I believe that Sarah’s husband—who was becoming a power in the army—was William’s friend. And Anne continued to write of her doubts about the baby.
“After all, it is possible that it may be her child,” she wrote, “but where one believes it, a thousand do not. For my part, I shall ever be one of the unbelievers.”
And later she wrote with a certain triumph: “The Prince of Wales has been ill these three or four days and has been so bad that many people say it will not be long before he is an angel in heaven.”
I could not stop thinking of my father and stepmother and wondering how much they were aware of what was going on.
More and more people were coming from England to the court of The Hague. They were the miscontents who were waiting for the day when William would sail across the sea to take the crown.
The little Prince did not die. He recovered and there was a great deal of activity; more arrivals, secret discussions and throughout Holland men were busy in the camps and dockyards. It was obvious that great events were about to take place.
I heard then from my father. I think he found it hard to believe that I could ever be with those who worked against him.
He wrote: “All the discourse here is about the preparations which are being made in Holland and what the fleet which is coming out from there plans to do. Time will show. I cannot believe that you are acquainted with the resolution the
Prince of Orange has taken and which alarms people here very much. I heard that you have been in Dieran and that the Prince has sent for you to tell you no doubt of his coming invasion of this country. I hope it will have been a surprise to you, being sure it is not in your nature to approve of such an unjust undertaking.”
I could scarcely bear to read that letter. I kept seeing us together all those years ago. A little child of three or four years, waiting for his coming, being picked up in his arms and set on his shoulder, while he talked to his captains, rather naively asking for compliments to be paid to his wonderful daughter. That was the father I had loved so much. And now here he was … surrounded by his enemies.
There were more visitors from England, eager to take part in William’s expedition. They brought messages urging him to act. William was believing that, instead of a defending army, he would find a welcome.
The fleet was being made ready. Just off the coast were fifty men-of-war and several hundred transports. The climax was coming nearer and nearer and I could see there was no escape from it. I had hoped that there would be some compromise. Perhaps my father would give up his faith. No, that would never happen. Perhaps he would abdicate. That would be the wise thing to do.
I could not bear to contemplate his being at war with William.
He wrote to me, reproaching me for not writing to him.
“I can only believe you must be embarrassed to write to me now that the unjust design of the Prince of Orange’s invading me is so public. Although I know you are a good wife, and ought to be so, for the same reason I must believe that you will be still as good a daughter to a father who has always loved you tenderly, and who has never done the least thing to make you doubt it. I shall say no more and believe you very uneasy for the concern you must have for a husband and father.”
I wept over the letter. I have always kept it. I was to read it often in the years to come.
And now the time was near. William was with me the night before he was due to sail. Ever since I had told Gilbert Burnet that if I were Queen of England William should be King and there would be no question of his remaining a mere consort, his manner had changed toward me. He talked with me more seriously; he even discussed plans with me on one occasion. I did not ask about Elizabeth Villiers. I was afraid to do so because I knew he was still her lover. She no longer lived in her sister’s house but had returned to court and no reference was ever made to the undelivered letter and the manner in which she had returned to Holland, but I had caught her watching me on one or two occasions, a little superciliously, as though to say: do not try your childish tricks on me again, Madam. Rest assured that I shall find a way to outwit you.
In my heart I knew she would, and I was glad the matter was ignored; but I was deeply jealous of her. If she had been beautiful, I could have understood it, but she was a mystery to me—as William was.
It did occur to me that I might have said, give up Elizabeth Villiers and I will make you King of England. Continue with her and remain my consort.
I wondered what his response would have been. I could imagine his cold eyes assessing me, but I could not bargain in such a way.
I had to give freely and for that he was undoubtedly grateful. It had brought him closer to me than any bargaining would have done.
He was really affectionate that night before he embarked for England. We supped together and retired early. He was to leave next day for the Palace of Hounslaerdyke and then go on to Brill where he would embark.
He spoke to me very gravely and with more feeling than he had ever shown before.
He said: “I hope that there will be little opposition when I land. I have been sent invitations to come from all sides. It is clear that the people of England have decided they will not continue with the King. He has shown his intentions too clearly. But, of course, there will be some who stand beside him.”
“You mean there will be fighting.”
“It is possible. It may be God’s will. How can one be sure? And if I should not return, it will be imperative that you marry again.”
“You will succeed,” I said hastily. “I am sure of it. Have you forgotten Mrs. Tanner’s vision?”
“I firmly believe that what she saw was heaven-sent. All through my life I have believed that. It has been long in coming, but now it is at hand. I shall come through. I shall be triumphant. But this is in the hands of God and his ways are mysterious. I said if I should not return it is your duty to marry without delay. You know full well that your father will do all in his power to marry you to a papist. That would be disastrous. You must marry a Protestant.”
I turned away. It distressed me that he could discuss my marriage to someone else so dispassionately.
He went on talking of what my duties would be in that calm way of his until I could endure no more.
I said: “You must succeed. I will not think otherwise. I do not want to marry anyone else. You are my husband. It is destined that you and I shall rule together.”
To my surprise he softened. I think he was a little surprised that I could be so genuinely devoted to him. Indeed, I was myself surprised, but when I contemplated the danger which he was about to face, and the possibility of his never coming back, and the insistence that there would be on my marrying again, I realized the extent to which I was bound to him.
I knew that I wanted to be with him, that my place was beside him.
While William was gratified by my devotion, he could not have forgotten my moments of rebellion. He would remember the grief of the child bride who had begged to be released from her marriage, the woman who had dared to send Elizabeth Villiers to England with a letter for the King. Then he would also remember that unconditionally I had agreed that he should be King of England and not merely my consort. This would indeed seem a triumph—almost as great as victory over the King.
Indeed, he was grateful and never before had he been so like a lover as he was that night.
The next day we left together, for I insisted on accompanying him to watch him embark.
I HAD BIDDEN HIM FAREWELL and watched him as he went aboard. I felt a terrible sense of foreboding and could not stop thinking of my father. I tried to convince myself that William would return. I was determined to believe Mrs. Tanner’s prophecy. The three crowns must be William’s. But what of my father, my poor ineffectual father? I remembered hearing that my uncle Charles had once said to him: “James will not last more than three years after I have gone. The people will never get rid of me, for if they did, it would mean having James—and so I am safe.”
Another prophecy!
“Oh, God,” I prayed, “spare him. Let him go away quietly. Let him live in peace with his faith.”
William and my father. The triumph of one would be the humiliation and defeat of the other. And I must watch this happen to the two men who had been the most important in my life.
William embarked at Brill on the twenty-ninth day of October—not the best time of the year to cross the treacherous Channel. It was the season of gales and it was not surprising that as the fleet moved away from the coast it was caught up in one.
The wind increased. I was panic-stricken. I kept thinking of William’s words. Had he a premonition? Then I heard that several of the ships had been damaged and the remains of the fleet was returning to port.
We heard news from England. The Dutch fleet had been destroyed. And where was William?
It transpired that these reports had been grossly exaggerated and I was overjoyed to receive a letter from William. He had been forced to return to Holland and had landed at Helvoetsluys. He said that he would leave again as soon as possible. The damage to the ships had not been as great as had at first been feared and they could be speedily repaired. He would see me before he sailed again.
Meanwhile my anxiety had affected me deeply and I had become quite ill. I could not sleep and was feverish. I hastily summoned a doctor who bled me.
They thought the relief of knowing that Willi
am was safe, and that I should see him soon, would help my recovery and I determined to be well enough to make the journey to Brill.
I arrived there on the tenth of November. The weather was dark and gloomy. William was ready to leave Helvoetsluys where he was to embark.
I heard that the road was bad and the weather uncertain, so I waited at Brill, fearing he might not be able to reach me.
With what joy I beheld him! He said his stay would be brief, but he had promised me that he would come to me before he sailed and he was determined to do so.
I embraced him, weeping, and for once he did not seem impatient. He talked of the coming invasion.
“I do not know what my reception will be,” he said. “They have now had time to prepare themselves. They will rejoice over our disaster in the storm. They have circulated rumors that our fleet has been destroyed. But by God’s will we shall soon have a different tale to tell.”
How quickly those two hours we spent together passed. Afterward I tried to remember every word we had said, every look which had passed between us.
It was natural that William’s mind should be on the great project which lay ahead and I was grateful that he had kept his promise to come back and see me.
Later that day I set out for The Hague, and in spite of the weather the people came out to cheer me as I rode along.
There I spent the next days waiting for news. When it came I could scarcely believe it to be true.
William had arrived safely and landed at Torbay. It was the fifth of November, an important anniversary—that of our wedding. I wondered if William remembered, but I expected his mind would be too engrossed in other matters. There was another anniversary to be remembered on that day. At home we had always celebrated the discovery of the Gunpowder Plot. Significant dates, and this would be another.
There were none to prevent William’s landing. He was welcomed by the Courtneys, one of the most important families in Devon, and given lodgings at their mansion.
Jean Plaidy - [Queens of England 10] Page 21
