by Jean Plaidy
She was gone; he had lost her, never to see her again, to see her start at his entrance and flutter her hands in that helpless way which had so often exasperated him; and yet he had been annoyed when she had seemed more composed. Never to be able to talk to her, to have her give him all her attention, to let him see in a hundred ways how she adored him.
He had lost the best wife he could have had; she was all that he had needed in a wife; and he had never appreciated that when she was here with him. He had never thought of what he would do without her; in fact he had never believed he would have to be without her. He had been the delicate one, he had been the invalid.
But now she had gone. Mary, whom he had never quite understood.
Oh, there was the subtlety of his emotion. She had wanted to save his soul and that was the reason why she had left this last letter. But why had she thought fit to write to the Archbishop of Canterbury on this very private matter? Would it not have been enough to write to him? Now he was wondering about her motives as he constantly had during her lifetime, and he realized that he could never be sure of Mary—no more in death than in life. Perhaps she had believed that if she had not sent him the letter through the Archbishop he would not have taken it seriously. Now the Archbishop would remonstrate with him, for that was what Mary had asked him to do.
It was surprising that now he must be unsure of her, even as he had in life.
He touched his cheek and it was wet. He, cold stern William, was weeping. He wanted her back with him; there were so many questions he wanted to ask her. He wanted to know what was going on in her mind. Suddenly a sense of desolation swept over him. He understood that he had loved Mary; and he had lost her: he would never be able to tell her that he had loved her—in his way. Why had he not, when she was alive? Perhaps he had not known it.
He shut himself in his closet and gave orders that he was not to be disturbed. He opened a drawer and took out a lock of her hair. She had given it to him before one of his departures in what he had considered to be an excess of unnecessary sentimentality, and he had thrust it into this drawer, exasperated by her action.
Now he took it out and looked at it. It was beautiful hair, and he wished that he had appreciated it during her lifetime.
How odd that he felt no resentment toward her for writing that letter to him and worse still writing to the Archbishop. He would never feel resentment toward her again, and wished with all his heart that she were with him now.
He made a bracelet of the hair and tied it about his arm with a piece of black ribbon.
No one would see it; only he would know it was there; but he would wear it, in memory of her, until he died.
There was someone at the door of his cabinet. He cried out angrily: “Did I not say I did not wish to be disturbed?”
“The King will see me.”
He recognized the voice of the Archbishop and for the second time was too taken aback in the presence of this man to assert himself. The Archbishop shut the door and faced him.
“I see,” he said, “that Your Majesty suffers remorse. I come now to ask you for the promise as Her Majesty wished me to.”
“Promise?” demanded William.
“The promise that you will not see Elizabeth Villiers again.”
William was silent. The Archbishop had found him in the midst of his remorse; there were even traces of tears on his cheeks. Perhaps Tenison knew that what he felt today he would not feel next week: and that this was the time to complete the commission left to him by the dead Queen.
“It was her dying wish,” went on the Archbishop. “All her thoughts were for you. She died in fear that as an adulterer you would never enter the Kingdom of Heaven. Perhaps she is watching us now, waiting, praying for you to give the answer she wants.”
William was choked by emotions. It seemed to him that he could never miss anyone as he missed Mary. He longed for her meekness, her tender docility—all that he had lost.
“She is watching us,” said Tenison. “Do you not sense her near?”
William murmured: “I promise. Please leave me now.”
The Archbishop, smiling serenely, left him.
William sat down and covered his face with his hands.
Elizabeth Villiers was alarmed. It was long since she had seen her lover. There was so much to discuss; she had news for him of how the Queen’s death was affecting the Princess Anne’s household. But he did not come.
He would though, she was sure of it. He could not do without her. It might be that, knowing they were spied on he did not want to give his enemies the scandal they were hoping for.
It was only a matter of waiting, Elizabeth assured herself.
There was excitement in Berkeley House. Sarah had dismissed everyone so that she could have a private talk with Anne before she left.
This was a change in their fortunes, she assured her friend.
“His Majesty will graciously see you. He has changed his tune a little. And that does not surprise me, for I can tell you this, Mrs. Morley, the people are not so fond of William on his own as they were when your sister was Queen. They ask themselves what right he has to assume the crown. And what right has he? It is you, Mrs. Morley, who should be wearing it. You should be thinking of riding to your coronation instead of being carried in your chair to wait on Caliban!”
“It is true enough, Mrs. Freeman; but my sister would not have wished it so.”
“Oh, she was bemused and bewildered by that Dutch Abortion.”
“How I wish that we had been good friends! I was sitting here remembering, dear Mrs. Freeman, when we were little girls. I could not bear her out of my sight. I always wanted to do what she did, wear what she wore … I loved her, I think, more than anyone in my life at that time.”
“Children at play!” said Sarah sharply. “Well, now she is dead and gone.”
“Alas! I would I could have her with me for a while so that I could mend our quarrel.”
“You have another to consider, Mrs. Morley, and therefore little time to waste on regrets for the past. What of the young Duke of Gloucester. You must make sure of his future.”
“My precious boy! How right you are, Mrs. Freeman, as usual.”
“And,” went on Sarah, “when you talk to Caliban, you must make sure that he does not forget that he cannot thrust your son from his position.”
“He wouldn’t dare.”
“Caliban would dare anything, I do assure you. What if he married again? What if he had a son? Ah, Mrs. Morley, I can see that he would be very anxious then to make sure your boy did not have the throne.”
Anne’s lethargy dropped from her. “There would be a revolution if he ever attempted to take my boy’s rights from him.”
“Remember that and make sure he understands it. You need friends, Mrs. Morley, as you never did. And those who would be the best friends to you are languishing in exile. Banished from Court. It is something you can remedy now, I’ll warrant.”
“You are thinking of Mr. Freeman.”
“He is the best friend Mrs. Morley ever had, and if he were brought back to Court would be ready to defend your rights and those of the young Duke with all his skill, which I assure you, Mrs. Morley, is formidable; and it is for this reason that Dutch William has kept him from you. Ask him now to bring him back. Now is the time for you to ask favors. He wishes to show the people he is on good terms with you. Bring Mr. Freeman back and then Mrs. Morley will have two Freemans to protect her from whatever ill wind is likely to harm her and the precious little Duke.”
“My dear good friends!” murmured Anne.
“And here is Mrs. Morley’s chair.”
“I need it. I do not think I could walk a step.”
“You must save all your energies for facing that monster!” said Sarah.
Anne was lifted into her chair and carried from Berkeley House first to Campden House and from there to Kensington Palace, where William was waiting to receive her.
Anne was suffering
so much from gout and obesity that her chair had to be carried right to the door of the King’s presence chamber, where William, making an unusually gracious concession, came out to receive her and himself opened the door of her chair.
Taking his hand, Anne hobbled out.
Anne said tremulously: “I am sorry for Your Majesty’s loss.”
William answered: “I am sorry for yours.”
For the first time in her life Anne saw that he was moved by his emotions and this let loose her own; she began to weep silently.
William said gently: “Pray come in and be seated.”
He closed the door and they were alone. He brought forward a chair that Anne might sit and then he brought another for himself and placed it close to hers. For a few seconds they remained silent as though to control their grief.
Anne said simply: “If we could have been friends before she died …”
William nodded. At one time he might have given her a sardonic look, but he too had his remorse to disturb him.
“It is too late,” he said. “We must forget the past for the future could be troublesome. I want to make that safe for our heir.” Anne was alert at once. William’s voice was dry as he went on: “In this we must stand together. Do not forget that your father calls himself the King of England, Scotland, and Ireland; and that his son in France is known as the Prince of Wales. We must not deceive ourselves. There are some here who drink secretly to the King over the Water and who insist that that young boy is the Prince of Wales.”
Anne nodded slowly. They disliked each other intensely, but they must be allies.
“We have to make sure that you are accepted as heir to the throne to be followed by your son. I think this is a matter in which we are in complete agreement. Therefore we must forget all other differences. Are you of my opinion?”
“Your Majesty is most kind and gracious.”
“Then … we must show the people that we have settled our differences and are … friends.”
“Your Majesty will remember that the cause of my quarrel with my sister was that she wished me to dismiss my best friends.”
William was alert. “The Marlboroughs?” he muttered.
“Marlborough has been long in exile. He desires above all things to serve Your Majesty.”
“You mean to serve himself?”
“He is an ambitious man, but then so are most men. He would serve himself through serving his King.”
“Which King?” asked William drily.
“For me and for my Lord Marlborough, there is only one King of England.”
“It did not always seem so.”
“I can assure Your Majesty that if you would allow him to return he would serve you faithfully. He is too brilliant a man to be left in banishment.”
Too brilliant a man, thought William. There was something in that. Too dangerous a man. What was Marlborough plotting in his retirement? There was no doubt of his great ability.
Moreover Anne was making a condition. Peace between us providing you bring Marlborough back into favor.
He must have peace with Anne. Without that his crown was unsafe.
It might well be that Marlborough at Court was safer than Marlborough in banishment.
William knew that in this he must grant the Princess’s request.
Marlborough should come back to Court.
Through England the bells were tolling for the state funeral of the Queen. Although she had died at the end of December, this ceremony did not take place until the following 5th of March.
A wax effigy of the Queen was placed over her coffin, and in the royal robes of state it looked lifelike. Following as mourners were all the members of the House of Commons; but Anne was not present and the Duchess of Somerset took her place as chief mourner.
Anne in her apartments was too dropsical to be able to leave her bed; in addition she was pregnant once more.
Sarah sat beside her, bubbling with vitality, her head full of plans that she would not disclose to the Princess.
Anne was melancholy listening to the tolling of bells, overcome by memories of the past. Not so Sarah. This was the great opportunity. The Dutch monster spitting blood, growing more sick every day. How long could he last? Six months? Surely not more. And then … then … it would be Anne’s turn and that meant the turn of the Marlboroughs.
Elizabeth Villiers listening to the tolling bells was as apprehensive of the future as Sarah was hopeful.
So long and he had not sought her out! What did it mean? Surely he needed her now, as always?
He would come to her. Perhaps he was waiting until after the funeral. They would have to be more careful even than before, but he would come.
THE TWICKENHAM INTERLUDE
nne was completely absorbed in her son. She was looking forward to having a child and as usual she was praying this one would survive; the little Duke of Gloucester was the living proof that she could bear a child that could live and although his health gave cause for great alarm no one could deny that he was not extremely intelligent. Dr. Radcliffe, that blunt man who had little respect for rank yet was reckoned to be one of the best doctors at Court, had said the little Duke’s affliction—he had water on the brain—could mean that his brain was consequently more agile than was normal. In any case the young Duke was the delight and terror of Anne’s life. This was a cause of irritation to Sarah who again and again found herself and her affairs relegated to second place on account of the boy.
Mary’s death and her interview with William had made Anne feel the need to rouse herself from her customary lethargy. There was her boy’s future to protect and as a poor invalid unable to move she felt she could not do all that might be required of her.
Therefore she decided that she must recover the use of her limbs; one of the reasons why she found walking so exhausting was because of her size so she decided to take cold baths to help reduce her weight, to eat a little less—although this was torture to her—and to hunt more frequently. She had always hunted from childhood so this was no hardship.
In her condition she was, of course, unable to ride on horseback and she had had a chair made which was just big enough to hold herself and this was set on high wheels and drawn by one horse. In this she followed the chase indefatigably.
These efforts combined with her determination to improve her health for the sake of her son, had their effects. She was able to walk when her gout and dropsy were not too painful.
She and George would sit together for hours discussing their boy. The child was often with them and was fond of them. They watched him anxiously and were very concerned because of his difficulty in walking straight; it was a perpetual topic between them.
One day Anne said to George: “Something must be done. He is still walking as though he were first learning. He is like a child of two in this respect.”
“I know, I know,” murmured George.
“It grieves me. Do you think there is anything we can do about it.”
“That we can do?” repeated George.
“Do you think that he is not making enough effort to walk?” George was thoughtful, his head on one side. “It might be possible.”
“Then, George, we must make him walk straight. We must make him walk without the aid of his attendants.”
“How so?”
“By …” Anne winced … “punishing him if he does not.”
“Punishing our boy?”
“It is going to be more painful for us than for him, but if it is the only way …”
“If it is the only way …” murmured George.
“George, you are his father. You must do it. You must take your cane and beat him if he will not walk alone.”
“I … beat our boy!”
“I shall feel every stroke, but if it is the only way …”
George looked as though he were about to burst into tears but he murmured: “If it is the only way …”
Anne was determined. She sent for the boy. He came to th
em, kissed their hands in his grown-up way, but with him were two attendants who walked beside him to steady him and to keep him from swaying from one side to another.
“My dear boy,” said Anne. “Papa and I want you to walk without help. You are old now, you know.”
“Mama, I cannot.” A fear came into the boy’s face. He wanted to explain to them that when he tried to walk alone he was so giddy that he feared he would fall; and when an attendant walked on either side of him, that kept him straight and prevented the giddiness.
“You must, my son.”
“But I cannot, Mama.”
“Papa and I think you could if you tried.”
The boy was for once unable to explain what was in his mind. How could he tell these people who had normal heads what it felt like to carry one which was top heavy and would not allow him to walk as they did.
His face was set in obstinate lines, but all he said was: “No.”
Anne ordered the attendants to stand back. “Now walk,” she said.
“No,” said the boy.
“Papa,” said Anne signing to George.
The boy saw the cane in his father’s hands and looked at it in some astonishment. He could not believe it was intended for him, for never before had he experienced anything but kindness and indulgence from his parents.
“Walk,” said Anne.
He stood there looking at her.
Then he felt the cane across his shoulders. He started with horror that they should do this to him. He could not understand it.
“Walk,” said his father. “Walk alone.”
The cane descended again and again across his shoulders; and suddenly he was aware of the pain it inflicted.
He cried out and began to run … straight out of the room … alone.
George and Anne looked at each other.
“My poor, poor darling!” cried Anne. “But you see, George, it was effective.”
They were both trembling and on the verge of tears. Only they could know what pain it had caused them to inflict suffering on their beloved boy; they could only bring themselves to do it because they earnestly believed it was for his own good.
