by Jean Plaidy
He looked for her every day; and when he found her on her rocking chair he would sit at her feet.
Sometimes they would talk and sometimes be silent. He enjoyed both moods.
He asked her one day what it felt like to be so old, and she answered that it felt very much the same as being very young; the young thought highly of some things, the old of others.
“Like battles,” he said, “and gathering herbs.”
She nodded and went on rocking.
Then he told her about his soldiers and the wonderful battles they fought; and she told him how when she had been at Court his great-grandfather had been King.
“Tell me about him.”
“He quarreled with the Parliament and had to go away.”
“Where?”
“Far away where he could not come back.”
“My grandfather has gone far away where he can’t come back. At least not while William has the crown. But they are not supposed to tell me that.”
“Then how do you know?”
“I listen. I am always listening. You see, I always want to know … everything. Is that wrong?”
“I think it is good to want to know.”
“Well I want to know everything … except Scripture. I don’t want Scripture. I won’t listen when Mr. Pratt tries to teach me.”
“Why don’t you like it.”
“Because I don’t like going to church.”
“Oh,” said Mrs. Davies and was silent for a long time.
Soon it seemed to Gloucester that he had always lived at Twickenham; it seemed that the sun shone every day and strangely enough he could always find something to do. His chief pleasure was the company of the old lady. The affection between them was noticed and it was remarked how strange it was that the very old woman should attract the young boy.
When she talked she told him of the Court of his great-grandfather who had been gentle and of his French great-grandmother who had been fiery; she told him of the wars between the King and Parliament; and he listened avidly.
She talked to him of the Bible and told him stories from it; he had never heard the stories told in such a way before. She could quote from the New Testament and she told him that she loved the Bible which had been a great comfort to her.
“It has never been a comfort to me,” he said. “I will tell you something: I do not like going to church and I have sworn never to say the psalms which I do not like.”
“But they are so beautiful.”
“Beautiful?”
“Yes,” she said. “Listen. ‘I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills, from whence cometh my help. My help cometh from the Lord which made Heaven and Earth.’ ”
“Go on,” said Gloucester.
He watched her mouth as she spoke the words; and although he had heard them before they had never seemed beautiful until then.
“It is you,” he said, “who make them beautiful.”
“I only repeat what is in the book.”
“You love them; you believe them and you make them good.”
“They comfort me. There is much in the book that comforts me.”
“It does not comfort me.”
“But it could.”
“You mean if I loved it … and believed it as you do?”
“You can. Say it with me.”
He did, and he found that the words were beautiful. He wanted to know them so well that he would be able to say them when he was alone without her to prompt him.
He learned quickly. Then he learned other psalms and to say the Lord’s Prayer.
And each day he was more and more with the old lady.
The Princess Anne liked him to be present while she was at her toilette. She was delighted to see the fair skin, which he had inherited from his Danish father, tanned with the sun and air. There was a sprinkling of freckles across his nose; and his eyes seemed several shades more blue than before: but for the fact that his head was so large he would have been extremely handsome, for he had the Stuart features which matched up charmingly with his fairness of skin.
“So my boy is happy at Twickenham?” asked Anne.
He smiled. “Very, very happy, Mama.”
“Come here,” she said. He came and she kissed him and held him tightly for a moment. He endured the embrace with fortitude. He knew that out of many, he was the only child who had survived, and that made him very precious.
“Confound it, Mama!” he said. “You are not old like Mrs. Davies. You will have many children yet; then you will not have to watch over me with such care.”
Anne wanted to say that however many children she had he would always be infinitely precious to her, but to hide her emotion she said: “And pray where do you learn such language?”
“What language, Mama?”
“ ‘Confound it’, you said.”
“Oh, that is nothing. It is not like ‘God damn you to hell, sir.’ ”
Anne was truly shocked.
“I demand to know where you heard such talk,” she said.
“It was Lewis, I think …”
“Lewis! Then he shall be dismissed.”
“Oh, Mama, no … it was not Lewis. I am remembering now.”
“I want to know where you learned such talk.”
He hesitated then, “Why, Mama, I remember now. I invented it myself.”
He smiled at her disarmingly and once more she had to fight to resist the temptation to embrace him and cover him with kisses.
Anne sent for her treasurer, Sir Benjamin Bathurst, the husband of her great friend, Frances Apsley, whom her sister Mary had loved so dearly. Frances had remained Anne’s dear friend and naturally Anne had wanted to honor her husband and this she did by bestowing on him the post of treasurer of her household.
“Sir Benjamin,” said Anne, “we have been here some four or five weeks and all this time we have enjoyed the hospitality of Mrs. Davies. I want you to pay her a hundred guineas, for although she is a wealthy woman, I and my son and our servants must have been a great drain on her.”
Sir Benjamin said that he would see to the matter without delay and the next day he returned to the house with a hundred gold guineas.
Gloucester was with the old lady when Bathurst came in and when he saw that the treasurer wished to speak to her he retired to a corner, and both seemed to forget that he was present.
“Her Highness wishes to recompense you for your hospitality during the last weeks,” began Sir Benjamin.
“To recompense me? I need no recompense.”
“Her Highness believes that to feed so many people must have been costly.”
“I am not in need. I have plenty here for my use and for that of my friends.”
“Still it is Her Highness’s wish that you should take a hundred guineas.”
“I pray you return to Her Highness and tell her that I have no intention of accepting payment.”
A hundred guineas, thought Gloucester. A great deal of money. How many muskets could one buy with it? Was the old lady wondering? But she would not want muskets, of course.
Sir Benjamin, believing that Mrs. Davies merely wished to be persuaded, emptied the bag of guineas into her lap.
“There,” he said, “with Her Highness’s thanks.”
Mrs. Davies stood up and the guineas rolled in all directions. Then she rose and walked from the room without even looking where they went.
Gloucester watched Sir Benjamin on his hands and knees gathering them up. Some had come close to him so he took them to Sir Benjamin.
“So Your Highness saw what happened?”
“She told you that she did not want it.”
“People say of money ‘Take it away. I won’t have it.’ But they are only waiting to be pressed.”
Gloucester considered this.
“But she is not people,” he said gravely. “She is Mrs. Davies.”
“Mama,” said Gloucester, “may I come to church with you?” Anne opened her eyes very wide. “I thought m
y boy did not care to go to church.”
“I wish to go now,” he said.
“I am pleased.”
“She is pleased too.”
Anne knew that he meant Mrs. Davies.
“I can say ‘Our Father’ now. And I know the Commandments. She says them and I say them after her. The psalms too.”
“You once said that you would never say the psalms.”
His face puckered for a while. It was true. Then he smiled. “I shall have to sing them.”
Anne thought then how happy they had been at Twickenham. It was a strange little interlude in her life—perhaps it would be in his, too. To live quietly in the country, like an ordinary family, walking across the fields to church; and she felt so much better that she was able to walk that little distance. The fruit and vegetables had seemed to do them all good—and to be away from Court in this quiet house of an old lady who could not live much longer, away from bickering and strife, ambitious men and women, the ranting of Sarah.…
What was she thinking? She was longing to be back with her dear Mrs. Freeman. Heirs to thrones could not endure the quiet life forever.
“You must be eager to be back with your men,” she said to her son.
His expression was intent. He thought of his soldiers marching up and down in the Park, while he took the salute, and the excitement made him tremble.
Then he thought of sitting with the old lady and enjoying her talk or her silence.
He was unsure.
He was very sad when the time came to say good-bye to his friend, and, understanding how he would feel, his mother had ordered that his soldiers should be posted as sentinels at Campden House to give him a welcome back.
As he rode up they presented arms and he felt a great joy to be back.
The old lady and her quiet house at Twickenham seemed like part of a dream, something to think about when he was in bed at night, when he could close his eyes and repeat the Lord’s Prayer and the psalms and recall every inflection of her beautiful but sometimes quavering voice.
This was real. This was living.
There was a new pistol waiting for him which delighted him. It was made of wood, but there was a trigger which could be pulled so that it looked like the real thing.
Yes, he was glad to be back.
GARTER AND GOVERNOR FOR GLOUCESTER
hile Gloucester was drilling his soldiers in the gardens before Kensington Palace William was in Flanders fighting the French, and at the end of the summer he won his most significant victory of the entire campaign when he captured Namur. There was rejoicing throughout the country as the people believed that this must mean the end of the war was in sight. No more taxes; a settling down to peace; that was what was needed and they believed that William could bring about this state of affairs.
Gloucester listened to the war news and immediately planned a capture of Namur between his own men. During the fight he fell and grazed his forehead with his own pistol and although it was bleeding insisted on carrying on with the mock battle.
Every little ailment or accident must be reported to his mother and she came immediately to his apartments to see the damage for herself.
“A bullet grazed my forehead,” he told her. “If I had been a boy I should have cried, but as a soldier, of course, I cannot.”
Anne commanded that the wound be dressed; and wished that she could put an end to these rough games.
She did order that no one was to fence with the Duke of Gloucester. “For,” she declared to Lady Fitzharding, “I have heard of many accidents coming about through fencing.”
But almost immediately she saw Gloucester practicing with the sword, though alone, and she demanded to know why he did this.
“Have you forgotten that I have forbidden anyone to fence with you?”
“I hope, Mama,” replied the Duke gravely, “that you will give them leave to defend themselves when I attack them.”
She marveled at his wit and intelligence. Was there ever such a boy. He was the delight and terror of her life.
At the beginning of autumn, William returned from Flanders.
William, returning as a conqueror, had begun to think that he was firm enough on the throne not to have to bother to placate the Princess Anne. He had promised her St. James’s Palace but had not yet given it to her. Why should he give the foolish woman anything, particularly as Sarah Churchill was at her elbow, pressing her to demand this and that.
But when he went to visit Campden House he could not help being charmed by young Gloucester, who had his army drawn up to form a guard of honor for him. The boy was bright and amusing, a born soldier, for he would not have had this little army otherwise.
He walked beside William inspecting the “troops” and asking his advice about them. William gave it seriously, enjoying the occasion, feeling more at ease with the boy than he did with his mother, or any of his English ministers.
“It will not be long,” Gloucester assured William, “before my men are serving you in Flanders. I shall be with them to command them, of course, and willingly I offer you my services.”
“I am sure you and your men will serve me and their country well.”
Gloucester saluted with the utmost seriousness and the King gravely acknowledged this.
“What horses have you?” asked William.
“I have one live and two dead,” answered Gloucester.
“Dead horses? Soldiers do not keep dead horses.”
“What do they do with them then?”
“They bury the dead horses.”
“Mine shall be buried at once.”
William watched with amusement while the boy gave orders that his two wooden horses be buried.
“I shall need replacements,” he said.
“What of the one live one?”
“I ride on him in the park. He is not very big, but later I shall have hundreds of big ones.”
“I see,” said the King.
And all those who watched them marveled at the boy’s power to charm even William. Anne was delighted. This was a clear indication that William happily accepted the boy as his heir.
That was a brief interlude in the King’s day. He was feeling wretchedly ill and was forced to face the fact that he was growing more and more feeble.
He had never been a happy man, but since the death of Mary he had become even more morose than before. He had lost her adulation, and the comfort of Elizabeth’s companionship, for having given his promise to Tenison not to continue his liaison with her, he could not do so … in England. There was little left to him but his Dutch friends. Keppel was his first favorite, a handsome charming gay young man, who had not the worth of Bentinck, but somehow he craved for his company. He did not want Bentinck’s frank advice; he was impatient with his friendship and Bentinck knew this and kept away. He had even left Court—a matter which often gave William deep misgivings. Mary, Elizabeth, and Bentinck—all lost to him—and in their place young Keppel.
There were times when he wanted Bentinck back—yet such was his pride that he would not command or request. Bentinck must come back on his own desire—and Bentinck stayed away.
William had improved the Banqueting House which stood close to the Palace of Hampton Court on the banks of the river and there, with his Dutch friends, he spent most of his evenings. He was drinking heavily—mostly Holland’s gin—and although he never showed signs of intoxication, after a night’s drinking he would awake next morning in such a mood of irritability that he was approached only by those servants who found it impossible to keep away. Then at the slightest misdemeanor William would lift the cane, which he kept for the purpose, and slash it across the offender’s shoulders.
The English who preferred to see a man merry in his drink, disliked Dutch William more than ever and jocularly referred to those poor servants who suffered through their master’s irrascibility as “the Knights of the Cane.”
Moods of melancholy beset the King; he shut himself into his cab
inet and brooded on the wretched turn his life had taken. He mourned for Mary; he had not believed it would be possible to miss anyone as he missed her; he wanted Elizabeth; and he wanted Bentinck.
To Bentinck he had given the vested rights of the Prince of Wales—a move which he soon began to see was a stupid one. He had meant to imply by it that he cared nothing for Anne and believed he could hold the throne without any help from her; also that he would do what he wished with affairs under his control. The people disapproved of this act; and it did not bring Bentinck back to him. Only his morbid and melancholy mood could have made him do such a foolish thing.
He sent for Lord George Hamilton, a soldier who had done good service at the Battle of the Boyne and who had been wounded at Namur.
“I wish to reward you for your services,” said William. “I trust you are recovering from your wounds.”
“Your Majesty, I trust soon to be back in your army.”
“Let me see,” said William. “You were made Brigadier General after Namur were you not?”
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
“And you are unmarried. You should have a wife.”
“Sir I …”
William said: “I am going to honor you. I will give you an earldom. What do you say to that of Orkney?”
Hamilton was stammering his thanks, wondering whether Holland’s gin was having a new effect on the King; but William silenced him.
“Your cousin, the daughter of Sir Edward Villiers, is a very marriageable young woman. I wish to see a union between you two.”
Hamilton was astounded. So he was being offered the King’s mistress! This could mean one of two things: Either he and an earldom were being offered to Elizabeth as a reward for past services or he was being given the role of complacent husband.
Time only would show which, for William was not a man to make himself clear on such a delicate matter.
An earldom! Promotion in the army, doubtless! And it was not as though he had marriage plans elsewhere. His cousin Elizabeth? She intrigued him. Not a beauty, but she must be fascinating to have held a strange cold man like the King all these years. She was a clever woman; and they would be partners. It was a good bargain he was being offered.
