Royal Sisters: The Story of the Daughters of James II

by Jean Plaidy

“Your Highness,” he said, “I am no longer one of your physicians, and I cannot understand why you should summon me here.”

  Anne’s face was pale with fear; he had never seen her so frightened for herself as she was for her son.

  “My boy is ill,” she said. “If anyone can save him, it is you.”

  Radcliffe went and examined the boy.

  “He has scarlet fever,” he said. “Good God, who bled him?”

  The doctor who had done so admitted that he had.

  “Then,” said Radcliffe, “you may well have finished him. I can do nothing. You have destroyed him.”

  Anne listened as though in a trance. She let Radcliffe go and made no attempt to detain him.

  She only muttered: “He is the best doctor in England and he says my boy is destroyed.”

  A future without this boy was something she could not face. She was numb with terror, yet bemused. Only a day or so ago he had stood before her bowing in his beautiful blue suit. It was not possible that he could be so ill.

  She would nurse him. Dr. Radcliffe might say that they had destroyed him with the wrong treatment, but she would give him all that a mother could—perhaps what only a mother could.

  She forgot her own maladies; there was only one thing that mattered to her. Her boy must live. She herself waited on him, nursed him, prepared the food which he could not eat. As she moved about the sick room, her lips moved in prayer.

  “Oh, God, leave me my boy. You have taken all the others and this I accept. But this one is my own, my joy, my life. For eleven years I have cherished him, loved him, feared for him. You have taken the others; leave me this one.”

  He must improve. Such loving care must make him well.

  “My boy … my boy …” she whispered as she looked at the hot little face that seemed so vulnerable without that white periwig, so childish and yet at times like that of an old man. “Do not leave me. I will give anything … anything in the world to keep you. My hopes of the crown … anything.…”

  A fearful thought had struck her. Why did she suffer constant miscarriages? Why was she in danger of losing her best beloved boy?

  Had her father once loved her and Mary as she loved this boy? Had he suffered through his children as she had been made to suffer through hers? Death and treachery … which was the harder to bear?

  She shut out such thoughts. She called to her boy and to her God.

  “Have pity on me. Have pity on this suffering mother.”

  But there was to be no pity. Five days after his birthday, William, Duke of Gloucester was dead.

  THE LITTLE GENTLEMAN IN BLACK VELVET

  he Princess Anne remained in her apartments. She spoke to no one and no one could comfort her. She did not wish to see Mrs. Freeman, not that Sarah cared. She herself had suffered the loss of a son and she did not want to be reminded of that tragic time.

  As Sarah said to Marlborough: “The death of Gloucester changes the position of Anne. That poor lump of woman … how long will she last? And without an heir she is scarcely of any importance. You see how wise I was to link us with Godolphin, and it will be Sunderland before long.”

  Anne had not thought of her changed status. There was only her loss.

  George came to her; they held hands and tried to speak of their lost child and then could not bear to.

  They sat in silence crying quietly.

  Anne said at length: “I keep seeing him, George, reviewing his soldiers, regarding us in his grave way. Do you remember his greeting to us? He wished us peace, unity, and concord. Peace … how shall we ever know that again without him? I cannot believe it, George. Our little one. Never to see him again.”

  “Est-il possible?” murmured George brokenheartedly.

  Anne wrote to her father. She wanted him to forgive her. She had been a wicked daughter to him and now she suffered a bitter penitence. Her great sorrow, she believed, was a punishment from heaven. Her heart was broken, but if he would forgive her she believed she could go on living.

  When she had sent off that letter she felt a little happier; and when James replied forgiving her, asking her to use her utmost power to restore her brother to the throne if ever she came to it, and to accept it only in trust for him; she wept and said that her father’s letter had comforted her as nothing else would.

  William was growing weaker and Anne was the heir to the throne who could not shut herself away forever.

  Sarah had become a little more insolent than before. She was determined to stress Anne’s less powerful position even if Anne was unaware of it. She had succeeded in marrying her daughter Anne to Charles, Lord Spencer, and that little project had been carried through victoriously.

  Sunderland, Godolphin, Marlborough. What a combination! In certain circumstances unbeatable. All that would be necessary for them to rule would be for Sarah to keep the flaccid Queen in leading strings; and that she could adequately do.

  The death of one small boy had turned thousands of eyes toward the throne. The Whigs and the Tories were drawn closer together. The Tories wanted the old regime—a King such as they had been accustomed to; the Whigs preferred the Sovereigns they had made of William and Mary, whose power was governed by the Parliament. But they stood together on one point and passed the Act of Settlement which stipulated that the sovereign must be a member of the Anglican Church, must not leave the country without the consent of Parliament and must be advised by the entire Privy Council and not by counsellors who were secret.

  This meant two things; there should be no return to that old Stuart love: The Divine Right of Kings; and James’s son by his Catholic wife should be kept from the throne as long as he adhered to the Catholic faith. A constitutional Monarchy and a Protestant King.

  William could not live long; Anne was not a healthy woman; in view of the Act of Settlement eyes were turned to the House of Hanover in which James I’s granddaughter Sophia was Electress.

  But William still lived and there was Anne, who was a young woman still. She was almost certain to become pregnant again soon and who knew what would happen? She had produced one child. Why should she not produce another?

  It was hoped she would. What a lot of trouble that would save!

  Death did not come singly to the royal family.

  It had not been generally known that, early that year, James had had a stroke which left him partially paralysed. He lived on for a while but by September his condition had weakened and after a short illness he died at St. Germains.

  In his last hours he reiterated that he forgave all his enemies and he mentioned specially his daughter Anne. He lovingly took farewell of Mary Beatrice, but he was not sorry to go; sickness and defeat had darkened his life, but what had hurt him most was the treachery of the daughters he had loved so dearly; that was something he would never forget. But the letter of Anne’s, who herself was suffering through a beloved child, had given him some comfort. He was glad that she had asked forgiveness and he had given it before leaving the world.

  Louis came to his deathbed and James made a dying request of him.

  “Here is my son,” he said. “In a few hours’ time he will be King of England. Will you, my good friend, promise me that you will recognize him as such.”

  “I promise,” answered Louis.

  William knew that war was inevitable. Louis of France had proclaimed the son of James II and Mary Beatrice, King James III of England.

  There was a new King over the Water for the Catholics to drink to.

  Only such an act could rouse William from the physical disabilities which were overwhelming him. His body might be failing him, but his mind was as alert as ever. The proclamation of James’ son as King of England was a minor issue. The question of the Spanish succession was involved; Charles II of Spain had named Louis’ grandson Philip of Anjou as his successor. This could only mean that Louis would have a big control over Spain and the balance of power in Europe would be upset. A European war was brewing fast and Holland and England would ha
ve to stand together against France and Spain if they were to survive.

  Such a project was such to put new life into a great war leader.

  William rarely spent an evening drinking Holland’s gin nowadays. He was in consultation with his most able ministers. Marlborough was a good soldier; William had seen enough of him in action to know that. There were Marlborough, Godolphin, and Sunderland … among others.

  This was a time for unity. They would all see that.

  And at such a time William ceased to be an irritable invalid.

  The gateway of greatness was opening to Marlborough; Sarah knew it. And he would always remember whose had been the hand to unlock those gates. He would always remember what he owed to his wife.

  She sat at her table in the anteroom to Anne’s bedchamber drawing on her gloves, but she did not see the room; she saw Marlborough crowned with the laurels of success; her lovely daughters queens of their world; and young John, best beloved of all her children, who should have the grandest future of them all.

  The door opened so silently that she was not aware that anyone had entered until a soft voice said: “Excuse me, my lady.”

  She looked up into the meek plain face of Abigail Hill.

  “Good gracious, you startled me. I didn’t hear you come.”

  “I am sorry, my lady. But you are wearing the Princess’s gloves.”

  Sarah looked down at her hands. She thought they had seemed tight. Anne’s hands were small, her fingers tapering; the only beauty she possessed.

  Abigail was regarding her with such awe that she was first amused and then delighted. She supposed these women about Anne realized that she, Sarah Churchill, was of far more importance than their mistress.

  She could not resist confirming this opinion or making sure that it existed in case it did not already.

  She peeled them off turning up her nose as she did so. “Take them away at once. I do not care to wear something that has touched the odious hands of that disagreeable woman.”

  Abigail looked startled as Sarah had expected; Sarah flung the gloves at her; they fell to the floor and the woman meekly picked them up.

  “Leave me, please. I am busy.”

  Sarah sat smiling as Abigail left. What she did not know was that Abigail had left the door open and that Anne in the adjoining room had heard Sarah’s words, for Sarah had a loud penetrating voice.

  She had said that to a serving woman! thought Anne. Mrs. Freeman had called her hands odious and her a disagreeable woman. Sarah was handsome, of course, and however disagreeable Sarah was, Anne could not help being fascinated by her. But to say such a thing to a serving woman! She would not have believed it if she had not heard it herself.

  Sarah gave herself great airs since her daughters’ marriages and since Marlborough was back in favor.

  She didn’t mean it perhaps. It was a joke. Yes, that was it. It was meant to be amusing. Sarah would never call her hands odious, herself disagreeable.

  Abigail Hill brought the gloves to Anne.

  “Can I help put them on, Your Highness.”

  Such a nice quiet voice, such a nice quiet woman! And she gave no sign of what must have been astonishing to her.

  It couldn’t be true. I imagined it, thought Anne. It was more comfortable that way; for in truth, although Mrs. Freeman was overbearing, although she was growing more and more inclined to bully, she was Mrs. Morley’s dear, dear friend and Mrs. Morley could not do without her, particularly now she was suffering so deeply from the loss of her beloved boy.

  Abigail Hill was smiling shyly. Such a pleasant creature, but so quiet and self-effacing, one did not notice she was there until one wanted something.

  Abigail made her think that she had imagined those words. How comforting! It was just what she wanted.

  War! thought William.

  The whole of Europe in conflict. But he would win; he was certain of it.

  To be on the battlefield again! It was the life for him.

  He pressed his heels into his horse’s side. A good horse this, Sorrel, Fenwick’s horse; the only good thing which had come out of that affair.

  Before him was Hampton Court—his palace. How different he had made it since his arrival in England! It could be in Holland; there was the Dutch stamp on it—square and gracious and the gardens were a delight.

  He was anxious to be there; he went into a gallop; but as he did so the horse plunged its forefoot into a molehill and William was rolling over and over on the grass.

  His collarbone was fractured. It must be set and he must rest.

  “Rest!” he cried. “With war imminent! I have to be at Kensington Palace this night to meet my Council!”

  None dared dissuade him; and when he reached Kensington riding there in his carriage, the jolting he received had displaced the bones and they had to be reset. Moreover, his sickly body could not endure the strain and he was exhausted and forced to rest.

  He lay tossing on his bed. He had no great desire to live, but this was not the time to die. There was so much to be done. War was threatening and he was a great war leader. He did not love England, nor did the English love him; but his destiny, so clear at his birth, was the possession and retention of three crowns and he was not a man to evade his fate.

  He must not allow a broken bone or two to deter him.

  They said this King was immortal. They had been expecting him to die for years; yet he had outlived his wife; he had outlived James; and although a few days ago he had been believed to be near death he was recovering.

  In the taverns the “Jacks” were secretly drinking to the Little Gentleman in Black Velvet—the mole who had made that hill which had brought down Fenwick’s Sorrel. He had passed through many battles; he had been the victim of plots; he had faced death a hundred times and eluded it; could it be that the little mole had succeeded where his enemies had failed?

  But it seemed as though it were not to be.

  The Princess Anne and Prince George called on the King to congratulate him on his recovery and for a week or so William, although suffering more acutely than before, went about his business.

  But it was true that the gentleman in black velvet had achieved what his enemies had failed to do.

  The swollen legs grew larger; the asthma was worse; it was he himself who told those about his bed that the end had come.

  Keppel was at his bedside; he was glad of that; but there was one other whom he wanted: Bentinck. The friend of the past. There must be one last touch of that once dearly beloved hand.

  Bentinck came, sorrow in his eyes and in his heart.

  The one who truly loved me, thought William—but there had been one other. There had been Mary.

  On his arm was the bracelet of hair he had put there on her death. They would find it now and perhaps know that somewhere in his heart under the layers of ice there was a warmth for some. For loving Mary, for loyal Bentinck, for gay Keppel, for his dear Elizabeth.

  He tried to speak to Bentinck. “I am near the end …” But there was no sound.

  In her apartment Anne waited for news. Sarah was with her, too excited for speech.

  To herself she spoke. It has come. This is the great day … the beginning of greatness. We shall be invincible. My entire dream is coming true.

  She looked at the flaccid figure in the chair: the Queen of England.

  Queen, thought Sarah, in name only. It shall be the Marlboroughs who rule.

  People were coming into the apartment now. Oh, so respectful, so full of feigned sorrow, so full of suppressed excitement.

  They knelt before Anne.

  “Your Majesty,” they said. And then there was a cry in the apartment. “Long Live Queen Anne.”

  Bibliography

  Aubrey, William Hickman Smith History of England

  Bathurst, Lt.-Col. The Hon. Benjamin Letters of Two Queens

  Bray, William, ed. Diary of John Evelyn

  Burnet, Bishop History of His Own Time, with notes by the Earl
s of Dartmouth and Hardwicke and Speaker Onslow, to which are added the cursory remarks of Swift

  Chapman, Hester W. Mary II, Queen of England

  Churchill, William S. Marlborough, His Life and Times

  Dobrée, Bonamy Three Eighteenth Century Figures

  Edwards, William Notes on British History

  Kronenberger, Louis Marlborough’s Duchess

  Oman, Carola Mary of Modena

  Pepys, Samuel Diary and Correspondence edited by Henry B. Wheatley

  Renier, G.J. William of Orange

  Sandars, Mary F. Princess and Queen of England: Life of Mary II

  Sells, A. Lytton The Memoirs of James II (translated from the Bouillon manuscript, edited and collated with the Clarke Edition, with an introduction by Sir Arthur Bryant)

  Stephen, Sir Leslie, and Sir Sidney Lee, eds. The Dictionary of National Biography

  Strickland, Agnes Lives of the Queens of England

  Traill, H.D. William the Third

  Trevelyan, G. M. England under the Stuarts

  Trevelyan, G. M. English Social History

  Trevelyan, G. M. History of England

  Wade, John British History

  Macauley, Lord, edited by Lady Trevelyan The History of England from the Accession of James II

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  JEAN PLAIDY’S

  SEVENTH AND FINAL BOOK IN

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  ABIGAIL HILL

  hen the attention of Lady Marlborough was called to her impecunious relations, the Hills, she looked upon the entire subject as a trivial inconvenience, although later—much later—she came to realize that it was one of the most—perhaps the most—important moments of her brilliant career.

  In the first place it was meant to be an insult, but one which she had brushed aside as she would a tiresome gnat at a picnic party.