A Want of Kindness

by Joanne Limburg

  ‘What? Dice, Barbara! No! When I think what you won of me yesterday . . .’

  ‘That does not signify so very much, does it? Your Highness plays for such low stakes—’

  ‘The Duke will not allow me to play for higher.’

  ‘Well then . . . or would you prefer that I take up Lady Harriet’s suggestion, and read to you out of The Whole Duty of Man?’

  Anne considers this: Sunday reading on a weekday. No.

  ‘Oh, very well then, Mrs Berkeley. Dice it is.’

  The Duke of York and the Prince of Orange

  Anne is not to be a king’s daughter just yet; nor is England to go the way of the Spanish Netherlands. The King has rallied, and the Duke is all of a sudden back in Brussels, properly thankful for the restoration of his brother’s health, and loudly victorious over the concessions he has won from him: firstly, that he and his Duchess might spend the rest of their exile in Edinburgh, where he will have the opportunity to exercise stewardship over the unruly Scots; secondly, the King has agreed that the Duke of Monmouth must likewise be sent into exile.

  His nephew Monmouth is one of the Duke’s favourite topics. He complains of him to whoever is compelled to listen, be it his wife, his gentlemen and grooms of the bedchamber, Spanish nobility or Flanders Jesuits. Shortly after his return, he and the Duchess accompany Anne and Isabella to The Hague. He says this is so that he might see more of them before they leave for England, but in truth he seems more interested in bending his son-in-law’s ear. The instant they have all sat down to dine, he is straight to it.

  ‘Yes,’ he insists, ‘the English monarchy is in danger – this is true, all too true – but not from Papists – have I not said, and more than once, that all I ever desired was the freedom to worship?’

  ‘You have,’ says the Prince of Orange, ‘and – as one would expect – quite a deal more than once.’

  Anne feels a sudden tautness in the air and looks up from her plate to find her older sister and step-mother have both gone very still, but the Duke carries on regardless.

  ‘The monarchy is in danger – as I said – but it is not from Papists, who go on their way the same as before – my brother was too forgiving, I told him he would regret it – the danger is the Commonwealth party, and those Whigs – that call themselves the ‘Country Party’ – and men of the like of Shaftesbury who compelled – nay, all but blackmailed – the King into bringing them into his Council—’

  He pauses for a moment, having lost his way. The Prince takes the chance to ask his wife if her sister might perhaps like to take a waffle or two, as he sees she has already tried everything else. Anne’s blush is quite excruciating. The Duke continues:

  ‘And for their own ends these men make a property of—’

  [‘Here he comes . . .’ Anne thinks. ]

  ‘—the Duke of Monmouth, and they do this to ruin our family, and now things go on so fast, and so violently, and there are so few left about His Majesty with the will or courage to give good advice to him – I tremble to think – if His Majesty and the Lords stick to me, there might be great disorders – nay, rebellion; if he consents to what the Commons will do against me, the monarchy shall be absolutely ruined and our family with it – he shall have reduced himself to the condition of—

  [Anne waits for the inevitable arrival of another Duke. ]

  ‘—a Duke of Venice!’

  Having made his point, and quite upset himself on the way, the Duke drains a glass of wine and sets about his pancake as if it were Shaftesbury. Meanwhile the Prince speaks, and with the most dreadful courtesy.

  ‘A Duke of Venice indeed,’ he says, ‘or perhaps a Stadtholder of the United Provinces.’

  The Duke chokes. ‘Oh, of course not – no comparison! No comparison at all! Why if anyone were master of his own house, then surely it were Your Highness.’

  ‘And how well you do live here,’ says the Duchess. ‘How charmingly well. We have the most beautifully appointed lodgings here, do we not, Anne?’

  Anne swallows a bite of waffle and agrees.

  ‘Beautiful,’ she says, ‘and Mary has shown us such lovely things: her gardens, her porcelain collection, her paintings . . .’ She feels the Prince’s sardonic eye on her, and falters. ‘Some lovely paintings . . . paintings of tulips . . . her tulip paintings . . .’

  Everybody is relieved when Mary replies.

  ‘Believe me, it has been a pleasure to show you how I live, how happy I am – such a pity only that the King has called you away so soon – I was in great hopes of taking you to Honselaarsdijk to show you the gardens there, so much more can be accomplished in the country than we are able to do here – I must confess to being very proud of them.’

  ‘My wife’s work does us both great credit,’ says the Prince. It is the first time Anne has ever heard him praising Mary.

  ‘But not at the expense of her health, I hope?’ The Duke’s voice has the anxious, pitying tone he usually adopts when talking to or about his eldest daughter. This baffles Anne, as Mary does indeed have lovely things, great quantities of lovely things, gowns and jewels, exquisitely worked wooden and silver boxes, blue-and-white porcelain vases and flowers from all corners of the earth to arrange in them, and if children could be likewise imported, commissioned, purchased, cultivated in a hothouse or grown from a bulb, no doubt she would have the best of those too.

  The Prince leaves Mary to answer. ‘Father, my gardens delight me, and my spirits are better for keeping them.’

  The Duke then surprises everyone by taking the hint, and changes the topic, asking the Prince if he has had any good hunting about The Hague this last season. Later, when the Prince and Princess are elsewhere, he will return to another of his favourite activities: harvesting intimate news from Mary’s bedchamber women, who will tell him that the Prince has given Mary no real reason to think she might be with child. When he reaches the English shores, he will write and thank his son-in-law for what has been a perfect visit.

  A Game of Ombre

  It is the anniversary of the accession of Queen Elizabeth; the people of London are burning straw popes with the traditional merriment and customary violence. Even in St James’s, with the shutters closed, Anne can still hear shouts, can still catch a whiff of smoke that is nothing to do with the fire in the chimney or the candles on the table. She won’t be joining the revellers tonight. Instead, she stays in her chamber with Sarah Churchill and Barbara Berkeley and sits down to a hand of ombre.

  Of the three of them, it is only Barbara who really has a mind to the game. Anne cannot hinder her thoughts from wandering out through the shutters and across the Park to the jeering, fire-maddened crowds. Sarah, meanwhile, is fast approaching her time. She has long since grown too big for all her bodices, and has taken instead to wearing a woollen waistcoat like a man. She goes about with her hair all but undone, and is never without a bottle of elder water, which she says is the only thing good for her indigestion. Her discomfort alone might be enough to put her into one of her foul humours, but she has other reasons too.

  ‘Churchill insists he must stay with the Duke in Scotland, but surely the Duke could spare him if he wished – it is that John has some doxy in the Duchess’s train – of course he denies it in his letters, but I’ll not be fooled.’

  ‘Which doxy might that be?’ asked Barbara. ‘My Lady Peterborough? Mrs Cornwallis? Mrs Churchill, if you could only hear yourself . . . Let us to the game. I won the bid, if you remember, and as ombre, I declare Spades are trumps.’

  ‘Spades . . .’ Anne repeats, glances at her cards for a moment, then turns to Sarah. ‘My dear Mrs Churchill, my father is I am sure most grateful for your husband’s support and counsel. You have been in London all this time – you have not seen how it is for him . . .’

  ‘Your cards, Ladies? Well . . . I have the Ace of Spades! The first trick is mine.’

  ‘Y
es, Mrs Berkeley . . . but what I was going to say was . . . I travelled with my father’s party as far as Hatfield House. And when we reached there, we found that Salisbury was on purpose from home, and his Lady with him, and they had left for us the most meagre amount of kindling, and food fit only for fast days – and for fasting in a pauper’s house at that—’

  She breaks off so that she and Sarah can consult over their cards. It is all for nothing though: Barbara wins the second trick too. Sarah and Anne pay attention for long enough for her to take the next two tricks. Then it looks as if the hand might be almost played out already, and they drift away again.

  ‘What I was telling you,’ Anne says, ‘is that it was a deliberate insult – quite deliberate.’

  Sarah scratches her head as she considers this: Anne has begged her many times not to stand on ceremony with her, and when they are in private as they are this evening, she rarely does.

  ‘Deliberate, for sure,’ she says, ‘but he is not held in such contempt by all – you must take heart from that.’

  ‘And speaking of hearts . . .’

  They return to the cards, and are rewarded when the Queen of Hearts wins them their first trick.

  ‘You are still like to beat us, Barbara,’ says Anne.

  ‘If I win two more of you.’

  The game begins to seem interesting to everybody now, and they play the next two rounds without speaking. Anne and Sarah win both. Then a particularly loud cry goes up from the City – a triumphant shout – another Pope collapsing into cinders. Anne can almost see it as it falls; savage, murderous faces all about.

  ‘I cannot but be unsettled,’ she says, ‘especially when Isabella and I must rattle around in a house that is half shut up. I could wish my step­mother had stayed to bear us company.’

  ‘But she bears the Duke company,’ says Barbara, ‘and her loyalty does her credit.’

  She immediately has cause to regret this observation: it sets Sarah off again.

  ‘She is with her husband – she can see what he does. I cannot.’

  ‘Sometimes it pains her to see, Mrs Churchill,’ says Anne. ‘The Duke has always had his mistresses.’

  ‘True, Your Highness. Mrs Churchill, if this doxy did exist, would you prefer her in plain sight? Would you, really?’

  ‘If I could see it, I could prevent it!’

  ‘Well, if ever a lady could, Mrs Churchill, that lady would be you – but Churchill is in Scotland, and you are at St James’s, with two more tricks to play for. So . . .?’

  Sarah forgets to consult Anne over their play, and throws down the Jack of Diamonds without thinking, but all the same it wins them the penultimate trick. The game hangs on the last one, the ninth.

  Sarah puts down the Jack of Hearts.

  Anne follows with the Ace from the same suit.

  Then Barbara shows the King of Hearts, winning the final trick and with it the hand.

  ‘And so I should,’ she says, ‘for I was the only one paying any attention.’

  Sarah sticks her tongue out, Barbara laughs and collects her winnings. Anne calls for cakes and wine.

  Anne is Thankful

  O Holy, blessed and glorious Trinity, three Persons and one God, have mercy on me, a miserable sinner.

  Lord, I know not what to pray for as I ought . . . I praise you for the grace you have given me, for the continuance of my good health (I have had no need of physic for the last two months at least, praise be) and that of my kin and my friends . . . I should rather say, in my sister Orange’s case, for the restoration of her good health, for the word from her Court is that she is now fully out of danger. When the fits of her ague were at their height, when her death was hourly expected, I feared for her very much, especially as she was in the hands of the Prince’s physicians – who you know do not bleed enough . . . You know what was in my heart then, please forgive me if I do not speak of it now, I do not think my spirit could bear it.

  I must thank you too for what else is restored to us: that spring is here at last, after so long a winter – it does my heart good to find the trees in the Park in bud again, to see the first flowers in the ground when I stroll. I can look forward now to long rides in fair weather – and perhaps to hunt with my father as I was not able in Flanders – for I must thank you for his return too – for I understand the King has Parliament at bay, so for all that is said or written or printed or signed against the Duke, they can at least pass no Bills to hurt him – to hurt us, I should say – to hurt this family . . .

  And thank you too for the safe return of my dear Mrs Churchill’s husband, who I am sure will comfort her as I cannot for the loss of her baby Harriet, whom you have in your goodness made so perfectly happy.

  The Duchess’s Ball

  The King is not as fond of dancing as he once was, but he does his duty, and opens the ball by dancing the brantle with the Duchess: for the ru de vaches, he kicks out with the vigour of a man half his age – and it is more than flattery to say so – it is the truth. All the same, he looks more than content to sit back down, and watch his brother leading out the Queen. Sitting next to the Duchess, Anne watches the lords and ladies dancing couple by couple, all in strict and dull courtly order, and while part of her is relieved that she is not to perform, as they must, on an empty floor, in front of everyone’s eyes, she is in another part every bit as disappointed. If she were to perform just one of the French court dances, a brantle or a courant, with the arms held out just so, then it would give everybody a chance to see how fine they have grown this past year. They are no longer the awkward arms of a school-maid; they are well-turned, they are elegant, and they are more than ready to be admired.

  Perhaps if the Duke of Monmouth were available, she might have danced the brantle with him. But the Duke of Monmouth is neither at Court, as Anne would wish, nor in exile, as her father was promised, but is instead making a progress through the West Country, dining in its great houses, shaking hands with its great men. The Duke is beside himself, and has talked of little else. As soon as the French dances are over, he marches straight up to Anne’s Uncle Hyde, who is now First Lord of the Treasury, and begins to talk of it again.

  In this interval between the last courant and the first country dance, the Court refreshes itself and puts itself at ease; now everyone can move from his place and talk to whomever he will; ladies may call for drinks; gentlemen may piss in corners. Anne has permission to dance.

  First, they dance the Argeers – one of Anne’s favourites: it is the prettiest tune for the guitar, with violins singing behind, and also it is danced in groups of four, so there are no unpleasant surprises as there can be when she has to make her way, peering like a mole, down a longer set. She takes her place at one corner, and Mrs Cornwallis stands at the other. Anne has Charles Montagu for her partner, the Earl of Manchester’s son; he is very handsome, which she likes, and talks almost as little as she does, which she likes even better. When Montagu takes her hands in the dance, he does so too lightly, as if he were afraid he should not be touching her. Mrs Cornwallis has young John Cutts, and copes well with his wit. When he pays his compliment to Anne, it makes her blush, and besides there is something in his manner of delivering it that is so like condescension, that she feels almost slighted instead. Still, he is a good dancer: his legs look very fine indeed in their stockings, and he is tall enough that she need not look him too often in the face. When his turn comes to take her hands, he does so a little too firmly, as if he is daring her to pull away.

  Argeers gives way to the Parson’s Farewell. It is a slower, calmer sort of dance, of slow crossings and dignified little nods, one that is hard to perform when one is giggling as much as Mrs Cornwallis seems to be. Anne tries very hard not to meet her eyes when they cross, as the Cornwallis giggle is notoriously infectious. Despite this precaution, by the time the dance comes to an end she is all worn out with the effort of keeping her fa
ce straight, and is glad to excuse herself. Mrs Cornwallis does the same, although a little more reluctantly, and they make their way over to where Mrs Churchill and Mrs Berkeley are sitting; they are talking, as usual, behind their fans.

  ‘What was it set you off?’ Anne whispers, behind hers. ‘I was almost quite undone there, and in front of the Duchess.’

  ‘It was something Mr Cutts said to me – about what I put him in mind of when I danced – I could hardly believe it – he said—’

  But now Mrs Churchill’s voice cuts across her. ‘Pray sit down, Your Highness, and have something to drink. You look quite done in – oh, and Mrs Cornwallis, I expect you would like to sit down too.’ Two Pages of the Presence Chamber arrive with chairs; two waiters follow them, with glasses of canary in their hands. As Anne raises the glass to her lips, she notices that her gloves have retained a little of the mingled perfumes from those of the gentlemen dancers: it is one of the many reliable pleasures of a ball.

  Mrs Churchill has put her fan up again.

  ‘Your Highness,’ she whispers, ‘Mrs Berkeley insists that she has it on good authority that a certain cousin of hers – Her Grace of Cleveland, no less – was seen looking in at the door.’

  ‘Barbara Castlemaine?’ Anne is astonished. ‘But has she not been in France with her bastards these past four years?’

  ‘Yes, but now she is back in England.’

  ‘But surely she would not show her face at Court? In public?’

  ‘You see, Mrs Berkeley?’ says Sarah. ‘I told you it was not credible. What could she hope for here? She has her lands, she has her pension – she is long since cast off. Her Grace of Portsmouth has nothing to fear from that withered quarter. She is quite safe.’

  ‘And yet the King did not dance the courant with her tonight.’

  ‘Nor with Nelly Gwynne. Nor the Queen. Nor with anybody else. The King is tired – everyone saw – he danced with the Duchess of York because he had to, and then he sat down in his comfortable chair, and there he is still. He is not himself.’