A Want of Kindness

by Joanne Limburg

  Anne becomes aware that there is another lady standing in front of her. She lowers her fan and finds herself looking up at Lady Peterborough, who has come to take her back to the Duchess. She makes Anne only the most cursory reverence, but then the poor lady’s husband has been excluded from the Council on suspicion of Popish plotting, her face is growing plainer and older-looking by the day, and this evening too it is melting like a candle, so it would be churlish, under the circumstances, to hold such a tiny thing against her.

  Isabella’s Sister

  Autumn comes: Parliament must meet again, and the King sends the Duke and Duchess back to Scotland. When Anne comes to look back on the months that follow their departure, she will remember them mostly for the time she spends with Isabella. The little girl is four now, and, like the King, still recovering from a dangerous bout of illness. She has grown strong enough to find the life of an invalid tedious, so Anne puts herself, Mrs Berkeley and Mrs Churchill to work amusing her. Sarah is particularly good at this – especially during the weeks when her husband is in Scotland – and devises a game whereby two of them hide playing cards up and down the Long Gallery, while the third waits outside with Isabella, then comes in with her to search for them. They take turns as her team-mate: sometimes, when Anne is looking under cushions at one end of the Gallery, while Sarah and Barbara are laughing together on the same settee at the other, she is tormented by the suspicion that they are merrier in each other’s company than they ever are in hers, and it is at such moments she feels Mrs Cornwallis’s absence most keenly. That lady has returned to Scotland with her mother and the Duchess, and so now there is no-one here with Anne – except, perhaps, Isabella – to smile at her in such a way that suggests there is nobody – truly, nobody – they would rather have before them.

  Prince George Ludwig of Hanover

  Sometimes Anne likes to walk the short distance from St James’s Palace to Whitehall: the Park is beautiful in all seasons, and there are always plenty of people for Mrs Churchill or Mrs Berkeley to notice and make sport of. On this particular December day, however, she is taking the carriage, and taking it with Lady Harriet. Today she must protect her gown from the dirt, her hair from the wind and her eyes from the cold air, lest it make them water. She is going to meet a prince – maybe the first of many, maybe the one and only – and his first sight of her better be the best sight that can reasonably be achieved. Anne will never rival Mary, and the likes of Mrs Churchill and Cornwallis will always shine her down, but she will do. She has the most beautiful hair.

  ‘Such a lovely chestnut colour,’ says Danvers, as she curls and pins.

  ‘I have had five gentlemen say so only the last month,’ says Anne. Others have praised her elegant dancing, her musical accomplishments, the colour in her cheeks and – the few that hear it – her beautiful speaking voice. They all know better than to praise anything else, or to send her a private note about it: Maids of Honour are fair game, but princesses, like certain stags, are for royalty alone. Poach one, and you pay the price.

  Now Lady Harriet gives the much-praised hair a final tease, and urges her charge into the Guard Chamber. Anne feels the room turning towards her as she is announced; its many inhabitants shuffle back towards the walls and fold themselves; she walks through, giving the occasional nod to she-knows-not-whom, and then repeats the performance in the Presence Chamber. There is bowing and curtsying before her all the way, and much whispering behind.

  The King is waiting in the Withdrawing Chamber, so she stops in the doorway, and makes, with all due ceremony, the first curtsy. There is a second curtsy to make halfway across, and a third before the throne, where the King raises her up with his own hand, and presents her to the younger man standing next to him. He is, at first blurry sight, short, fair and stoutish; he is George Ludwig of Hanover.

  The short fair man takes a couple of steps forward and bows; Anne curtsies. When she rises she is looking up – a little – into a pair of blue, wide-set and slightly protuberant eyes. The Prince’s face is long and serious, with a strong nose in the middle of it. He is plainly dressed, like the soldier he is. Now he speaks, in good but unmusical French: he is asking the King if he might salute his niece. The King grants his permission; then there is a tight, thickening, leery moment as the Prince leans in to kiss her; his lips on hers feel like a pair of dry, cold cushions, barely third cousins to the kinds of lips she and Mrs Cornwallis like to find in poems, but it makes no difference: the blush has already conquered her face, and settled it, before the Prince is even halfway there. The room applauds them both.

  ‘Charming,’ he says, in his odd French. ‘I am charmed to meet you.’

  ‘Thank you,’ she says, remembering her line. ‘It is a pleasure to meet a prince of whom I have heard so much good. Your uncle the Prince of the Rhine has been telling me about your feats on the battlefield.’ His uncle is the King’s cousin Rupert. Anne spent all of yesterday afternoon with him, while he praised his German nephew to her; then he composed a compliment on her behalf, and then stayed just a little longer, so that they might rehearse it together.

  ‘I have done no more than my duty,’ says the Prince. ‘I for my part have heard that you play beautifully on the harpsichord and guitar, and I hope that I will be able to hear you while I am here.’

  As Anne’s supply of given words has now run out, she simply smiles, and inclines her head.

  Later that day, she goes to visit Isabella in her chamber, as she has promised to do, to give her an account of the meeting. A succession of winter colds have weakened the child further, confining her to her rooms: she relies more and more on Anne’s visits for what little entertainment she might have. Anne wishes she could tell her a more exciting tale, with a more exciting hero.

  ‘So you did not think him handsome then?’ asks Isabella, her voice gone small with disappointment.

  Anne tries her best. ‘He was not – not handsome,’ she offers.

  ‘The Prince is most distinguished-looking,’ says Lady Harriet, saying as always the properest thing, ‘and he carries himself like a soldier ought.’

  Isabella brightens a little. ‘Has he fought valiantly in the wars? Has he won many a battle?’

  ‘I believe so,’ says Anne, ‘and I’m sure I could admire that in him.’

  ‘I am certain he admired Anne,’ says Lady Harriet. ‘He looked very pleased indeed to have saluted her.’

  Anne blushes again at the memory.

  ‘He kissed you?’ asks Isabella. ‘He kissed you then? Oh, then I suppose you will be married.’ She rests her head back on her pillows, looking well satisfied, as though she has arranged matters herself.

  ‘I do not know,’ says Anne. ‘Perhaps.’

  Lady Harriet steps in again. ‘It is not certain.’ She speaks carefully. ‘No marriage can be arranged for your sister while your father is away.’

  ‘That is vexatious,’ says Isabella. ‘That is most vexatious. Anne should be married. She should be married very soon. If a maid of her years be too long unmarried, then her seed will be retained and she will fall into a mother-fit.’

  ‘Indeed,’ says Lady Harriet, with a sharp glance at Anne. ‘And where did you come by this interesting piece of knowledge?’

  ‘In the summer,’ says Isabella, ‘when I heard Mrs Cornwallis reading to my sister.’

  ‘Is that so?’ Lady Harriet is looking quite steadily at Anne now, and asks her if she can recall the book.

  ‘No,’ says Anne, ‘I’m afraid I cannot. We read so many.’

  But Isabella is delighted to help. ‘I can! I remember very well: the book was called Aristotle’s Masterpiece.’

  ‘Oh yes, I have heard of that – and I should like very much to see it. Your Highness, do you think you might go to your closet and fetch it for me?’

  ‘I would be happy to,’ Anne replies, ‘only it is Mrs Cornwallis’s own book – would you have me send to
Scotland for it?’

  ‘No thank you, Your Highness.’ Later, as Anne knows perfectly well, Lady Harriet will have her closet searched. For now, she contents herself by pronouncing Isabella over-excited, and sending Anne out of the room.

  The Prince stays for three more months, but gives little reason for any further excitement. Anne is perhaps a little sorry to see him leave, if she thinks about it, but when she weeps that spring, it is for Isabella.

  Anne Enters Into Her Cabin

  O most powerful and glorious Lord God, at whose commands the winds blow, and lift up the waves of the sea, and who stillest the rage thereof . . . I know that you have sent no storm today, only some largish waves such as the Captain says are to be expected in these waters, but I wished for time alone in my cabin, and the only reason I could think of to send Danvers out was to tell her I wished to make my devotions in private – and as I would never in all my life lie about such a matter, I shall take this moment to confess my sins, and ask for grace, and offer my thanks for thy many mercies.

  I confess that I have got too much in the habit of melancholy since Isabella died. It is not that I would ever question your wisdom or goodness in taking her to you and making her so happy; it is only, as Dr Lake says, that I cannot but struggle when you test me in this way. I shall try when I arrive at Holyrood to present a cheerful countenance to my father and mother-in-law, so that I should not add to their sorrows with my own. Please help me to do this, and also to be more in charity with Lady Harriet, and to bear her strictures with more patience. Also I have been somewhat sharp with poor Danvers of late; she is my most faithful servant, and I know that this is not seemly or kind in me. Forgive me, I pray, for this, and for the excessiveness of the sorrow I feel at my being parted from Mrs Churchill: I know I should be content that she has a child and that this time the babe is strong and like to live but I find I cannot hinder myself from wishing that it did not keep her in London two more months at least. I must thank you, again, for her safe deliverance from travail and for the soundness of her daughter.

  I must give thanks too, that this vessel which takes me from her returns me to my other dearest friend Mrs Cornwallis – and to my father and the Duchess. I am happy indeed that I shall be living with close kin once again: I have been too long without them. I thank you for prompting the King to give his permission for my journey, and that he has sent Parliament about its business, and that the Monmouth party are brought low, and for the love there is in the people after all, for the Crown, and the lawful succession, and for the true Church, which I pray shall never be put more in danger. Danvers says that Scotland is rotten all through with traitors and rebels against the Crown. I beseech you, keep us safe.

  Scottish Gallants

  August, and the sky over the Lothians is clear and blue, the breeze light and not too cold; it is the perfect day for an expedition out of Edinburgh. The journey is four miles long, and the train, it seems to Anne, is not much shorter: there is the Duke and Duchess, Anne herself, the Duchess’s great friend Countess Davia of Bologna, her ladies, the Duchess’s ladies, Anne’s ladies, the Duke’s gentlemen, and, to attend to them all, some eighty of the Scottish nobility and gentry. There are eight coaches, all quite full – some more than full – with ladies and their costumes. Their gentlemen ride alongside them; many more, with servants, follow behind. The horsemen keep the country people beyond touching distance, but there almost seems no need for this, as they have come only to clap and cheer. Yes, they are ragged and a little coarse, perhaps, but in no way hostile, and certainly nothing like savages.

  They stop at a place called Polton, on the banks of the Esk, a narrow river, which runs fast and clear and is in all ways as unlike the Thames in London as any river could be. There is no brown water here, and no brown water smells. Everything looks and smells green. It is a beautiful place for a banquet – or ‘treat’, as the Duke of Lauderdale must have it, as he hands Anne down from her carriage. He draws the river to her attention, and the valley which he calls a glen; then the hills all around and the trees they have growing on them, and finally the buzzard circling overhead, which she pretends to exclaim at – for he can hardly, on so short an acquaintance, be expected to know about her eyes.

  When he has excused himself to speak to her father, the Duchess touches Anne’s arm and whispers, ‘You will find the nobility here have a way of speaking about the beauties of their country as if they had commissioned them, and are looking to have their good taste commended – I think it more endearing than otherwise.’ She smiles at Anne, then adds, in her proper public voice, ‘See, Anne? They have set chairs down for us already. Let’s sit down.’

  Their hosts have spared no expense. There is very good wine to drink, jellies in their own lovely glasses, and so many different kinds of fruit, served on dishes garnished with gold fringe. It is all as fine as anything Anne might have at home (and this, she understands, is the point).

  The company is good too; the ladies and gentlemen who attend the royal party, as often as not, have the French Court to thank for their excellent manners. Even the gallants are very much like those of Whitehall, only when they speak it is more like singing. Anne plays the guitar for them, and they praise her neither too meanly, nor too well. The compliments they pay to Mary Cornwallis, who giggles at her side, are whispered, and probably of a different nature. Lady Harriet, who sits on Anne’s other side, is almost hissing with disapproval. Anne thinks her governess unkind: if Mrs Cornwallis is to get herself a husband – as any maid would wish to – it will not be on account of the dowry her family can barely provide. It is always a pleasure to Anne to watch Mrs Cornwallis at her adventuring; it is like watching a heroine in a play, imagining a little that she is in her shoes, while knowing that, in truth, she is very safely out of them. If she could only contrive to bring Mrs Cornwallis to the true religion, she might have the pleasure of watching her frolic in the next world too.

  The vision of a celestial Mrs Cornwallis is interrupted by the shrieks of her earthly counterpart, who has peach juice dribbling down her beautiful bosom. One of the young gentlemen – a Lord Robert Something or Master Jamie McSomethingElse – produces a handkerchief with a great flourish, and makes as if to come to her aid, but Lady Harriet is too quick for him.

  ‘That is very generous, Sir, but there is no need – Mrs Cornwallis may use my handkerchief for now – and have more care for later.’

  From Lady Anne of York to Mrs Apsley

  Edinburgh Sep the 8

  My dear Semandra, I do again beg your pardon for being these two or three posts without writing to you but seriously I could not possibly help it. But now I must say something in answer to both your letters which I have received since I writ to you. In the first place I must tell you that I forgot to tell you that you should stand for me to Mrs Doylys child – pray remember me to her when you see her and then I must tell you that though you heard constantly from Pert who had a great many letters to writ and went often abroad, yet she did not go so constantly every day as I did, for I rid every day and then I was often with the Duchess and then I took a little time in my closet when I could catch it. Consider all these things well and forgive your poor Ziphares. As to what you desire to know in your other letter I do assure you I do love you dearly and not with that kind of love that I love all others who proffer themselves to be my friends. Pray therefore dear Semandra love me as well as ever, be as free with me as ever, writ me all the news you know, send me the Gazette and other printed papers that are good and forgive and believe your

  ZIPHARES.

  pray remember me very kindly to your Mother and tell her I will writ to her next post.

  With the Duchess

  After the summer has ended, and her friend has returned to Bologna, the Duchess, who has been in a bright enough humour for a while, sinks into a melancholy piety. The hours spent at her devotions increase again, and when she is in company her talk is all of her lost chi
ldren, of the great dangers they might have run had they lived, of the comfort of knowing that there are more angels to pray for her in heaven. When her physician tries to persuade her, for the good of her health, to pray less and to ride out more, she will have none of it, but then Lady Peterborough has the good sense to wonder aloud how much Anne would like it if her step-mother could show her the country round Edinburgh – such a pity that Her Highness’s frail health will not permit this – and the Duchess decides that perhaps she could ride again – the Duke would not want her to neglect his daughter. She will do her duty: she will ride with Anne.

  So she rides with Anne, and talks of her children. This afternoon, they are trotting alongside the Water of Leith, towards Balerno. There are just the two of them abreast, with their ladies following at a respectful distance, and several gentlemen some little way in front, for their protection. When the Duchess speaks, there is no-one but Anne to reply.

  ‘Truly, I should feel favoured,’ she says, ‘that whereas other women bear children for this world, I have given all mine to God.’

  The Duke’s mistress, Catherine Sedley, has given birth to a daughter this year, quite certainly his, and clearly for this world. Anne looks down at her horse’s ears; they twitch in the silence, and some words occur to her.

  ‘You might well take comfort in that,’ she says.

  The Duchess says. ‘I do – at least I try – but I also hope that God in his great mercy will someday comfort me by giving me a male child – a male child who will live.’