‘To tell you the truth,’ she says, ‘to work like this on such a dark afternoon is too much for my wretched eyes – they water dreadfully – and I think perhaps for their sake I should better do something else. If the Maids would have my guitar fetched, and fetch their own instruments too – they that have them – we could have a little music?’
‘A delightful notion, Your Highness,’ says Lady Clarendon, ‘and I should particularly like to hear Mrs Temple sing again – she has such a pretty voice.’
‘Then it is decided,’ says Lady Churchill. ‘You all heard what Her Highness asked of you – now go and do it.’
The Maids curtsy and troop out. Lady Churchill searches in her work bag for scissors, fails to find them, and breaks the thread with her teeth, which are the straightest and the whitest of any lady that Anne knows. ‘Silly chits,’ she says, when she is done.
‘Oh I am sure we were no different,’ says Anne, who is married now, with child, and all of eighteen. She takes her own work up again, and pulls it close to her face, only for the pattern to blur straight away, stinging her eyes and sending the lids into a flutter. So she sets the work down again, and turns a ring on her right hand – the newest one, a mourning ring from Frances Apsley, her Semandra. She is married now to Sir Benjamin Bathurst, Controller of the Denmarks’ household, and has recently been bereaved, first of twin babes, and then of her father.
‘That is a handsome ring, Your Highness’ says Lady Churchill, ‘but it is a pity about the occasion of it – how did you and Lady Clarendon find Lady Bathurst yesterday?’
‘As you might expect, in very low spirits. So many losses one after the other – and now her mother ill too – and you must know she has been disappointed of the hopes she had for another child – I fear she is quite overcome.’
Lady Churchill shakes her head. ‘It is hard to know how to comfort her.’
‘When there is such affliction as that,’ Lady Clarendon says, ‘comfort can come only from God. And then, if she can bear her trouble like a Christian, that will sum to her good.’
‘But I think one’s friends might be some help, Lady Clarendon, or why call them friends at all?’
‘I hope I might help her,’ says Anne, quickly. ‘I could only wish that Lady Apsley might recover her health, and that my poor Frances might soon have a great belly again. I gather my sister has said the same in her letters.’
‘So she is writing more then? Lady Bathurst was wont to complain that the Princess had forgotten her quite.’
‘When she first married the Prince, it was true, she was not a good correspondent, but now it seems . . .’
Anne glances at the door; it is closed, and there is only quiet behind it.
‘. . . she would never say so, but I think she wants for company . . . the Prince . . . is much preoccupied with his armies, and other business . . .’
Lady Churchill favours the door with a glance of her own.
‘. . . which he prefers to discuss with Mrs Berkeley’s squinting sister . . .’
‘Is that what you have heard?’ Anne is whispering now.
‘From Mrs Berkeley. Yes.’
‘He has peculiar tastes, that – Caliban.’
‘Your Highness!’ cries Lady Clarendon. ‘He is your brother!’
‘Her brother-in-law. Might your cousin Monmouth find his way to The Hague? Your sister would be glad of his company – they were always good dancing partners.’
‘No, he is still in Brussels . . .’
‘So your Caliban-in-law will not have him yet.’
‘Lady Churchill! We must pray, Your Highness, that the present troubles will pass, and then the King will be glad to have Monmouth back with him again. He loves him so well.’
‘Too well, perhaps. But I do not think he can have him back while there are still villains enough drinking his son’s health instead of his own – I heard one of the postillions say only yesterday that his brother was in a tavern where—’
A page opens the door and tells them that the Maids have returned from their errand. Anne calls for a little wine, and the conversation turns musical.
Hans in Kelder
December comes, and brings with it a frost so severe, that it seems like a judgement. Trees split as if lightning-struck. All the exotica, the plants, fish and fowl in the gardens of the Palaces and the great houses perish almost immediately; then the native species follow everywhere else: the deer and cattle perish for want of food, and the poor for want of fuel. Even the seas are so locked up with ice that no vessel can stir out of the country, or in; foreign trade, like the frozen rivers, slows to a stop. In the towns, there is no water to be had from the pipes or engines, so that the brewers, and many other tradesmen besides, find they cannot work.
But while the cold is disastrous for so many, there is still money to be made for those that have the opportunity, and especially if they trade in any kind of fuel, for fuel is become dearer than anyone could have imagined, so dear that great contributions must be made in order to preserve the lives of such poor as remain. In London, sea-coal is all of a sudden so valuable that Lady Churchill says one might think that every coal merchant living had become an alchemist, and turned all his stock into gold – an analogy which, Lady Clarendon contends, does not hold together quite, for whereas men are inclined to hoard gold, they are compelled rather, on account of the extremity of the weather, to burn the sea-coal as soon as they have it. The pedantic Countess is quite correct: London is so filled with the fuliginous smoke of the sea-coal, which the cold air hinders from rising, that anyone who ventures out of his house can scarcely see, or breathe. Anne is ever fearful lest the smoke from the town should drift towards Whitehall, and smother her asthmatic Prince.
There are others, besides the coal-merchants, who are doing well out of the frost. The Thames has congealed to such a degree that a whole ox might be roasted on it without melting the ice, and there is as much and as many different kinds of trade being plied upon the water as you might find in the City proper. By the time the royal party visit, on the last day of January, there is a street running all the way across the Thames from Temple steps to Southwark; it is named Temple Street, and is considered a great wonder. Along it and around it a continual fair has risen up; there are shops selling all manner of commodities, from wine and roast beef to plate and earthenware; there are coffee houses, where you might sit down by a charcoal fire and have a dish of coffee, chocolate or tea. There are all kinds of amusements: bull- and bear-baiting, dancing and fiddling, ninepins, football; there is even a whirling-chair, or car, which is tied to a stake in the ice by a long rope, and drawn about by several strong men, as fast as they can manage. The car is full of silly girls screaming, and clinging to their sweethearts, who have purchased the ride for just that purpose.
‘Look at those fellows there!’ exclaims the Duchess, looking out through the glass of the carriage door, ‘they are as strong as oxen. Perhaps we should have had the coachmen pull us onto the ice themselves, and let the horses rest!’
‘And the watermen to help them,’ says the Queen, ‘they have wanted employment these past few weeks.’
Anne considers this. ‘It is a good notion. I am surprised that the horses are not slipping more, and it is dreadful to think what may happen if one of them were to slip and fall – they would pull the other three down with them, and the carriage besides.’
The Duchess and the Queen exchange glances, and Anne sees that she has missed a jest again. All the same, she knows that she is right to have said what she said.
‘I know that you were speaking in jest, but it is a thing that is being done – the men that are used to plying the river are dragging goods and people across by rope instead—’
‘Though they swear in the usual way,’ says the Duchess.
‘—and I think there is good reason to worry about the horses – I am truly anxious a
bout whether it is safe to drive them out onto the ice.’
The Queen reaches over and Anne feels, through the layers of Muscovy sable, the ghost of a reassuring pat. ‘And you are truly anxious about the cold, too. And the jolting of the carriage when it goes. And whether you might have too much exercise or too little . . .’
‘What Her Majesty is saying,’ says the Duchess, ‘is that a lady in your condition is wont to vex herself over every little thing.’
‘I do know that, Ma’am – but I find all the same I cannot hinder myself from it.’
‘How many months is it now?’ the Queen asks. ‘Five? Six?’
‘Five, by my reckoning. And Dr Scarborough agrees.’
‘So has he given you his speech about the apples?’ asks the Duchess.
‘Apples, Madam? No. Ought I not to eat them?’
‘Ah, then he has not. There is a piece of wisdom from the ancients, that he likes to give to ladies with child about this time, which is that she should consider the child in her matrix as like the apple that ripens on the tree: the stem is weak in those first weeks – it has yet to establish itself fully – and weak again in the final weeks, as the apple readies itself to drop, but in between these times – and this applies to you as you are here and now – the stem is strong and firm and none but the most violent storm can loosen it.’
‘I wish I had heard that speech from a physician,’ says the Queen, ‘but alas, I was never with child for long enough.’
They are all quiet for a moment, and in that moment there is a sadness in the carriage that agrees with the cold.
‘I see I have discomforted you both – forgive me; I should not indulge myself this way.’
Now the Duchess takes a gloved hand out of her own furs and places it for a moment on the Queen’s shoulder. It is not forward of her: they are old allies, old friends.
‘Do not trouble yourself, Ma’am – it is so easy to fall into this kind of melancholy, especially when there is before us –’ she glances at Anne – ‘when ladies are everywhere and always with child.’
The Duchess has herself recently miscarried, while Catherine Sedley has presented the Duke with a healthy son.
Suddenly Anne feels herself to be obscurely, helplessly at fault. It is a tremendous relief when the carriage door opens and the King comes in, cheerful, only half cut, and ready to divert the ladies.
‘Look!’ he cries. ‘Here is a thing you will not find every day,’ and he hands the Queen a quarto sheet of Dutch paper, with a printed border and writing on it. ‘You see there?’ he points to the card, and reads, “Printed by G. Croom, on the ICE” – on the ice! An ingenious notion!’
‘I’ll say it’s ingenious,’ says the Duke’s voice, from just outside. ‘The rascal’s making five pounds a day out of it.’
The King ignores him, and then passes the card to Anne, suggesting that she read it out aloud. The writing is in capital letters, so it is not too difficult:
CHARLES, KING.
JAMES, DUKE.
KATHERINE, QUEEN.
MARY, DUTCHESS.
ANN, PRINCESSE.
GEORGE, PRINCE.
HANS IN KELDER.
‘Well?’ Anne is not sure what to say. ‘Those are the names of our party – but who is Hans? Is there a coachman called Hans?’ The King is convulsed with laughter; the Duke too. Their wives are not. ‘Hans in Kelder,’ says the Queen, rather stiffly, ‘is a vulgar term for—’ ‘Oh, my niece does not mind a good jest,’ says the King. ‘It is German, dear, for “Jack in the Cellar!”’ ‘Oh!’ says Anne, and does not know whether she should laugh or blush.
Anne’s Fall
In February the weather changes, and Anne’s humour with it. She has a newfound vigour, a restlessness, which makes it seem intolerably dull to stay within doors – particularly as Lady Churchill is away in St Albans with her own family, and has sent one of Lady Sunderland’s daughters to attend Anne in her place. Anne cannot for the life of her understand her friend’s regard for Lady Sunderland – she is but a sly flatterer, who pretends at virtue, and like her Lord is surely governed by ambition – so she speaks as little as she can to her daughter. As for Lady Clarendon’s company, it is barely tolerable, and the Maids are silly. Their company, their talk, their very presence in her rooms oppresses Anne: she has a mind to be out, in a park, and to move through it as briskly as she can – she has a mind, in other words, to ride.
Danvers and Farthing are compelled to agree with one another: they do not think that she should; Lady Clarendon, with the greatest respect, can but question the wisdom of such a course of action; George, however, does not see why she should not, as long as he accompanies her, so they call for Griffiths, his equerry, and Ballasie, Anne’s; with Lady Clarendon, and just two of her footmen to run ahead and give such persons as they might encounter sufficient notice to remove their hats, they will make a small, informal party – Anne does not care to be a gazing-stock when she goes abroad.
Anne’s riding habit will not button, so Danvers has to contrive a way to pin it so as to accommodate her mistress’s growing belly. This takes an age, and by the time Anne and Lady Clarendon find them, the horses and menfolk have been kicking their heels in the cold for at least half an hour. At George’s insistence, she has had Dinah saddled; she is the quietest horse in her stables, a smallish mare, an ambler. When the groom brings her forward, he takes a look at Anne’s riding-habited bulk and pulls the saddle-girth a little tighter, before taking a step back so that George – who will allow no-one else to assist her – can help his wife to mount.
Anne decides against Hyde Park – even though it is not yet the Season, she is sure that it must be full of company since the thaw, driving round and round the Ring and back again, just so they might see and be seen, uttering civilities to each other from out of their coaches, and hissing spite behind their hands. Besides, there is no Lady Churchill to tell her who it is who has made their reverence to her and to say if they are owed a small bow back – and she does not have much faith in Lady Clarendon’s suitability for this office.
So she turns little Dinah towards St James’s Park, and tells the company that they will make for the Inward Park, where they can be sure of privacy. A Princess can ride there with her party, and encounter nothing but deer and trees. She tells George that it has ever been her favourite place, and adds that it is very pleasant weather for riding. He agrees that it is, and they continue in happy, companionable silence.
But Dinah is not happy: Anne can feel the animal’s unease, in her hands and even through the saddle – every gentle effort to direct her is met with a most un-Dinah-like, subtle resistance. Maybe the girth is too tight after all. But it is not trouble enough to stop. She says as much to George.
‘Oh, I wish you will take care my dear,’ he says.
‘I always take care,’ she snaps, and that very instant quits the saddle for the grass.
First there is only shock, then in the next instance a feeling of foolishness, then the beginnings of an awareness of pain in the parts that landed first, quickly followed by an indignant fluttering in her belly, as the child, who had been lulled by the rhythm of the ambling ride, is shocked awake. That is the important thing.
‘Do not be afraid!’ she calls as the party dismount and run towards her, ‘it quickens – the babe quickens – the babe is not hurt.’
George reaches her first, kneels down and takes her hands.
‘The fault is mine,’ he moans, ‘I should not have permitted.’
Nobody pays any attention to this, all knowing full well that the Prince has never permitted or forbidden his wife anything, and nor will he ever.
Then Lady Clarendon arrives, and whispers, ‘Do you bleed at all, Ma’am?’
For a moment Anne is not sure what the question means. Then she understands and says, ‘No, I do not – at least, I do not think so,’ and
then to all, ‘Will somebody please help me to my feet. I think I am only bruised – nothing worse.’
George and Ballasie help Anne to her feet and straight away she proves to them that she can walk a few, stiff steps, but she must agree that she should not ride again. There is a discussion as to whether George or the equerry might lead her horse with her on it; or whether she might, despite her belly, ride pillion, but caution prevails: her chair is sent for, to carry her safely back.
When Dr Scarborough arrives, he pronounces Anne bruised but otherwise sound, orders a poultice to be made up, and makes her his speech about apples. It seems the stem is holding yet.
12th May 1684
It is during Evening Prayers, halfway through the Third Collect, as she asks God in his great mercy to defend her from all perils and dangers of this night, that Anne feels the first painful little tug, somewhere between her belly and her reins, and knows at once that her travail has started. She counts two more pangs as she listens to the anthem; another during the Prayer for the King’s Majesty; one more for each of the shorter prayers. As she leaves the Chapel, she whispers in Lady Clarendon’s ear. By the time she reaches her lodgings, a messenger is already on his way to Windsor, bringing the news to the King.
George sits with her while Danvers and Farthing prepare her chamber. The Duchess’s midwife, Mrs Wilkes, arrives with her deputy behind her, and the first thing they do is send him away. Lady Clarendon stays – there is no ridding oneself of the woman – and Farthing, and Danvers. They strip Anne down to her shift and stockings, then dress her in a woollen waistcoat above the waist, with nothing else below. Mrs Wilkes orders the deputy to re-arrange the couch that Anne’s women have made up, and when every last piece of linen has been removed and replaced to her satisfaction, she bids Anne lie down on it.
A Want of Kindness Page 12
