A Want of Kindness

by Joanne Limburg

  It is true that the King is not unkind to me – but he has no kindness for my Church. He has dismissed my Lord Compton from the Privy Council because he spoke against the keeping of so great an army, and against his granting so many commissions in it to Catholics which the law says he ought not – I pray you will give the King ears to hear good counsel . . . and I pray you put it in his heart that he must have my revenues increased. I will have my Uncle Rochester speak to him – I must be thankful that there are still those that have my father’s ear besides the Jesuits and Sunderland . . .

  I am thankful that my child is well – she has a scabby face but the nurse tells me this is good, for all the bad is being brought out – and that the Prince has recovered from the dizziness and heaviness in his head that frightened me . . .

  . . . but I am so easily affrighted, since the old King was poisoned – protect me, I beseech you – abate their pride, assuage their malice – make me please to be comfortable in my heart, and if I am, as I think, with child again, I pray you let me keep it.

  Anne’s Uncle Rochester

  Here is Anne’s Uncle Laurence Hyde, Earl of Rochester, great favourite of the old King, former brother-in-law and now loyal servant of the new, Lord High Treasurer, a Tory, a great man for the Church, a great man for business, and great with Hyde ambition. He has not had much to do with his niece since she got the better of his wife in the matter of the Windsor lodgings three months ago, but now he is settled comfortably in a chair in her closet, with her household accounts spread out on the desk before him, and his niece perched on the chair opposite his, wringing her hands and biting her lip, and looking to him for help. His quick mind has already taken in as much as it needs to, but he decides to let her wait a little longer before he speaks.

  ‘You are to appoint a third Lady of the Bedchamber?’

  ‘Lady Churchill must often be with her children at St Albans, and Lady Anne is . . . well the King and Queen said I must have her, though she is always unwell with one thing or another; it is not my choice to have her in my service – so there is truly nothing for it but to take on another lady.’

  ‘At 200 livres a year?’

  ‘No-one will put herself forward if I offer any less.’

  ‘Perhaps you would be better to dismiss Lady Churchill and appoint instead a lady less concerned with her nursery.’

  ‘There can be no question of that. I cannot do without her. No.’

  Rochester knows what Anne desires – what Anne needs – what is, for sure, the only conceivable solution – but he is not ready to approach that yet. He points to another item on the desk.

  ‘This dressmaker’s bill.’ He reads, ‘Three blue silk manteaus, all ordered together – sixty-three pounds for gold lace? Madam, do you mean to stage a masque?’

  ‘Oh that is all Lady Clarendon’s doing – she would insist on buying three of everything, and then took such dreadful care of all of it – Lady Churchill has charge of my wardrobe now, and will manage far better.’

  ‘Will she also have charge of your gaming purse – Your Highness?’

  Humiliation starts the blushing off, and anger does the rest.

  I am the King’s daughter, she thinks, and you might say it is only because your sister whored in a royal Duke’s bed, and so entrapped him, but I would not care to say even in my heart what that makes you, for the Lord knows how much you and your brother have profited by it.

  ‘I play only for the same stakes as any other lady at this Court,’ she says, ‘and they would have cause to complain of me if I did not.’

  ‘Yes, I can imagine they would . . . well, it must be most vexatious to you that the Prince’s revenues do not come from Denmark when they should – but I have already said to him many times at Council, that I will render him whatever assistance I can to pursue the matter.’

  ‘He has told me, and I thank you, but as there is no knowing when the money from the Prince’s estates might come, I called you here because I was in hopes that . . . that perhaps you might speak to the King for me?’

  ‘You desire a grant to clear your debts?’

  ‘Yes, Sir – I require a grant.’

  ‘Then I must beg your pardon, Your Highness, but I cannot help you.’

  Anne did not expect this – not a flat no.

  ‘Why not, Sir?’

  Rochester sighs, as if this were truly as painful to him as it were to her.

  ‘Your Highness, you know the King’s temper in relation to money matters – he is not likely to look favourably on such a request, no matter where it came from – and such a proposal, coming from me, might well do me hurt, and you no good.’

  ‘So I cannot . . . entreat you? As your sister’s child?’ ‘No, Your Highness – forgive me, but I cannot do it.’ ‘Well, then – in that case, Sir, there is nothing more to say.’

  Seigneur de Montaigne’s Writings on Friendship Proved Sound

  Anne wastes no time in complaining of her disappointment to Lady Churchill, who speaks to her Lord, who speaks to his great friend Lord Godolphin, who was married to the late, unhappy Margaret. Godolphin has the King’s ear, as Sunderland and Rochester do, but as he is neither slippery nor wanting in tact, he is the perfect man for the task, and with little fuss persuades the King to make his daughter a Christmas present of 16, 000 pounds.

  And this is handsome proof, if ever proof were needed, that when the Seigneur de Montaigne declared that friendship, true friendship, is more to be relied upon than any tie of blood or marriage, he wrote nothing less than the truth.

  The Triumph of Squinting Betty

  It is Anne’s twenty-first birthday, and a year since the death of the late King. Baby Mary is seven months old now, beginning to sit up a little by herself.

  ‘She takes so much notice of everything, Your Highness,’ the nurse says. ‘Just this morning, I held her up to the casement, so that she might watch the rain, and from her face you might have thought it the greatest wonder that ever was, just to see it splattering the glass!’

  The baby is on Anne’s lap, examining her mother’s ringed fingers; from time to time she brings a jewel to her mouth and sucks on it, as if to determine the flavour. A large purple sapphire on Anne’s right hand seems to please her more than the rest, and she tries her tooth on it.

  ‘How good to hear that little tapping sound!’ Anne says. ‘She suffered so long, I thought the tooth was never coming.’ ‘So you kept saying, Your Highness,’ says Lady Churchill, ‘but it has. They always do.’

  ‘And there are two more, Your Highness,’ says the nurse, ‘that I can feel through her gums. The red cheeks, that you feared meant a fever, were but the signs of their coming.’

  ‘How does she like the toy the Princess sent? Does she try her gums on that?’

  ‘Oh yes, Your Highness. She prefers it above all the others. It is the prettiest thing!’

  ‘You will not have seen it, Lady Churchill. My sister sent from The Hague a silver rattle set with coral – the loveliest—’

  ‘I saw it yesterday, Your Highness, when you had me go to the nursery. It is a lovely thing – almost too lovely, to have a baby dribble on.’

  ‘Maybe . . . do you think then we ought to take it from her? Until she is older?’

  ‘No, Madam, I do not think that at all.’

  ‘Look – she is trying to bite my ring again! Farthing says I was used to do that when I sat with my mother. Her fingers are almost all I can recall of her.’

  ‘My sister Frances remembers her quite well. She says she had a great deal of wit—’

  ‘Which I know well I have none of. Never mind. Perhaps you will fare better, my love.’ She kisses the baby’s delicious head once more; little Mary crows, and the baby in Anne’s belly kicks – they are playing together already. This is delightful, but it is high time the older child was sent back to the nursery: Anne has that
to say about her own sister, which ought not to be said in front of the nurse, who has come so recently to the family.

  ‘She never says so in her letters to me, but Lady Bathurst reckons my sister is in very low spirits.’

  ‘I should think she would be. The Prince has sent so many of her old people away: first there was Bishop Ken, before even the King died; now her old nurse, her chaplain, Anne Trelawney . . .’

  ‘I don’t agree, though, that Mrs Trelawney was such a very particular friend of hers. She would have taken her Mrs Apsley with her if she had had a choice, and Babs Villiers – she would surely have taken her over Betty – but Betty wanted to go, and Betty always seems to get what she desires.’

  ‘Such as her Caliban. He crooked, her squinting – what a pretty pair they make.’

  ‘It grieves me in my heart to think of my sister weeping for that Dutch Abortion. He might say he sent her people away because they were the King’s spies – I expect they were, but he must have known that all along – I’m sure he did it out of spite, because she surprised him coming away from our squinting friend. And then to convince her that she was mistaken!’

  ‘Not so much mistaken as misled, and by her oldest friends . . .’

  ‘I know: it is enough to drive a soul mad. She could not even send Betty away when she tried: she is back in The Hague with her sister.’

  ‘Mrs Berkeley says she has a fine diamond necklace as reward for her persistence.’

  ‘At least my sister Orange has her own fair share of jewels. He’s not mean that way.’

  ‘No. But he has not given her a child.’

  ‘Nor will he, I don’t think.’

  ‘Betty does not breed either. He must be either cold or incapable.’

  ‘Or both.’

  ‘At least my sister still has her religion – he would not have that off her. My father might try, of course, but he will never bring her round – her heart is far too good for that, thank God.’

  To the Princess of Orange

  The Cockpit, April 29 1686

  I could never till now get any opportunity of answering your letter that I received by Dow, but before I say anything to it I must give you a thousand thanks for all the good advice you give me in it, and I desire you would still continue telling me your mind freely in this and all other things. I hope you don’t doubt but that I will be ever firm to my religion, whatever happens. However, since you desire me to write freely on this subject, I must tell you that I abhor the principles of the Church of Rome as much as it is possible for any to do, and I as much value the doctrine of the Church of England. And certainly there is the greatest reason in the world to do so, for the doctrine of the Church of Rome is wicked and dangerous, and directly contrary to the Scriptures, and their ceremonies – most of them – plain, downright idolatry.

  But God be thanked we were not bred up in that Communion, but are of a Church that is pious and sincere, and conformable in all its principles to the Scriptures. Our Church teaches no doctrine but what is just, holy and good, or what is profitable to salvation; and the Church of England is, without all doubt, the only true Church. Nobody has yet said anything to me about religion. The King only gave me those papers to read that were writ by the late King, and my mother, concerning which I am of your opinion: and indeed, they will do them no service, if they have not greater influence on other people than they have had on us; and I trust in God they will not.

  As to what you say of taking Popish servants, I will never hence­forward. It is true I have taken on one lately, but he is in a place of no consequence, and those that put him to me did not know that he was of that religion till after he was in. I shall be sure in all things to follow your advice, and make it my chiefest case to live up to that religion in which I have been born and bred, and in which I hope God Almighty will ever preserve me. I do count it a very great blessing that I am of the Church of England, and as great a misfortune that the King is not. I pray God his eyes may be opened, and I shall ever bless God for letting me be brought up in His true religion.

  I have now been as free in telling you my mind as I think you can desire. I have not said so much as I would have done, if I had had more time; but I knew of this opportunity so late that I have not had time to say so much as I would; but I was unwilling to miss this not knowing when I might have any other conveniency. When we are so happy as to see one another, we shall have more time to talk of this and other matters, which is all that I can now say to my dearest sister, but that I will ever study to follow your example in all things.

  The Man from Versailles

  Anne has a heart every bit as sound as Mary’s: she would rather die than change her religion, however much she is tempted, however much she is tried – and if the trials are to be no worse than to have the French King’s envoy, de Bonrepaux, coming to talk at her in her closet, she will consider herself blessed. Their religion might be an abomination and their King a tyrant, but the French language is so pretty, and it is always a pleasure to her to hear a native speak it. He makes his compliment, very beautifully, and she bids him sit down.

  ‘Your Highness looks very well.’

  ‘Thank you, Sir.’

  ‘Perhaps you and the Prince wish for a son this time?’

  ‘That is in God’s hands.’

  ‘Of course, Your Highness. We must both know so many unfortunate persons, who have prayed in vain for a son and heir, or who have wept to see the children they had return to God before they were grown.’

  ‘Or born.’

  ‘That brings its own sorrow.’

  ‘It does, though I grieve less than I might have done, had I not had cause to believe her soul in heaven.’

  The envoy holds up his hands and smiles. He has a charming smile.

  ‘And if you had not been so blessed so soon afterwards – and are now to be blessed again.’

  ‘I hope so.’

  ‘You must think it a great pity that the Princess of Orange has not been similarly blessed.’

  ‘Of course I do. Why would I not wish my sister happy?’

  ‘I have no doubt that you do. And the Queen also.’

  Anne feels herself colouring. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Yes. When a Queen has no child, it is a trouble not only to her husband, but to his Kingdom as well. I am sure you will agree, the late disturbance here is proof of that.’

  ‘It certainly was.’

  ‘But then, if it were true what the late Duke put about, that the King had owned him as his legitimate heir—’

  ‘Which he did not!’

  ‘No, he did not. What was it he said? “I love my son, but I would sooner—”’

  ‘“—see him hanged than on the throne.”’

  ‘That’s it! He had a pithy way with him, the old King. And – if you will excuse any slight indelicacy, Your Highness, but I would not for all the world insult you by supposing you ignorant – he was a most prolific father of natural children.’

  ‘Well that is hardly a secret, Sir. They have always had their place at Court.’

  ‘Quite rightly.’ De Bonrepaux stops for a moment, and examines his fingernails. ‘And the present King has two sons.’ Now he looks Anne fully, frankly in the eye.

  ‘Bast— natural sons.’

  ‘But sons nonetheless – and brought up in the old religion.’

  Anne can say nothing: all the words have drained out of her head, to be replaced by dreadful, incommunicable pictures. De Bonrepaux watches her, and waits, unflustered.

  ‘You cannot suggest,’ she stutters, ‘you cannot . . .’

  ‘I am not suggesting anything. Neither does my master in Versailles. Neither would the King. But I who have been so honoured – so blessed – as to have discoursed at length with both their Majesties on many subjects close to their hearts, I would venture – with confidence – the opinion that
were either of the English King’s legitimate children to change her religion, it would bring him the greatest joy imaginable, and would be very pleasing to my master also. So one cannot help thinking it would be a great thing, for the succession, and for the peace of this country, were that child then to take her place as heir. A great blessing indeed. Your Highness understands, of course?’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘The Prince must have told you that I have spoken with the Danish envoy.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I believe he also understands.’

  ‘I do not see why he would not.’

  ‘Good. But I have said enough. I must thank Your Highness for such a gracious reception. I hope, Madam, that you will enjoy the gifts I brought.’

  There is a small pile of slender volumes, exquisitely bound, sitting on the desk.

  ‘They look very pretty,’ she says.

  ‘But they are all the more beautiful inside. The right book at the right time can work a miracle – as I believe it did for the late Duchess.’

  ‘The King has already given me her writings on her . . . her religion.’

  ‘He has often told me how much you are like her.’

  ‘I know I look like her.’

  ‘I can only imagine that he wishes at least one of her daughters might find for herself the same joy and comfort that their mother did.’

  The man from Versailles takes his leave. He looks very pleased with himself.

  The Vapours

  Of course there has from the start been a great deal of murmuring against the King’s religion, and not only at the Denmarks’ Court. Mutterings, whispers, anonymous verses, sharp asides. That much was only to be expected. It is quite another matter, however, to have such intolerance declaimed from the pulpit: the King’s Directions to Preachers have made this abundantly clear, so when the Reverend John Sharp of St Giles’ Cripplegate delivers, on two successive May Sundays, sermons which even the meanest of wits can only construe as anti-Catholic, the provocation must, surely, be deliberate.