A Want of Kindness

by Joanne Limburg

  ‘I grieve for you, Anne – I know only too well what you have endured.’

  ‘I know that, Your Majesty. Are you recovered from this summer last?’

  ‘I am not sure – I think so – but I do have hopes of conceiving again. You too. Some say, my dear, a woman miscarried of a son is half with child again already.’

  ‘If it does not stop the womb altogether. I think that is what befell poor Mary.’

  ‘Try not to give way to melancholy, Anne. We must all strengthen ourselves, and pray . . . And I shall try the waters at Bath – Dr Walgrave thinks they might agree with me better than Tunbridge – perhaps you might come with me, when you are well enough?’

  ‘Thank you, Your Majesty, but I find the Tunbridge waters agree with me well enough.’

  2nd and 8th February 1687

  It is the cruellest season. God gives Anne only the briefest time to regain her strength – she is not even finished bleeding – before he tests her again, and harder. On the eve of her grandfather’s martyrdom, as she contemplates putting on the mourning dress that will agree so well with her melancholy, Lady Frescheville scratches on her closet door, and tells her that Lady Anne’s nurse, Mrs Wanley, is waiting outside, very much distressed.

  Mrs Wanley is a sanguine woman, rarely put out of temper, let alone distressed, and Lady Anne a vigorous child. Before the nurse has even spoken, Anne knows that this is something terrible.

  ‘Take me to my girl,’ she says, ‘and tell me what is the matter on the way. Lady Frescheville, come with us.’

  They run, all three of them – it is a pity they cannot fly – and the nurse relates her story in agitated little bursts: the child was first fretful, as if in discomfort; would not suck, or eat, so the nurse thinking it was the thrush in her mouth again gave her a little physic for that – as Her Highness said before that she should – but still she would not suck, and then she watched and would not sleep all day, and now this evening she has grown all of a sudden feverish, and cries so pitifully, she must be in pain . . .

  As they approach the door of the nursery, Anne hears her younger daughter’s cry, and it is a cry to make the heart sink, the thin, high-pitched, insistent cry of a child grown very, very sick. The baby is lying in the arms of a very young and frightened rocker; her head is thrown back and her mouth wide open, the very picture of agony.

  ‘Give her to me.’

  The baby shows no signs of knowing her mother, only continues to scream and writhe in her arms. Anne carries her as close as she can to the nearest candle, and peers into the screaming mouth. She cannot make anything out.

  ‘You said her mouth was sore?’ she asks the nurse.

  ‘Yes, Your Highness.’

  ‘Lady Frescheville, have Dr Radcliffe sent for – and have Farthing come to me. Mrs—’ It is not like her, but she cannot suddenly, for the life of her, recall the woman’s name. ‘Madam – you have such clear skin – have you had smallpox?’ ‘No, Your Highness.’ ‘Well, I – I have the most dreadful apprehension, and I think I must nurse my child myself, and you must go—’

  ‘Your Highness? But who will give her suck?’

  ‘She is near weaned already! Go! I will have no-one in this nursery who has not had smallpox! So not the Prince! The Prince must not come! And you must take the Lady Mary to my chamber at once and keep her there! And get me Dr Radcliffe! And GO!’

  Mrs Wanley runs out of the room, much affrighted, and the rocker after her; Mary’s nurse gathers her up and follows them. Anne sinks heavily down into a chair, the baby still in her arms, and joins her tears to her child’s.

  ‘I am sorry, my love,’ she whispers, ‘I am so wretched – they are my sins visited on you, my backsliding, my want of respect to . . . I will pray now.

  ‘O Almighty God, and merciful Father, to whom alone belong the issues of life and death . . .’

  When Dr Radcliffe comes, he cannot confirm Anne’s suspicion, but neither can he reassure her.

  ‘There is not much one might safely give a child of such a tender age – you may use the ointment again for her sore mouth, if you wish – you might try a fomentation to draw the humour out – otherwise, Your Highness, you can only watch, and comfort the child as much as she will let you.’

  He does not say, ‘Pray’. He should.

  ‘. . . look down from heaven, I humbly beseech thee, with the eyes of mercy upon this child now lying upon the bed of sickness . . .’

  Before long, the baby has exhausted herself enough that she sleeps at last; Anne sponges her skin with rosewater to try and cool her, then sits with her child in her arms, watching the light from fire and candle shudder on the walls, and searching her heart for whatever sickness there might be in it, that has been answered by this sickness in her child. She wonders if she should go to Chapel tomorrow, to fast and pray with the Court, but decides that she had better fast and pray in the nursery instead.

  ‘. . . Visit her, O Lord, with thy salvation; deliver her in the good appointed time from her bodily pain, and save her soul for thy mercies’ sake: that if it should be thy pleasure to prolong her days here on earth. Prolong her days here on earth. Prolong her days here on earth. Prolong her days here on earth. Prolong her days . . .’

  The baby’s cries start her awake again. Farthing is pushing the shutters back: the daylight is sharp and truthful, and picks out every blister. But perhaps it is the measles? It may yet be the measles. Dr Radcliffe comes again: it is not the measles; it is smallpox and could not be anything else. Little Anne’s eyes are swollen shut.

  ‘It may be distressing for you to look upon, Your Highness, but it may be that the humour is coming out, and that is a good thing – we must do what we can to assist it, and watch, and wait.’

  He will recommend no internal physic. Together, Anne and Farthing throw rosemary on the fire and stoke it up, swaddle the baby in heavy red cloth, hang the room with more; watch; bargain; plead.

  ‘. . . If it shall be thy pleasure to prolong her days here on earth, she may live to thee, and by an instrument of thy glory, by serving thee faithfully, and doing good in her generation . . .’

  The baby suffers, and grows hourly more unrecognisable. Anne watches her, fasts, keeps in mind her grandfather’s martyrdom, and her own sins. When night falls, Farthing persuades her to take a little nourishment herself, and try to sleep for a while. True sleep is impossible, but she soon feels herself falling into some strange between-state, in which Farthing, walking to and fro, and the baby in her arms, cannot stay themselves for two moments together, but instead are subject to change after change, becoming Lady Frances with Catherine, Aunt Madame with Isabella, Anne’s mother with Anne’s lost daughter, Mary (Mary? Dead?), weeping over Anne’s lost son . . . and now there is a tall man, without his wig, standing in front of her – the late King? No. She has woken up, and it is the Prince.

  ‘George! What are you doing here? I said you were to stay away! Now you will catch the distemper – oh George!’

  ‘Shhh, my dear – Lady Frescheville said she would come, but I said I ought to tell you myself.’

  ‘Tell me what?’

  He is crying. ‘Mary has fallen sick.’

  ‘Mary too! Send for—’

  ‘I already did.’

  Anne has little doubt that Mary’s fever is from the same cause as her sister’s. Still, she waits until the blisters have shown themselves before she has Mary moved back to the nursery. By then, another full day has passed, and her poor, fond dolt of a husband is complaining of a headache.

  As Mary’s blisters begin to push up through her skin – hard yet, like lead shot – little Anne’s are turning to pustules, bursting, crusting over. Her face is pitiful to look on now: even if she recovers, Anne fears her beauty will be spoiled before it has appeared. If she recovers: she is still alive, but there is a stench coming off her now, of flesh decaying.

>   ‘. . . or else receive her into those heavenly habitations, where the souls of them that sleep in the Lord Jesus enjoy perpetual rest and felicity.’

  Her affliction is so terrible to witness, it is almost a relief to Anne when at last it pleases God to take her away.

  But Mary has not succumbed yet; neither has George, although he has sickened just as she feared he would. Dr Radcliffe examines him, predicts that the sickness will take a less severe course in his case, but decides that it would do him no harm to be bled. He is altogether more cautious where Mary is concerned. Anne questions, persuades, disputes, all but screams in his face, and eventually he concedes that, as she is a little bigger than her sister, he might without too much danger apply a couple of leeches to her. After some searching, they find a suitable patch of skin – it is on her leg, so sufficiently far away from her delicate nobler parts, and the pox there are just far enough apart to leave some space – and attach two of the creatures to it. Mary makes no complaint as they latch on: she is in pain enough already from the blisters, that their little bitings and barkings can make only the smallest impression. Anne and the physician watch the leeches grow fat; the next day, Mary seems a little stronger, but the day after that she succumbs.

  Anne moves to the Prince’s bedside. She will nurse him as she nursed their daughters. He will recover, and then they will mourn together.

  ‘Grant this, O Lord, for thy mercies’ sake, in the same thy Son our Lord Jesus Christ, who liveth and reigneth with thee and the Holy Ghost, ever one God, world without end. Amen.’

  From the Princess of Denmark to the Princess of Orange

  The Cockpit, March 13 1687

  This letter going by sure hands, I will now venture to write my mind very freely to you, and in the first place must tell you that the satisfaction I proposed to myself of seeing you this spring has been denied me, which has been no small trouble to me as you may easily imagine; and the disappointment has been the greater because the King gave me leave when I first asked; for the night I came from Richmond, I desired him to give the Prince leave to go into Denmark, and me to go into Holland, which he granted immediately without any difficulty, but in a few days after he told me I must not go. So that it is plain he has spoke of it to somebody that persuaded him against it, and it is as certain that the body was Lord Sunderland, for the King trusts him with everything; and he going on so fiercely for the interests of the Papists, is afraid that you should be told a true character of him, and this I really believe is the reason why I was refused coming to you; though maybe he and the priests together give other reasons to the King. Therefore, since I am not to see my dear sister, I think myself obliged to tell you the truth of everything this way, that it may not be in anybody’s power (if I can help it) to deceive you. And by the kindness you express in all your letters, I have reason to believe you will credit me before another, both as a sister and a friend: and that I may desire these names, I will deal as sincerely with you as ’tis possible.

  You may remember I have once before ventured to tell you that I thought Lord Sunderland a very ill man, and I am more confirmed every day in this opinion. Everybody knows how often this man turned backwards and forward in the late King’s time; and now, to complete all his virtues, he is working with all his might to bring in Popery. He is perpetually with the priests and stirs up the King to do things further than I believe he would of himself. Things are come to that pass now, that, if they go on much longer, I believe in a little while no Protestant will be able to live here. The King has never said a word to me about religion since the time I told you of; but I expect it every minute, and am resolved to undergo anything rather than change my religion: nay, if it should come to such extremities, I will choose to live on alms rather than change.

  This worthy Lord does not go publicly to Mass, but hears it privately at a priest’s chamber, and never lets anybody be there but a servant of his. So that there is nobody but a priest can say they have seen him at Mass, for to be sure his servant will turn at any time he does. Thus he thinks he carries his matters swimming, and hopes you will hear none of these things that he may always be as great as he is now.

  His Lady, too, is as extraordinary in her kind, for she is a flattering, dissembling, false woman; but she has so fawning and endearing a way that she will deceive anybody at first and it is not possible to find out all her ways in a little time. She cares not at what rate she lives, but never pays anybody. She will cheat, though it be for a little. Then she has had her gallants, though it may be not as many as some other ladies have; and with all these good qualities she is a constant Church woman; so that to outward appearance one would think her a saint, and to hear her talk you would think she was a very good Protestant; but she is as much one as the other, for it is certain that her Lord does nothing without her.

  By what I have said you may judge what good hands the King and Kingdom are in, and what an uneasy thing it is to all good honest people, that they may seem to live civilly with this Lord and his Lady.

  I had not your letter by Mr Dyckvelt till last week, but I have never ventured to speak to him, because I am not used to speak to people about business and this Lord is so much upon the watch that I am afraid of him. So I have desired my Lord Churchill (who is one that I can trust, and I am sure is a very honest man and a good Protestant) to speak to Mr Dyckvelt for me, to know what it is he has to say to me, and by the next opportunity I will answer it, for one dares not write anything by the post.

  One thing there is, which I forgot to tell you about this noble Lord, which is, that it is thought if everything does not go as he would have it, that he will pick a quarrel with the Court and so retire, and by that means it is possible he will think he make his court to you.

  But I have given you so just and true a character both of him and his lady that I hope it will not be in anybody’s power to make you think otherways of them.

  There is one thing about yourself which I can’t help giving my opinion in, which is, that if the King should desire you and the Prince of Orange to come over to make him a visit I think it would be better (if you can make any handsome excuse) not to do it; for though I dare swear that the King could have no thought against either of you, yet since people can say one thing and do another, one cannot help being afraid. If either of you should come, I should be very glad to see you; but really if you or the Prince should come, I should be frightened out of my wits for fear any harm should happen to either of you.

  Pray don’t let anybody see this, nor don’t speak of it: pray let me desire you not to take notice of what I have said to anybody except the Prince of Orange, for it is all treason that I have spoke; and the King commanded me not to say anything that I once thought of going into Holland, and I fear if he should know that it was no secret he would be angry with me. Therefore as soon as you have read this, pray burn it; for I would not that anybody the Prince of Orange and yourself should know what I have said. When I have another opportunity it is possible that I may have more to say, but for this time having written so much already I hope you will forgive me for saying no more now, but that no tongue can ever express how much my heart is yours.

  Anne

  The Man from The Hague

  There is nothing bearable in Whitehall. The air is injurious to George’s health. The Cockpit’s empty nursery is an open wound. The King has issued a Declaration of Indulgence, removing all impediments to office for all the Catholics he has already appointed, and to those he means to appoint. As long as Anne remains at the Cockpit, there can be no escape, from triumphant Catholics raised up and angry Hydes brought low, from the watchful eyes of Sunderlands, from the Queen’s often-expressed fellow feelings, from looks that pity or gloat, and are in either case insupportable. Anne makes a brief tour, incognito, of certain London churches and their anti-Papist preachers, for her own comfort, and for the benefit of those who have eyes to see her do it, and then the Denmarks retreat to Ri
chmond.

  There the red-brick walls, the oak furniture, her old chamber greet and hold her like a child restored. It is spring in the Park again, there is a tree there that still looks like a man, the red hinds are heavy with their fawns, and Anne finds herself with child again. One prayer answered, at least. If it were not for the lack of sure hands to deliver her true thoughts to Mary, she could find no fault in the place.

  Without such a pair of hands, she has to write to Mary by the regular post, and can only write to her of the company she has had, the honour the King and Queen do her in coming to dine, the progress of George’s portrait, the latest Court dances, and whether or not Lords’ daughters might sit with her in the Chapel Closet. Naturally there are other, more pressing subjects on which she would prefer to speak her mind; before long her impatience proves stronger than her caution, and she agrees to a meeting with Dyckvelt. She will have Lord Churchill with them, and his Lady. Churchill is such a fine, well-favoured gentleman, so softly-spoken, so gentle in his manner – Anne finds him to be a reassuring, trustworthy presence. It is one opinion she shares with her father.

  They take a stroll together, Anne and Dyckvelt, the Churchills walking a short distance behind. It is a beautiful day, a perfect opportunity to show Mr Dyckvelt the Park, and to speak out of earshot. At first sight, Anne is pleasantly surprised in him: she would not have expected such pretty manners in a Dutchman, and his English has only a slight trace of that most absurd of accents.

  ‘The Prince of Orange has charged me with offering you his sincere condolences on the loss of your children, Your Highness.’

  ‘Thank him from me. I have received several kind letters from the Princess too.’