A Want of Kindness

by Joanne Limburg

  ‘He trusts, as a good Protestant, that you will find much comfort in the Word. They that sow in tears, shall reap in joy.’

  Good English Scripture: how reassuring to hear it. She almost smiles.

  ‘I have had that very Psalm from both my chaplains, Sir, and from my Lord Compton – and at least two bedchamber women. And you may tell the Prince and Princess –’ she drops her voice, quite unnecessarily, but it is lately become a habit with her – ‘that I am with child again.’

  ‘Congratulations, Your Highness. We will all be praying that you and the Prince may see a happy outcome.’

  ‘Thank you. I do not think I have been so well since . . . since February, but the air here is doing me much good. And the Prince too – he is much recovered from his distemper.’

  ‘The Prince and Princess will be greatly relieved to hear of it. As your kin – and also, as your friends. Your Highness, I know that you have ventured to write to the Princess in very plain terms – I hope you will feel emboldened to talk plainly to me here. The Prince will always deal honestly with those he can look upon as friends, and what you say to me, you say to the Prince and Princess of Orange – and nobody else.’

  They are halfway to the man-tree. Anne stops walking for a moment, and waits for the Churchills to catch up, that she might see their faces. She looks from one to the other: they smile and nod.

  ‘I am their friend, Sir. I am sure no-one could have more kindness for my sister – and for those she loves so sincerely – than I do.’

  ‘Or could express that kindness with such admirable simplicity, Your Highness. I must reassure you that the Prince and Princess have a kindness for you, and a great and sincere concern for your interests. Your sister, in particular, is most anxious to know whether you are well-treated here, in respect to your religion, and in other ways.’

  ‘For myself, I have nothing to complain of. The King and Queen always profess a great kindness for me, when I need funds they are granted, and it is true that they do not trouble me about my religion . . .’

  ‘But . . .?’

  ‘Last year I had a visit from Monseigneur de Bonrepaux.’

  ‘We would expect as much. What did he say?’

  ‘There is something he said that I cannot get out of my head, though I don’t quite believe it can be true – he did not talk in a straight way, for sure—’

  ‘These Catholic worthies do like to mystify their listeners,’ Sarah mutters, but loud enough to be heard.

  ‘He wanted me to understand that it was possible that the King – with the French King’s help of course – would seek to have my sister and me put out of the succession, in favour of his . . . natural Catholic sons.’

  ‘I am sorry to hear that, Madam, but not very much surprised. It is a very French tactic: King Louis believes that he has only to make a show of his might, and we will all bow before him. But he has been proved wrong in this more than once – and by my master. I would remind you that the Prince has risked his own life in defence of the United Provinces, and been successful in it. He would risk it again to check French ambition – in the Low Countries . . . or anywhere else.’

  ‘And if I may add something to that,’ says Lord Churchill, ‘I am certain that de Bonrepaux was only scaring you, for I do believe that the King has too much respect for the law and for the right succession to put you out in such a way. He would no more put his natural son on the throne than the late King would. The Princess of Orange will remain his heir apparent – that is why he is so anxious to convert her.’

  ‘Well, he shall not contrive to do it,’ Anne snaps. ‘My sister and I are of one mind – and you may reassure her, for my part, that I am quite resolved, by the assistance of God, to suffer all extremities, even to death itself, rather than be brought to change my religion.’

  ‘Do you fear any of these extremities?’

  ‘I do not know so . . . as I said, the King is not ungenerous to me, and the Queen always professes a great kindness for me, but then again he would not permit me to visit my sister, which would have been such a comfort to me who has been so afflicted, and . . .’

  The party stops for moment, while Lady Churchill helps Anne to compose herself.

  ‘Forgive me, Sir. I think that where it comes to my religion, the King would always use fair means rather than foul, but I have writ treason already, and he has shown there is a coldness in him. You must know when my cousin Monmouth was captured, the King granted him an audience but then it was only to tell him to his face that he was condemned. I do not understand how he could do that – his own brother’s son . . .’

  ‘I have heard that story, Your Highness. It is a very terrible one.’

  ‘The King’s treatment of the rebels was altogether terrible,’ says Lady Churchill.

  ‘We all know that, my dear,’ her Lord says, ‘but the Duke must have known what was at stake, if he failed. And for the time being at least, we can say that the King’s relations with his other Protestant nephew are cordial enough – are they not, Mr Dyckvelt?’

  ‘Yes, my Lord. The King writes often to him of the weather in England.’

  ‘And is the Prince much interested in the weather?’ Anne asks.

  ‘The weather over the Channel, perhaps,’ says Lady Churchill. Her husband bids her hush, but she adds, somewhat sulkily, that the Princess knows perfectly well what they are about, and is every bit as capable as they of remaining discreet.

  ‘Let’s hope she’s more capable than you are, Sarah.’

  ‘Oh pish! We are all friends here.’

  ‘But their correspondence is not only about the weather?’

  ‘No, Your Highness, and I’m afraid it will be less cordial by and by: the Prince does not much like your father’s recent Declaration, or his choice of officers for the English troops in Holland.’

  ‘The same as his choices here, no doubt – first one Papist, then another, then a whole mob of them.’

  ‘Exactly. The Prince and Princess are very much of your opinion – as are many others, a good number of them within this Kingdom. Some of them are known to you – you may rely on them as friends, as you put it, “sure hands”. You will always be able to write freely to your sister – and she to you.’

  ‘But I cannot always find them – and then I am compelled to write my sister letters with nothing in them.’

  ‘We have thought of this. In such cases, you will need to use another name to stand for the King’s.’

  Anne giggles. ‘We do that already a little: sometimes the Earl of Sunderland is “Roger”. It is a little like when we were girls in this place, and Lady Churchill used to deliver our secret letters – do you remember?’

  ‘Of course, Madam. Perhaps we can agree a name now, so that Mr Dyckvelt may carry it back to The Hague?’

  ‘Yes . . . the Duke of something?’

  ‘Better make him a plain “mister”, Your Highness, such as might work in the Palace,’ says Lord Churchill, ‘for he can’t know them all, there are so many of them.’

  ‘Mr . . . Brown?’

  ‘That sort of name, yes, but we could make it a little less, erm . . .’

  ‘. . . less of a likely sham,’ says his wife. ‘I have it: how about “Mr Mansell”?’

  ‘And who is this Mansell, my dear, on whom you plainly seek revenge?’

  ‘Mr Mansell from St Alban’s, who sold us pewter already cracked, and when the housekeeper complained of it, he blamed the kitchen maid, and accused ’em both of cooking up a scheme to cheat him! In the end I had to drive to his shop and deal with him myself.’

  ‘. . . and still he trembles. Your Highness, shall we take this knave’s name?’

  ‘I can remember “Mr Mansell”, Sir. Mr Dyckvelt, is that a suitable choice?’

  ‘Perfect, Your Highness.’

  So now they have reached the man-tree, th
eir business is done and it is time to go back.

  From the Princess of Denmark to the Princess of Orange

  Richmond, May 9 1687

  When I writ to my dear sister by Sir H. Capell, I had not time to say anything to you, and being very well assured that my letter is safe in this bearer’s hands, I chose rather to write my mind freely to you by him, than by Sir H. Belasyse.

  I suppose you have heard of the King’s sending to the University of Cambridge to make a Friar a Master of Arts, and that they refused it, at which the King was very angry and sent for the Vice-Chancellor and others of the university. Last Saturday was the day they brought in their answer to the Commissioners why they could not obey the King, upon which the Lords Commissioners have put the Vice-Chancellor out of his places. He was Head of College besides, which is also taken from him, and, the benefits of it are ordered to go to the university. By this one may easily guess what one is to hope for henceforward, since the priests have so much power with the King as to make him do things so directly against the laws of the land, and indeed contrary to his own promises. It is a melancholy prospect that all we of the Church of England have; all the sectaries may now do what they please. Every one has the free exercise of their religion, on purpose no doubt to ruin us, which I think to all impartial judges is very plain. For my own part, I expect every minute to be spoke to about my religion, and wonder very much I have heard nothing of it yet: whenever the King does speak to me, you shall be sure to have an exact account from me.

  In the meantime, all I desire is that you would not believe any reports of me, whatever you may hear: but assure yourself, I will ever be firm to my principles, and neither threatenings nor promises shall ever make me change my religion, which I hope you are already very well assured of.

  This last honour the King has conferred on Lord Sunderland will, I doubt not, make him drive on our destruction with more haste and eagerness than he has yet done. His Lady, too, is now in all appearance like to be a favourite with the Queen for now the Lady Rochester is dead, there is nobody to put the Queen in mind often how ill a woman Lady Sunderland is. The Queen of late has no good opinion of Lady Rochester, yet the truth she told of Lady Sunderland did certainly keep her from growing great with the Queen while she lived. But now she is dead, Lady Sunderland – what with her fawning, insinuating way, and the court her Lord makes to the Queen – is to be feared will grow in great favour; and then, no doubt, she will play the Devil, for she has no religion, though she pretends to a great deal; and so she is great, she cares not who she ruins. And to say truth, she does not want wit nor cunning, and that, with her ill nature together, may make her capable of doing a great deal of mischief. The Queen, you must know, is of a very proud, haughty humour; and though she pretends to hate all form and ceremony, yet one sees that those that make their court this way are very well thought of. She declares always that she loves sincerity and hates flattery, but when the grossest flattery in the world is said to her face, she seems extremely well pleased with it. It is really enough to turn one’s stomach to hear what things are said to her of this kind, and to see how mightily she is satisfied with it. All these ways Lady Sunderland has in perfection, to make her court to her. She is now much oftener with the Queen than she used to be.

  It is a sad and very uneasy thing to be forced to live civilly and as it were freely with a woman that one knows hates one, and does all she can to undo everybody; which she certainly does.

  One thing I must say of the Queen, which is that she is the most hated in the world of all sorts of people; for everybody believes that she pressed the King to be more violent than he would be of himself; which is not unlikely, for she is a very great bigot in her way, and one may see by her that she hates all Protestants. All ladies of quality say that she is proud that they don’t care to come oftener than they must needs, just out of mere duty. And indeed, she has not so great a Court as she used to have. She pretends to have a great deal of kindness to me, but I doubt it is not real, for I never see proofs of it, but rather the contrary. It is not for me to complain, and as long as she does not make the King unkind to me, I don’t care what she is; but I am resolved always to pay her a great deal of respect, and make my court very much to her, that she may not have any just cause against me.

  My dear sister sees now that I deal very freely with you, and tell you what I think of everything and everybody; the plainness and sincerity of what I have said will, I hope, be acceptable to you; and indeed I think myself obliged, whenever I have an opportunity, to give you an exact account of everything, because I fear there is nobody else will tell you the truth so freely, without any disguise, as I have done.

  I spoke about a fortnight ago with Mr Dyckvelt, and though I did not before doubt of your kindness, yet it was a very great pleasure to me to hear so many assurances both from the Prince of Orange and yourself. Mr Russell also has given me the same assurances. If I writ whole volumes, I could never express how sensible I am both of yours and the Prince of Orange’s kindness: it is what I value more than you can believe; and I hope you are but so just to me as not to doubt of the kindness I have for you which shall be lasting as my life, and ready to show itself on all occasions.

  The Prince thinks of going into Denmark the end of this month, and when he is away I fancy the King will speak to me about my religion, for then he will find me more alone than yet he has done.

  This bearer will come back again, I believe, in a short time, so that I shall have an answer of this by him, or if Sir H. Capell should come sooner, it will be very safe by him too.

  If there be anything that I have not mentioned that you have a mind to know, or that I can do you any service of any kind here, pray let me know it, that I may show you how faithfully I will obey you in anything that lies in my power.

  There are a great many books that come out every day about religion, and a great many of our side, that are very well writ. If you care to see any of them, let me know it and I will send you those that are best worth reading.

  My dearest sister, farewell: this is the last opportunity I am likely to have before Mr Dyckvelt goes: whenever I know of any, you may assure yourself I will give you an account of all things that passes here.

  Anne

  Anne’s Fear

  In June, the Prince sails to Denmark, and Anne removes to Hampton Court, a little further upstream, a little more distant from Whitehall and all that the King and Queen do there. She is in hourly expectation of the King’s coming to speak with her about her religion, but as the days pass and he does not come, so more and more she looks upon the prospect of his visit as she might the drawing of a tooth, dreading it but at the same time wishing for it, so as to get it over with.

  The King does not come in July, probably because he has more urgent business: Parliament has made it clear that it does not like his Declaration, so naturally he has had to dissolve it. Then he embarks on Progress through the West Country, to see what help might be found there. Anne is allowed to remain where she is, free to stroll in the Park and think of Elizabeth, Protestant, persecuted and ultimately triumphant, who used to hunt there. Anne would very much like to follow her example, but at the end of the month, the King issues a notice that no person, of what quality soever, may kill any animal by any means within ten miles round the Palace of Hampton Court, unless they have his particular leave, and she cannot help feeling a little persecuted by that – no doubt the Queen put him on to it, but then her mother has just died, so Anne does not feel that it would be quite fair to resent her too much at this time on this particular account. She sends her a very proper condolence note.

  Apart from this inconvenience, the only ordeal she has to withstand is a visit from d’Adda, the Papal Nuncio, and that is more awkward than anything else. When the Prince arrives back in August, he finds Anne in reasonable health, at liberty, still Protestant, but still afraid.

  She is afraid for her Church, for herself, fo
r her Prince, but most of all for her baby. It is her one hope, her only blessing, and as long as she is carrying it, she must for its sweet life’s sake stay away from anything that might fright or harm her. She will have no noxious smells about her, no overstrong tastes, no extremes of hot or cold, no monsters, no deformed persons, no riotous noises, no heated arguments and as few Catholics as can be arranged. The Denmarks cannot avoid going to Windsor for a short time, to join the Court there, but leave as soon as they decently can, putting about that the Prince has a bad chest, and will find the weather at Hampton Court less cold and piercing.

  It is a great relief to be back there, at first, but fear is such an excellent scent hound, and it sniffs her out again. She does not understand how it comes about, but the monstrousness of the King and Queen seems to increase in proportion with the time spent away from them, and their distance from her. She can think of nothing but their monstrousness, the monstrousness of all Catholics, and the threat to her child. Her head is full of Mr Foxe’s martyrdoms, and she finds she cannot hinder herself from calling to mind a thousand times a day one illustration in particular, of an infant bursting from its burning mother’s womb. The story is that it was taken out of the fire and laid on the grass, only for the bailiff to say that it should be carried back again and cast into the fire. And so was the infant baptised in his own blood, both born and died a martyr, leaving behind a spectacle wherein the whole world may see the Herodian cruelty of his graceless, Catholic tormentors.

  Mrs Wilkes is Catholic, and the strength and skill of that woman, that was once such a comfort to Anne, seems now to come from a dark place, and meant for dark purposes. She must contrive a way to find another midwife, a Protestant one, without giving offence to the Queen. She will need to employ some sort of invention to bring it about. Everything in the world depends upon it.

  22nd October 1687