If it were up to Anne she would never leave, but it is not in her power: the King returns to Whitehall in October, and calls her back. Ten days later she is delivered of a stillborn son. The Protestant midwife, who is quite beyond any suspicion, says he has been dead in the womb a month already. Anne was a fool to have felt safe anywhere.
The Queen Is With Child
Lord, I . . .
Lord, I must confess . . .
Lord, I cannot hinder . . .
Lord, I would die before I would curse thee to thy face, but I have come into my closet to pray and yet only the words of Job come to mind: Oh that my grief were thoroughly weighed, and my calamity laid in the balances together! For now it would be heavier than the sand of the sea: therefore my words are swallowed up . . . For I have this last year had sorrows piled upon sorrows, and now the Queen is with child, and when I think of that my heart bleeds anew as if every wound it ever had were fresh . . . why must I be tormented this way? Why should she be raised up when I am so cast down? What has she done that you are so pleased with her? What have I done that you should chastise me so?
Every day I reckon up my account, and I try to number my sins, whatever they might be: that I have been disrespectful to the King – twice over, once because he is my father, and again because he is my King; that when I have sat in the Chapel Closet, I have maybe got more satisfaction than I should for being bowed to as if the King was there; that I have been too proud on those occasions, and too proud of my place in the succession, that I would so resent being put out of it; that I have loved my children too dearly, and grieved for them too loudly and too long . . . I know that they are yours; I know that I was as their wet-nurse only; I know that they are happy now. But still there are these arrows in me, and still the poison whereof drinketh up my spirit.
And whatever my sins may be, what has my dear Prince done, that you should punish him? For he too is much afflicted.
And what has the King done, and – I ask again – what has the Queen done – that you should be so gracious to them – and so gracious to the Bishop of Rome, and to my cousin Louis – that you should place this Kingdom in their hands? For you must know that the child is spoken of everywhere as a boy already. If this is indeed your Will, I can only beg you give me the grace to resign myself – if it is your Will – forgive me, Lord, but I cannot – no not even with the greatest effort – believe it ever could be.
The King’s Vexation
Of all the things the late King did to vex the present one – and there were many – the passing of the Test Acts continues to gall him the most. The first makes it illegal for Catholics to hold any public office, be it civil or military; the second effectively bars them from Parliament. They have not, it is true, got in the way of his becoming King, and his Declaration of Indulgence has enabled him to suspend them for anyone he chooses to appoint, but this is not enough to satisfy him: he has desired Parliament to repeal them altogether. This Parliament has refused to do, and so he has had no choice but to dissolve it. The Kingdom is his: he should be able to order it as he sees fit.
The King has resolved to make sure that the next Parliament will prove more pliant. He needs to ensure a sympathetic majority, and for this he requires a sympathetic electorate.
To this end, he has ordered his Lord Lieutenants to put the following three questions to all men of substance in their respective counties:
1. In case he shall be chosen knight of the shire or burgess of a town when the King shall call a Parliament, whether he will be for taking off the penal laws and the tests.
2. Whether he will assist and contribute to the election of such members as shall be for taking them off.
3. Whether he will support the King’s Declaration for liberty of conscience by living friendly with those of all persuasions as subjects of the same Prince and good Christians ought to do.
The Lord Lieutenants are then to take all the answers down, and give the King a full and precise account of them. Those that refuse to do so lose their places. Among these is Robert, Earl of Scarsdale, Lord Lieutenant of Derby.
Scarsdale is also Groom of the Stool to the Prince of Denmark. Following his disgrace, Anne asks the King whether he should also be removed from his place in her husband’s household. The King is pleased to be asked, and replies that he shall leave it to their discretion. As Scarsdale has given neither Anne nor the Prince any reason for displeasure, they decide to retain him – then the King demands that he be dismissed, and replaced with the Earl of Huntingdon. Anne obeys, but with ill grace. Conspicuous ill grace, which anyone who knows of it is quite at liberty to report.
Of all the things the King has done to vex her, it is this act – this intrusion into her household – that galls her the most. It is her family: she should be able to order it as she sees fit.
The Queen’s Belly
There are mornings when Anne must wait on the Queen. It does not matter that they would both wish her anywhere else: it is proper, it is expected, and there is no telling what use might be made of it by certain parties, were she to stay away. So here she is, in the Queen’s bedchamber, where Mrs Dawson, the Queen’s Woman, is handing her the Queen’s shift, so that Anne can help her on with it.
Lady Sunderland helps the Queen to ease off the old shift. Anne, who knows how little her step-mother likes to be seen naked, makes sure to leave only the shortest possible moment before dropping the clean shift over her upstretched arms and her head. It is not long enough to sneak more than a tiny glance at her belly, marking, as Anne does every time, that it seems strangely big for such an early stage of pregnancy: undoubtedly there is something in there, but it could well be a mole, or a monster, or nothing but wind. Or it could be that the Queen was already with child before she lay with the King, by the Papal Nuncio perhaps, or the King’s Confessor, Father Petre.
Why not Father Petre? The King has raised him to the Privy Council, so why should the Queen not have raised him up too? And there is something grubby about the business of confession: it cannot but make priests lascivious to feel thus the privy parts of women’s souls, and as for these Catholic women, why should they deny the secrets of their bodies to them, to whom they have already discovered the secrets of their souls?
Anne is careful not to meet the Queen’s eyes, lest she read these pictures in her head. This is easy enough to do, as the Queen does not wish to meet her eyes either: she knows perfectly well what the rumours are; she has wept over them, and must certainly suspect Anne’s part in spreading them.
They can barely look at each other. They can barely speak to each other. It falls to Lady Sunderland to fill the silence, by congratulating Anne on her own, more recent belly. She is kindly, respectful, and says everything that is proper, smiling charmingly all the while. Insufferable woman.
At last the Queen speaks, but not to Anne.
‘Oh, Lady Sunderland! I feel a quickening! Come feel my belly!’
Smiling, she takes her Lady’s hand, and presses it to her. Lady Sunderland nods, and they both make sure to look at Anne, whose hand the Queen has never taken to her belly, not this time, and not before. They were never on such easy terms.
From the Princess of Denmark to the Princess of Orange
The Cockpit, March 14 1688
I have now very little to say, however would not miss writing by this bearer by whom you told me I might say anything; and therefore knowing nothing else of any consequence I must tell you I can’t help thinking Mansell’s wife’s great belly is a little suspicious. It is true indeed she is very big, but she looks better than she ever did, which is not usual: for people when they are so far gone, for the most part look very ill. Besides, it is very odd that the Bath, that all the best doctors thought would do her a great deal of harm, should have so good effect so soon, as that she should prove with child from the first minute she and Mansell met, after her coming from thence. Her being so positive it w
ill be a son, and the principles of that religion being such that they will stick at nothing, be it never so wicked, if it will promote their interest, give some cause to fear there may be foul play intended. I will do all I can to find it out, if it be so: and if I should make any discovery, you shall be sure to have an account of it.
I am very glad you don’t disapprove of Lady Huntingdon, who I hope will ever deserve your good opinion whatever her Lord’s behaviour may be. I must confess to you that would have hindered me from taking her if I could have met with anybody else that had been tolerable, but none having offered themselves that were at all fit, I made what haste I could to engage myself to her, for fear of having either a Papist or a spy imposed upon me.
Bentley being to go in a very little time I shall say no more at present, but end this with thanks for your kindness in giving me an account of what is passed between you and M. d’Abbeville, which I shall be sure to keep a secret. I have not heard a word of it from anybody but yourself, and you may be sure I can never have an ill opinion of my dear sister whatever I should hear, but shall be ready if ever there be occasion to justify you and to give the world that character of which you deserve.
Anne
[PS. ] I think the spider would be a very good name for the noble marquess.
The Cockpit, March 20 1688
I hope you will instruct Bentley what you would have your friends to do if any alteration should come, as it is to be feared there will, especially if Mansell has a son, which I conclude he will, there being so much reason to believe it is a false belly. For, methinks, if it were not, there having been so many stories and jests made about it, she should, to convince the world, make either me or some of my friends feel her belly; but quite contrary, whenever one talks of her being with child, she looks as if she were afraid one should touch her. And whenever I happen to be in the room as she has been undressing, she has always gone into the next room to put on her smock. * These things give me so much just cause for suspicion that I believe when she is brought to bed, nobody will be convinced it is her child, except it prove a daughter. For my part, I declare I shall not, except I see the child and she parted.
Lord Rochester desires me to tell you he was much troubled to find by a letter he has lately from Mr Bentinck that you and the Prince of Orange are both so very angry with him, he never having done anything that he knows to deserve it, except his not waiting on you the last summer he was abroad, which he owns to be a very great fault and begs pardon for it and whatever else you think him guilty of, though he is very ignorant of any other crime. This I could not tell how to refuse him. Having spoken to me twice about it he seemed very much concerned, but it was in such a manner that looked rather as if it proceeded from the pitifulness of his spirit than anything else, though at the same time he assured me the concern he had was not out of hopes of making any interest for the time to come, but because he would not have you nor I think him so ungrateful to our mother’s memory as to do anything wilfully to displease her children.
I can’t end my letter without telling you that Roger’s wife plays the hypocrite more than ever, for she goes to St Martin’s, morning and afternoon (for there are not people enough to see her at Whitehall Chapel) and is half an hour before other people come and half an hour after everybody is gone, at her private devotions. She runs from church to church after the famous preachers, and keeps such a clatter with her devotions that it really turns one’s stomach. Sure there never was a couple as well matched as she and her good husband; for she is through-out in all her actions the greatest jade that ever was, so is he the subtillest workingest villain that is on the face of the earth.
The enclosed was to have gone by Mr Howe, but was left behind by mistake. I intended once to have sent it today by one Mr Sidney told me was a safe hand, but being sure this bearer is so, and going so soon I chose rather to keep it and send both letters together.
My dear sister, farewell; though I am not good at saying much for myself, yet believe my heart as sincere as it is possible, and assure yourself that my kindness for you and my constancy to my religion shall never end but with my life.
Anne
* This has happened often enough that it feels as good as true.
16 April 1688
he curtains have been pulled about Anne’s bed. She lies there in the rich, reddish darkness, listening to the women talking about her. They must think she sleeps still, for they do not even trouble themselves to whisper.
‘. . . could be it was a false conception,’ Lady Frescheville says, ‘there was so little to be seen, no-one could tell the sex this time.’
‘It was early,’ says Lady Churchill, back now after some months’ absence, and with a new daughter of her own. ‘They never can tell the sex when the miscarriage is so early.’
‘And she is still so ill,’ says Danvers. ‘She never was so ill before. You were not here to see it, Lady Churchill – in those two days, before she lost the babe, she had a raging fever, her joints swelled, she had to be cupped twice—’
At this as if in confirmation, the wounds on Anne’s back sting anew. ‘And her breath was short; she was complaining of all kinds of pain,’ says Lady Frescheville. ‘It was terrible – and very strange withal.’
‘It has been a sennight already since, and whatever ills she suffered before she would be sitting up by now, but this time she says she cannot.’
‘Perhaps she might be persuaded,’ Lady Churchill says. ‘I do not mean she lies there on purpose – only that her spirits cannot but be dreadfully low – she needs some heart put into her.’
‘The King was here again yesterday, Lady Churchill,’ says another voice – Lady Huntingdon.
‘Forgive me for saying so, Lady Huntingdon, but I cannot suppose that helped.’
Lady Huntingdon does not reply, though her discomfort is perfectly audible. Anne summons up as much strength as she has, and puts it into her voice.
‘Lady Churchill?’ she asks, sounding like a child. ‘Is that Lady Churchill? Has she come from St Albans?’
The curtains open, revealing the prayed-for face.
‘Yes, it is I, Your Highness. Forgive me for not having made my compliment – I thought you were asleep.’
‘It is you. I thought perhaps I only imagined it – I have wished for you a thousand times – if you only knew—’
‘Here, take my handkerchief.’ Lady Churchill closes the curtains again. Then she shoos the other women out, opens the curtains, rearranges Anne’s pillows, and helps her to sit up. She does not waste any time asking.
‘There. Your Highness is sitting up. Do you feel any the worse for it?’
‘No, thank you, and very much the better for seeing you. You look very well. What of your new girl – how does she go on?’
‘She goes on extremely well, thank you, and so I am at your service – wholly.’ She hands Anne a second handkerchief. When Anne can speak again, she tells Lady Churchill that she heard what Lady Frescheville said. ‘Then you heard I disagree with her. The day I pay any heed to Charlotte Frescheville is the day you’ll know my wits have gone a-begging.’
‘I know you dislike her, but she is not a bad sort. She does what I ask; she never keeps me waiting.’
‘Oh she is reliable enough, I suppose – like a woman’s months. No need to listen to her though.’
‘She will not be the only one saying what she said.’
‘No, she is not.’
‘It was thinking that – about what people were saying – that made me want to stay a-bed so long—’
‘I know.’
‘—and I cannot help but call to mind what has been said of the Queen – what I have said myself – and I wonder if this is my chastisement for it.’ ‘But you have done nothing wrong, Your Highness.’ ‘But—’ ‘Nothing, you have waited on Her Majesty, you have paid her all due respect. What more could you do, in su
ch circumstances?’
‘I could have refrained from speaking against her and the King.’
Lady Churchill leans in, and whispers.
‘So are you saying that you are so remorseful, it has changed your opinion of them?’
‘No! No, not all. When the King visited, I could not even look at him.’
‘What did he say? Did he bring a priest again?’
‘No, thank God, and he said nothing to make me uncomfortable. But I knew he hoped this extremity might turn me Catholic – I could feel him wishing it.’
‘I do not think any extremity could bring that about, Madam.’
‘No . . . I am so dreadfully sorry, but I think I must lie down again . . .’
‘Of course, Your Highness, but I believe you need nourishment too – I will have some broth fetched in a moment, and those women of yours will be scratching at the door – before they do,’ and she whispers again, ‘I must ask, has the Prince told you anything of the comings and goings here, while you were sick?’
‘Comings and goings . . . he has mentioned some emissary from Holland . . . and he has had a visit from Bishop Compton, messages from Lord Lumley . . . but there are always messages, always visitors – what of it?’
‘My Lord has not said anything to me, but I think – I think, just between the two of us, that there are fewer and fewer left who are not quite out of patience with the King – and I reckon the Prince of Orange is of their mind . . . And now you must lie down again if you need it, and I will get that broth fetched.’
Anne in Bath
It is a blessing indeed that the Prince of Orange has made his mind up to come, for it seems to Anne that God hardens her father’s heart a little more each day. At the end of the month, as she endeavours to recover from a bout of colic which has put her flat on her back again, the King makes another Declaration of Indulgence, and orders it to be read in every church. It is plain that the prospect of a son to bring up in his own religion has made him the more determined in his purpose, and less tolerant of opposition. Anne cannot bear the thought of dining with him while he acts like this, or of dressing the Queen while her belly – her supposed belly – carries on growing, and her consequence with it. She does not want to leave her chamber and return to Court only to witness the Queen’s triumph, and to be met everywhere with mockery and pity. She needs to recover her strength in peace, and Tunbridge Wells is not far enough away – she must go to Bath.
A Want of Kindness Page 19
