Anne has no reason not to trust the word of Bishop Compton – and she must trust him; she depends on him more than she ever did, for now they are plotting together, and it will be the Bishop’s task to escort her and Lady Churchill safely out of London, if That Time Comes. While Anne and George sit quietly in Tunbridge Wells, out of the way, Compton and Lord Churchill are busy on their behalf, and they have ensured good support for her cause: the Duke of Ormonde is with them, and Lord Scarsdale, and Colonel Berkeley, her Master of the Horse; her uncle Clarendon’s son, Lord Cornbury, will come in on their side, along with another of Anne’s cousins, the Duke of Grafton, who is the late King’s son. And should her resolve ever weaken, another man of the Church, Dean Tillotson, is with her in Tunbridge Wells to help her shore it up again. It is Anne’s opinion that he preaches the Gospel better than any man alive.
The sermon he preaches before her at Tunbridge Wells is as fine an example of his work as she has ever heard. He takes as his text the Parable of the Ten Virgins, who were to meet the bridegroom and escort him to the marriage, lighting the way with their lamps; five were wise, and took oil in their vessels with their lamps; five were foolish, and kept no oil in reserve, so that when the bridegroom came, late and all of a sudden, they had no oil left to keep their lamps alight, and the wise virgins had no surplus to share with them, and so because they were unprepared they were late, and because they were late the door was shut in their faces – and so will the unprepared be denied admittance to the Kingdom of Heaven.
The good Christian is like to a wise virgin, who keeps herself in a state of readiness for that death and judgement which may come at any moment, and the only way to do this is by constant vigilance, the thwarting of her vicious inclinations, the curing of her evil and corrupt affections, the due care and government of her unruly appetites and passions, the sincere endeavour and constant practice of all holiness and virtue in her life. This is the hard way, the right way. The Catholics, who seek to do this the easy way, through the external and little observances, superstitious practices, and insolent attempts to bargain with God, are like to foolish virgins. They believe that grace, like oil, can be transferred from one soul to another: they are wrong – we must all prepare ourselves, or suffer the proper consequences. And by the way, in denying the possibility of salvation to anyone who does not follow the Bishop of Rome, they demonstrate that their Church is a most unchristian one, and founded on schism.
‘For God’s sake,’ he says, ‘since in this hour of temptation, when our religion is in apparent hazard, we pretend to love it to that degree to be contented to part with anything for it—’
(Her liberty? Her life? Her father?)
‘Let us resolve to practise it; and to testify our love to it in the same way that our Saviour would have us to show our love to Him, by keeping his Commandments.’
An infelicitous phrase, that last one – Anne must remember to ask the Dean about how she is to honour her father – but she can do that later; for now, her heart is full, so she will gird up the loins of her mind, summon all her forces, and put on the whole Armour of God.
Anne’s Uncle Clarendon
Lord, I find I cannot sleep this night, so I had better pray instead. It is very uneasy to me to be telling lies, and I cannot say that it was a good thing I did, to put it about that I am with child, when I am quite certain I am not – but believe me when I say that in telling this one great untruth, and saying that I dare not stir from home lest I miscarry, I am sure to prevent the telling of a thousand others. When I waited on the King and Queen at Windsor, I had to dissemble so that I thought I should get ill of it. I had the King on one hand – now that it is plain to him that the Prince of Orange must come soon, he must talk for hours and hours together of that and nothing else, and all the time thinking that we are the two of us of the same mind – how he can think this of me I do not know, but then he has never had eyes to see what he will not see. And on the other hand the Queen, all reproachful because I had not visited her for weeks before, and complaining that Mary does not ask how the child does in her letters, and telling me how much better he has gone on since they found him the wet-nurse at Richmond, and being sure I must be thankful too . . . I hope, Lord, you will forgive me, if I say that I would sooner jump out the window than face them every day . . .
And then if it had not been for the tale of my being with child I do not know what I would have done when the King summoned me to swear before the Council that I knew the Queen to be breeding. I could hardly swear about the birth like all the others, since I was not there, which is a thing that lately I am heartily glad of. I will own it was out of kindness that the King said I should not be summoned if it would be only to save one child at the expense of another – but he still would not quite spare me from being caught up in the business. I must confess it was the greatest mortification imaginable to have the whole Privy Council on my doorstep with the supposed evidence, and I am at the best of times so tongue-tied, so I know I can only thank you for putting the words in my mouth to tell them I have so much duty to the King, that his word must be more to me than all the depositions.
I did hope to satisfy him with that, but now he has sent me his own copy of the Prince of Orange’s Declaration, and he desires me I am sure to declare outright that I oppose it, but that would be a lie too far for me. Still I can hardly prevent my father from visiting me here and expressing concern about my condition, and I must own I do pity him a little: he is now endeavouring too late to appease the people, sacking Catholics and appointing Protestants, but he can satisfy no-one of his sincerity in this – and I say this even though he has dismissed Sunderland, whose wife as it turns out has been writing all along to her old lover Sidney and the words in the invitation to the Prince were Sidney’s own I’m told. So it is plain she has been plotting against the King and Queen and sending intelligence to the other party – I have always said of her that she is a false woman and now it is proved, but it seems we have been of the same opinion in some matters all this time. I do not know what I am supposed to think of her now, but I cannot like her . . .
I beg you send a wind to blow the Prince and his ships into an English harbour soon, for I am so full of apprehension every day I wonder that I do not burst . . . and in the meantime give me strength not to give myself away to my uncle Clarendon, who is here almost every day, putting a thousand questions to me to find out what I know and where I stand and if I lie. And then he must needs press me to speak to the King, and this when he knows the King does not love I should meddle in anything, and even if that were not the case the Papists would not let him veer from the path they have set him on. With all of this my uncle does make me so ill at ease in my own chamber I could almost wish I had gone to the wretched meeting after all . . . I do not understand why he should be so loyal to the King, when he has been so humiliated. I have truly been quite sorry for my uncle . . . I pray you might open his eyes, and show him what is the right course in this matter: he is I think as good a Protestant as any of us.
I must confess I do not know what my brother Orange means to do once he has arrived, but I have no reason to think it will not be all to the good, and then I might be my true and honest self again.
His Majesty Bleeds at the Nose
One day in early November, Lady Churchill comes into Anne’s closet to tell her that their prayers have been answered: an obliging Protestant wind has blown the Prince of Orange and his troops all the way to Torbay; they are camped at Exeter. The King has responded by raising Lord Churchill to the position of Lieutenant General and has sent him and the rest of the army to Salisbury. Sarah talks calmly enough about this, but when she helps Anne on with her clothes, her hands are shaking. Anne is privately glad that her own husband is at Whitehall still, though she wishes that the King would go, and take her uncle Clarendon with him: he is at the Cockpit again, trying to persuade her to remonstrate with the King, even though it is too late, and would never h
ave done any good, and even if it would have done – and this is what of all things she cannot say – she never wished to. She never knows what to say to him on the subject, and he never changes it—
—at least until Lord Cornbury becomes the first officer to defect to the Prince of Orange, and then Anne can comfort him with the notion that there is at least nothing exceptional in his child’s disloyalty: as people in general are so apprehensive of Popery, it will surely not be too long before many more of the army do the same. She does not tell him that the Prince of Orange has said as much to her in a letter, and that is why she is so sure.
A few days later, the King takes leave of her. He begs her have a care of herself, and to try and comfort the Queen, if she can, if her condition will allow it; he seems exhausted, anxious, grey-faced, old. She feels a kind of revulsion for him, half-fearful, half-contemptuous. Now poor George will have to bear him company all the way to Salisbury – she can only hope that he will find wine enough to help him tolerate it.
As soon as they are safely gone, she replies to the Prince of Orange:
Having on all occasions given you and my sister all imaginable assurances of the great friendship and kindness I have for you both, I hope it is not necessary for me to repeat anything of that kind, and on the subject you have now written to me I shall not trouble you with many compliments, only in short assure you that you have my wishes for your good success in this so just an undertaking, and I hope the Prince will soon be with you to let you see his readiness to join with you, who I am sure will do you all the service that lies in his power. He went yesterday with the King towards Salisbury, intending to go from there to you as soon as his friends thought it proper. I am not yet certain if I shall continue here or remove into the City; that shall depend on the advice my friends will give me, but wherever I am I shall be ready to show you how much I am your humble servant.
It is the King’s nose that decides the matter. Salisbury does not at all agree with it: it bleeds after he arrives; when he receives news of the risings in the North of England, it bleeds again. He loses heart, and starts back for London with his army. The next day Lord Churchill defects, and the Duke of Grafton, and Colonel Berkeley. Orders arrive for guards to be placed at Lady Churchill’s lodgings, but they are none too strict in their work, thank God, and make no attempt to stop her visiting Anne, or Mrs Berkeley, or anyone else. When further orders come, for Lady Churchill and Mrs Berkeley to be taken into custody, Anne appeals to the Lord Chamberlain, who, for her sake, agrees to do nothing about it yet. By the time the news of George’s defection arrives, along with an order for the Queen to have Anne secured in her lodgings, Sarah has already contrived to visit Bishop Compton and they have made the necessary plans. There are guards waiting outside the Cockpit, and it is time for Anne to make use of the new backstairs.
Lady Churchill, has, with great patience and kindness, helped her compose a letter to the Queen, to be found after she is gone:
Madam.
I beg your pardon if I am so deeply affected with the surprising news of the Prince’s being gone, as not to be able to see you, but to leave this paper to express my humble duty to the King and yourself; and to let you know that I am gone to absent myself to avoid the King’s displeasures which I am not able to bear, either against the Prince or myself. And I shall stay at so great a distance as not to return before I hear the happy news of a reconcilement: and, as I am confident the Prince did not leave the King with any other design than to use all possible means for his preservation, so I hope you will do me the justice to believe that I am uncapable of following him for any other end. Never was anyone in such an unhappy condition, so divided between duty and affection to a father and a husband; and therefore I know not what I must do, but to follow one and preserve the other. I see the general feeling of the nobility and gentry who avow to have no other end than to prevail with the King to secure their religion, which they saw so much in danger by the violent counsels of the priests; who to promote their own religion, did not care to what dangers they exposed the King. I am fully persuaded that the Prince of Orange designs the King’s safety and preservation, and hope all things may be composed without more bloodshed, by the calling a Parliament.
God grant a happy end to these troubles, that the King’s reign may be prosperous, and that I may shortly meet you in perfect peace and safety; till when, let me beg of you to continue the same favourable opinion that you have hitherto had of your most obedient daughter and servant.
That night, when the clock strikes one, unhappy Anne, divided between duty and affection, in pursuit of the King’s safety and preservation, the security of the English religion, the avoidance of bloodshed, reconcilement and a happy end to present troubles, and carrying her best pair of shoes so as not to wake Danvers – sleeping all unawares in the ante-room – tiptoes from her chamber into the little room where she has her close-stool, and from there steps onto the backstairs.
As she emerges onto them, everything strikes her at once: the stairs are shabby and need painting; it is raining heavily; two ladies in hoods are waiting at the foot. They do not dare speak, of course, but as she reaches them, they put their hoods back for a moment and she sees that they are indeed, thank God, Lady Churchill and Mrs Berkeley. Anne puts her shoes on, her silk-lined slippers with the red heels.
Lady Churchill whispers that, with all due respect, they were a bad choice and the mud will ruin them, Mrs Berkeley covers Anne up in a heavy cloak and hood, and the three of them set off together into the sodden dark.
When they have taken their first few squelching steps, a gentleman comes forward to meet them: Lord Dorset, First Lord of the Bedchamber to the late King, here to assist at the ruin of the present one. He makes a practised bow, and whispers that there is a Hackney coach waiting; he will escort them to it. The rain falls harder; the mud grows stickier. Anne’s feet sink in deeper with every step, and the squelching noises grow louder and more ridiculous. Anne cannot hold her laughter in anymore: it whoops out of her, at a dangerous volume, so that her companions gather round her sssshhhing. It is too late, though: now she has lost a shoe – her beautiful shoe! – in the mud. Lady Churchill retrieves it, tutting, while Lord Dorset whips off one of his long gloves and gently pulls it over her stockinged royal foot. Then she takes hold of his arm and hops, whoops, hops the rest of the way to the coach.
They are taken to Bishop Compton’s lodgings, where they eat. Sarah holds up half the muddy shoe in one hand and the snapped-off muddy heel in the other, so that Anne can laugh even more at it. Then the ladies change into the travelling clothes that Lady Churchill has had discreetly delivered there. The Bishop dresses himself up as a soldier, complete with jackboots and broadsword, and looks more comfortable in that than he ever has in his episcopal robes; Anne is lifted onto his horse behind him, and then for the rest of the night and part of the morning, she rides pillion behind her old tutor, until they reach Waltham Forest, and Lord Dorset’s house. From there they travel, in stages, to Nottingham.
Finally, Anne can give up the role of Dutiful Daughter, the one it has oppressed her so much to have to play, and she is giddy with relief. Her spirits are so high that by the time they reach Nottingham they have made her feverish, and she has to take to her bed for a few days. She has Dr Radcliffe sent for, but he will not come: instead, he sends a message to say that he will not come to attend a rebel Princess. It sobers Anne up a little, to be rebuked like that – as Lady Churchill says, Radcliffe is a man so fitted by nature for medicine, that he has given his patient physick without even meaning to.
When she leaves her chamber, she finds a house filled with noblemen, gentlemen, yeomen and militia. They are, for the most part, gallant, excitable, and intoxicatingly at her service. They are greatly moved to hear of her sufferings, her courage, her daring escape; she is, for once in her life, almost eloquent, and very comely with it. They are more than delighted to follow her to Leicester, gather
ing more troops as they go. The good, common, Protestant people line the roads and cheer her. She is almost Good Queen Bess.
Almost. She is taken to task again in Leicester, in front of Bishop Compton and the Earl of Devonshire and everyone. She has had such a good notion: Queen Elizabeth, she is sure, in her time, had given her blessing to a league for defending the monarch against malicious Papists – why not form one to defend the Prince of Orange? Her new followers are very keen. Bishop Compton is prepared to consider it, and to draw up the articles of association. A meeting is called at an inn. It is very well attended, and Anne’s hopes are high – but then the Earl of Chesterfield stands up to speak. He has known Anne since childhood, and has already reminded her several times that he has served her father, and hinted that, under such circumstances, and in his opinion, it might well become Her Highness to look a little less pleased with herself.
He is here, he says, to protect the Princess, but he does not care to be summoned to public conferences without having first been consulted privately – regarding the matter in hand, if he had been so consulted, he would have refused to have anything to do with it. He is for the Prince of Orange, but he will not join any murder, and he is sure that the Prince – whom he has known for many years – would never approve of one. And that is that. Anne suffers through a few tetric days, but then the extraordinary messages start to come: the Prince of Orange has entered London; the Queen and her baby have fled to France; her father has fled, and his army have been disbanded. When she is told of this, the whole room hushes about her, and she knows they are all watching her now, waiting to see how she deports herself, if it is fitting – but in this moment, though she suspects she ought not, she finds she can do nothing at all but smile. Feeling utterly at a loss, and having eaten already, she calls for cards.
A Want of Kindness Page 21
