Part IV
There’s Mary the daughter,
There’s Willy the cheater,
There’s Geordie the drinker,
There’s Annie the eater.
– Jacobite rhyme
The Throne is Vacant
It is January 1689, and Anne could almost think that nothing has changed: here she is back at home in the Cockpit, with another growing belly, being scolded by her uncle Clarendon.
‘. . . and I was disappointed to hear of your conduct when the news was brought you – most disappointed. I am told that when it would have most become you to show some remorse or some pity at least, instead you continued merry as ever – and called for cards! Cards, Madam!’
‘What would you have had me do, Sir? It has never been easy to me to dissemble.’
‘Is that so? Then what were you doing all these months past?’
‘I did only what I thought was best.’
‘And you did not think it best to tell me what your design was?’
Anne cannot think of an answer.
‘And so now you are gone silent again – that was ever your refuge, wasn’t it? With your father, with the Queen – and now with your own uncle. You have hurt us, Anne – the King more than anybody. I believe it was your defection that took the heart out of him – and I am not the only one who thinks so. Did you have no thought for his sufferings, that day, when you smiled and you called for your cards?’
‘I admit I was glad that day – but it was only that there was so little bloodshed. The King has fled, but he is alive; my sister’s husband and mine, are unharmed. Should I not be grateful for that, at least?’
‘So you have what you wanted: your father is defeated, your brother Orange is come. What do you suppose will happen now?’
‘Would you care for a comfit, Sir?’
‘No, I would not – I desire an answer.’
Anne would like a comfit. She takes one and crunches it as slowly as she can, looking at the floor as she does so. She feels very stupid, and ten years old.
‘I understood – I was assured that – I was assured . . .’
‘You were assured – of what?’
‘. . . that the Prince was coming here in defence of the Protestant religion, and the laws of England, which were in peril, and that when he came here there could be a free Parliament summoned – which is a thing we had not had for too long under the King.’
She looks at her uncle Clarendon: will he at last be satisfied?
No.
‘It is true that we have a Parliament, and now that the King has fled, they have decided to declare the throne vacant.’
‘I know that, Sir.’
‘Someone else must fill it.’
Anne thinks she knows the answer. For as long as she can remember, she has drawn comfort from the succession, and from her place in it. Like the Lord’s Prayer, the catechism, or the rules of precedence at Court, it is a thing that sticks securely in her memory, ready to be brought out and rehearsed in times of strain:
Charles [deceased]
James
Mary
Anne
Anne’s unborn child
‘Mary,’ she says.
‘No – or at least not alone.’
And Anne, who has only just bitten into her second comfit, nearly chokes.
Anne’s Abdication
William, Anne, the Lords, the Commons and the People are in easy agreement about one matter: that there should be no more Papists on the English throne, by law, ever again, and no Papist consorts either. James Stuart has broken laws, violated rights, attempted to extirpate the Protestant religion, prosecuted worthy prelates, obstructed Parliament, appropriated funds it had not granted, and kept an army without its consent. And since it has pleased Almighty God to make His Highness the Prince of Orange the Glorious Instrument of delivering the Kingdom from Popery and Arbitrary Power, it is clear that the Lord agrees too.
Other questions are less easily settled. The Lords cannot quite share the Commons’ enthusiasm for the declaration of a vacant throne – perhaps, they suggest, James should remain King, while his daughter and son-in-law exercise power as regents? The Commons will have none of this; neither will the rabble surging about the Parliament building, calling for the pair to be crowned. They will have William – that Glorious Instrument – and Mary, for the succession’s sake, and the Protestant religion, their English laws and their English liberties. And William will accept no power dependent on the will of a woman, so William must be crowned in his own right, and rule in both their names.
Distasteful as it is to Anne to find herself subject to her sister’s Dutch Caliban, she is prepared to consent to this. What she finds she cannot consent to is the proposal that the succession be re-arranged thus:
William and Mary
Mary for Life after William’s decease/
William for Life after Mary’s decease
The heirs of Mary’s body
In default of these, Anne
Anne’s heirs
In default of these, William’s heirs by a later wife Nobody has ever spoken to Anne of such a thing. It would be to the prejudice of herself and her children. She cannot, she will not consent to it.
Neither will George, and he tells several peers as much; Lord Clarendon makes Anne’s feelings known to a few more, and Lady Churchill makes herself busier on Anne’s behalf than either gentleman could ever manage. Her persistence is remarkable, her own belly no hindrance at all – but it is all in vain. On 6th February the House of Lords agree to the double-bottomed monarchy and to the new succession. Lady Churchill has a word with Dean Tillotson, and brings him to speak to her mistress.
‘There it is, Your Highness,’ he says. ‘The matter is decided. I would advise you as your friend to accept with good grace. I do not believe there is anything you could do now to alter it.’
‘But Dean, I do not understand it. Why does my sister put aside her rights like this?’
‘Is it truly so hard to understand? You are such a good wife yourself – would you expect your husband to live as his own wife’s subject?’
‘That would be against the natural order of things,’ says Lady Churchill, ‘would it not, Sir?’ She is addressing the Prince, who starts, swallows a mouthful of claret, and begs her pardon.
‘The Dean was saying, Sir, that no man could be expected to live as his own wife’s subject.’
‘No, I should have thought not . . .’ says the Prince. ‘You are speaking of the Prince of Orange? No, not he . . . what was it he said . . .?’
‘“I will not be my wife’s Gentleman Usher”,’ says Lady Churchill.
‘Oh yes, that was it – very good!’
Anne makes a furious little noise at the back of her throat. The spaniels sitting at her feet cower a little.
‘I beg your pardon, my dear, but I have to agree with the Dean: we must live with this settlement. And I am sure our interests won’t be forgotten. Did the Prince not wait on us as soon as we came back?’
‘That was no more than he ought to have done. And I cannot think that the gratitude he expressed was all that sincere!’
She is still angry, but it is now tempered with remorse at having frightened her dogs; she picks up the one closest to her and weeps quietly into its fur. The room watches her.
‘I simply do not understand it,’ she says at last.
‘As I said, Madam, your sister—’
‘No, Dean – not my sister – him. What does he want with the English throne?’
It is Lady Churchill who replies.
‘He is the ruler of a small country, Madam, with a great enemy. He requires English troops, English ships, English funds, and our alliances with—’
The Dean interrupts her: ‘And it is all for the good of the Protestant r
eligion, Your Highness.’
‘Very well then, very well – but Parliament to choose the King? That is in God’s gift, not Parliament’s.’
‘In principle, Your Highness, but, with the greatest respect to Your Person—’
This time Lady Churchill interrupts the Dean: ‘I would venture to say, events have proved that if a King of England – even an anointed King – should try to rule without their consent, he won’t be doing it for long.’
And What Is Even Worse . . .
. . . is that, since there can be from this time on no Catholics on the throne, in default of any heirs from Mary, William or Anne, the Crown of England must pass to the next Protestant along in the line of succession – and what with the lamentable habit the Stuarts have had of being or becoming or marrying Catholics, there is no Protestant nearer than Sophia, Electress of Hanover, and as she is very likely too old to outlive all three of them, the more plausible prospect is her son, George. That would be George of Hanover – short, fat George, of the dry lips and protuberant eyes, who can command not a word of English, and whose French is surely no better than Anne’s – depressing the throne of England with his graceless, German behind. No, it must not come to that.
Anne’s Sister
The cry has gone up at Greenwich. Anne, who can see nothing yet, gazes faithfully into the fog. She is listening out for the sound of oars moving through water, but hears only her brother-in-law, wheezing next to her. By the quickening of his breath, she knows that he has caught a glimpse of Mary; until this moment, Anne has never thought that he could be moved by anything, and despite herself, she is touched.
Mary’s delight at seeing her husband is less subtly expressed, but no less touching for that. A little comical too: Mary is wrapped in furs, and when she embraces William it looks for a moment as if he has been seized by a great, tearful bear. Then the Mary-bear lets him go and comes for Anne. She smells astonishingly sweet, and the pearls that dig into Anne’s cheek feel as big as quail’s eggs. Queenly pearls.
Then she stands back, and her eyes move straight down to Anne’s belly.
‘You look well, Sister,’ she says.
‘You too.’
They smile at each other; they embrace again; neither sister says I almost did not know you.
Lord Devonshire’s Leavings
O Lord I am ashamed and blush to lift up my face to thee; I am supposed to receive the Sacrament tomorrow morning, but as I have read over the Catalogue of Sins in The Whole Duty, I have found more and more which I must own, and I fear I could never achieve repentance enough to make myself fit to receive in so short a time – and when I try to repent, I find that my mind wanders and my heart is stubborn – I am afraid sometimes, when I cannot sleep, that it is my heart and not the late King’s that has been hardened all this time, and the thought fills me with such terror . . .
When I used my father as I did, I believed myself justified in it – I even rejoiced, and was chastised by others for it, and I own I resented their chastisement – I believed then that it was your Will that the King should be checked, and Providence that brought the Prince of Orange here – the King, I should say, to whom I now owe respect and obedience, and to my sister the Queen, as I once did to my father. But I am sorry to say, that if I ever had any certainty that my condition and that of the country and the Church should be bettered by their coming, I cannot find it in myself anymore.
If I hoped for gratitude from the people, I have not got it . . . Lady Churchill – the Countess of Marlborough, I should say – has shown me the verses written on me and my sister. They say we are like Lear’s daughters, or Tullia driving her chariot over the body of her sire, and one verse – I cannot get it out of my head, I could wish that such unpleasant things did not stick in there so:
To be but half a Hyde is a disgrace
From which no royal seed can purge its race.
Mixed with such mud the clearest streams must be,
Like Jordan’s sacred flood, lost in the Sodom Sea.
Ambition, folly, insolence and pride
Proves it too well you’re on the surer side.
Not that I can look to the Hydes for any comfort – my uncles have made non-jurors of themselves, that is to say they believe my father is still King in law, and so will not swear any oath to be loyal to William and Mary. There are many good men of the Church who agree with them, and that is a great hurt to me and to my sister. The Archbishop would not crown them. Now all these clerics must lose their places, and I am sorry to see it. Of all things I desired the good of the Church, and it is a great trouble to me to see it divided. I do not believe the new King cares for it any more than the old – he has had Parliament pass an Act so that Dissenters might hold office; I cannot think that is right. I cannot suppose that it is pleasing to you . . . It cannot be pleasing to any good Englishman to see all those Dutchmen taking English places, striding about as if they had bought and sold us, looking down their noses, calling their lodgings squalid and the Court noisome.
As for the Court, it is but another thing for which the King has no proper regard. He takes himself off to Hampton, pleading his health, snubbing the very people to whom he should be most grateful. He leaves my sister behind to smile and be gracious to everyone, when everyone knows already there is no profit for them in speaking to her alone: she will do nothing and grant nothing unless her husband says she might. To be sure she will do nothing for me . . .
It is the greatest sorrow to me, it is the poison in my soul that I fear must make me most unfit to receive your mercy, that so soon after her return there should be such a want of charity between the Queen and me. I do not understand it. When we dine together, the King can barely say a civil word to me or my husband – he does not scruple to hide his contempt for us – and yet she prattles on in that way of hers as if nothing were amiss. Certainly I would not expect her to rebuke the King before us, but she might well without fear say something in private, and I cannot help but think that if she does not, it can only be because she is secretly of the same mind as him about us – and I keep remembering how when we were children she never did think much of me, and how she was always trying to school me to make me better.
We are not children anymore. I have endured so much for her sake – I do believe I put myself in danger for them both – I let them put me out of the succession – and I am repaid with contempt. It is true that they gave me the Duchess of Portsmouth’s old lodgings, but when I asked for the rooms next to them, which I would need for my family, that the Duke of Devonshire had, and I said he might have the Cockpit in their place which I thought a very reasonable thing to suggest – no, a generous thing – but then my sister said only if the Duke agreed. Naturally I was compelled to tell her that in that case I would stay where I was and use the new lodgings for a nursery, for I could hardly be expected to take the Duke of Devonshire’s leavings. So I have only a paltry few rooms for a nursery: I did ask for Richmond, which everyone knows is most suitable for children, but no, I may not have that either – it is let to some of the Villiers family, who it seems are more to her than I am – and I cannot help noticing, by the by, that when I wait on her with my ladies, she would sooner talk to Mrs Berkeley than to me: it seems I have not wit enough for either of them.
Lady Marlborough, I thank heaven, still stands my friend. In the matter of the revenues due to the Prince and me, she gives me such good advice, is so solicitous for my interests, and it is at her suggestion that we have persuaded Parliament to take a hand in the matter – for, as Lady Marlborough told me herself, the King has said that he wonders how I could possibly spend 30, 000 pounds a year, let alone any more. When I find that he has granted me none of the estates that were the late King’s, I have every reason to suppose that if it were left to him and the Queen, the Prince and I should be burning rush lights and wearing nothing but wool and linen, while we watch them building new houses for themselv
es at Hampton Court and at Kensington, as if they did not have palaces enough.
I cannot talk to my sister. I cannot talk to her. We are scarcely ever alone together and when we are we know not what to say to each other: there are too many things that cannot be said. A few days after she was first in England I was in the Queen’s closet with her at Whitehall, she was unpacking her things, her porcelain, that blue-and-white Dutch ware – she has so much of it, I swear I have never seen so much! – and she took out a vase, a tall one with spouts all the way up it, for displaying tulips I suppose – but then she stopped, and said it had been a present from our father. I could say nothing to this, and she said nothing more; only she put it aside, and we did not look at each other, and I have not seen it in her closet since.
Even to think of my father puts me in terror, lest I should have to face him again. That he should have landed in Ireland on the day of the coronation seems such an ill omen – and then – oh, I can hardly bear to call it to mind – that morning, as I dressed, I received such a letter from him, and I know – though she will not speak of it – that my sister received a like one, for the Earl of Nottingham told me. So now we are both of us told, that the curses of an angry father will fall on us, as well as those of a God who commands obedience to parents.
I had Mrs Dawson with me when the letter came, so I asked her, again, if the Prince of Wales was indeed my brother and she said, yes he was the son of the late King and Queen, as surely as I am the daughter of the late Duchess, and this was only to speak what she knows, for she was the first person to hold us both in her arms.
Every time I see the King and Queen, I am reminded of what it is that I have done, and then I am afraid, I am beyond all expression afraid.
A Want of Kindness Page 22
