Peas
William and Mary, Anne and George are dining together at Hampton Court. George is drinking, placidly; William is eating, morosely; Mary is telling Anne of her plans to make the English people more serious in their devotions, and Anne is yearning, with all her heart, and with that peculiar intensity of a lady in her condition, for the dish of peas sitting on the table, just in front of the King. She is willing him to look up, so that she might catch his eye and ask for the dish to be passed to her, but he is staring steadfastly at his plate, and when he speaks, speaks only to his old friend Bentinck, Earl of Portland, who stands behind him.
‘It has pained me very much to see how lightly religion is taken at Court,’ says Mary. ‘I am very serious in my religion,’ says Anne, without taking her eyes off the peas.
‘Of course I was not speaking of you, sister, but I have noticed, since my return, how seldom one sees the Court ladies at Chapel, and when they do attend, how they dress as if they were at a theatre, and whisper behind their fans, and try to catch the eye of the preacher if they think him handsome – and do the like with other gentlemen too.’
‘I know,’ says Anne, ‘but what can you do about it?’
‘Set them a good example. They have lacked one for too long; they have grown used to monarchs who either smile at their levity, or pray elsewhere.’
‘We can both do that. I have always attended very publicly, since I was married.’
William reaches for the dish of peas.
‘I am so glad we are of a mind in this, Anne. I was used to live so quietly in Holland, reading and writing – I was used to pray four times a day, and I miss it—’
Anne can hardly breathe for wondering what he will do. Now would be the time to ask, but she cannot do it.
‘—at least since I have been back here at Hampton, I have been able to compose some new prayers, and also some pious—’
William takes up his fork, begins to shovel the peas into his mouth.
‘—ejaculations . . . Anne?’
A horrific scene is unfolding at the head of the table, and Anne cannot withdraw her gaze from it. She knows that Mary has taken it in, and understood, and will not say anything to it.
‘Also since I have been here I have had so many thoughts about the gardens, I am in great hopes that we can make them as lovely as Het Loo – perhaps finer. I have Sir Christopher Wren coming to speak to me, and when he does I shall take a walk with him – you would be welcome to join us – Anne?’
It is too late. William has eaten all the peas, and Anne has turned an unhappy, furious shade of red. He will have everything, this Dutch Abortion. It is quite clear that he will not willingly yield her a single pea or a single shilling, and that Mary will say nothing to it. They have no real kindness for her, so there is no point in appealing to it.
So Anne continues to pay all imaginable respect to the King and Queen, waits on her sister every day, and has the matter of her revenue raised in Parliament. She says nothing of it to her sister; perhaps they might contrive just to knot fringes together and leave the unpleasant business to others – they are neither of them fitted for it. Then one evening Mary takes her to one side.
‘These proceedings in Parliament,’ she hisses. ‘What is the meaning of them?’
Mary looks especially tall when angry, but all the same Anne has never been afraid of her and the crown makes no difference.
‘I heard my friends had a mind to make me some settlement,’ she says.
‘Pray what friends have you but the King and me?’
Mary almost spits; Anne stands her ground. Call this a Man if you must, Sister, but I have made up my mind, and I will not change it: Tree it is; Tree, Tree, Tree . . .
Anne is Delivered in State
Anne wakes abruptly, soaking wet, and suddenly in pain, as if her travail has started midway through this time. As soon as she is able to speak, she calls for Danvers. There is a scuffle outside the room, of several people rising and whispering, grabbing shoes and candlesticks, opening doors, and then her bed-curtains are wrenched open and it is Danvers and Farthing, jostling for a glimpse of their mistress, and talking together.
‘Have the Queen fetched,’ she tells them, ‘it is time.’
She hopes there is no more she need say, for she cannot speak again. When the pain releases her, Danvers tells her that a State Room is being prepared; the Queen will be there, and they will take Anne presently.
‘A State Room? Oh yes – oh Lord, I wish I did not have to.’
But it must be a State Room. The whole of Hampton Court will be rousing itself around them: the King, the Court Officers, the Officers of State; this birth must have its proper audience. And there will be no Sarah for this performance, to inspire her, to steady her nerves, for Lady Marlborough is herself confined, and somewhere else. She has never been more grateful for Danvers and Farthing, supporting her as she makes her way across the Palace, stumbling from pain to pain.
Mary is already there, in a loose manteau, her hair half-dressed; she has a book in her hands.
‘Dear Sister, I came as soon as I could.’ She holds up the book. ‘I have found out some pray—’ She stops mid-word, goes utterly still: she has never seen Anne in the midst of travail before.
Now Sister, Anne thinks, let me tell you something.
When the throw has spent itself, she says, ‘Yes, I am in pain, but it is no worse than usual, and I believe it will not be long this time.’
Mary’s eyes are full of tears. ‘How women suffer . . . may we at least make good use of it, that it might bring us closer to God.’
‘That is well said, Your Majesty,’ says Danvers, as she buttons a waistcoat over Anne’s smock. ‘Now Her Highness must lie down. The midwife must examine her.’ She takes one of Anne’s arms; Mary, quite unnecessarily, takes the other, and together they lead her to the bed.
The midwife is a brisk, local woman, smaller than Mrs Wilkes but no less commanding. She confirms what Anne already knows: that it will not be long.
‘Need we do anymore now?’ Mary asks. ‘Will you stay on the bed, Anne?’
‘No, Sister, I prefer to walk the room.’
‘Then I will keep pace with you.’
It is no use to Anne, to have the Queen walking next to her, asking how she does, offering her pious reflections, but Mary seems to derive some good from it, and Anne cannot find it in her heart to begrudge her. She indulges Mary in this way until the throws start pushing downward, and it is time to stop walking, grab a bedpost and wonder at how great a noise comes out of her without her willing it at all. The midwife says something to her – heaven knows what – and then her hands are prised off the bedpost and four or maybe six arms are hauling her onto the bed.
Now the doors of the State Room are flung open and the King and Court surge through them. George runs to the bedside, takes hold of her shoulders. The King is saying something to the midwife.
‘Presently, Your Majesty,’ she says. ‘I see the head – bear down, Your Highness, bear down!’
Anne closes her eyes tight. She has no desire to see the King’s face at any time, and especially not at this one. She does what she is told; she bears down; she lets out a scream that silences the room and into that silence a baby cries.
‘A boy,’ the King says. ‘Very good.’
The Noise of Foreign Wars
The boy is christened William, after the King and created Duke of Gloucester. The Court pronounces him a ‘brave, lively-like boy’, but it seems the infant himself disagrees, because for the first few days he will not feed. While Anne prays, and tries to steel herself for the worst, Mrs Berkeley, Farthing and Danvers decide between them that the wet-nurse’s nipples are too large, and have her sacked. Mrs Wanley is brought in to replace her, with happy results. Anne gives thanks, the Court rejoices, and Master Purcell, organist at the Chapel Royal, com
poses an ode in celebration of His Highness’s birth.
The piece is called The noise of foreign wars. There is very little mention of the child in it, but a great deal about jealousies and fears, wrangles, complaints, discord, battalions and the like. Still, the harpsichord part is very pretty, and Anne means to learn it when she can. She will welcome the distraction if and when George goes to Ireland with the King, there to meet her father in the field.
That could not truly be called a foreign war, and neither could the rebellions in Scotland, but there can be no denying that, since the Crown of England and the Stadtholdership of the United Provinces have been brought together in the person of the King, there can be no easy distinction drawn between what is England’s business and what is Holland’s. First the United Provinces declared war on France; then England signed a Treaty with the United Provinces, over the fitting out of fleets; then England declared war on France. Now Anne’s father has landed in Ireland, to fight, with French assistance, for his old Crown.
And then, in the midst of all this, it looks very likely that there will be a war between Denmark and Sweden. William steps in: the United Provinces are now allied with the Empire against France, and he cannot allow the Emperor to be distracted by a war on his northern borders. He succeeds in negotiating a settlement, which includes, among other terms, an undertaking that the lands of George, Prince of Denmark will be surrendered to Sweden; the Prince will of course be compensated for the revenues lost. George signs the release at once: he can desire no better security, he says, than the assurances His Majesty has given him.
Mrs Pack
What is it God requires of Anne? What does she have to do to keep her babies from the fire? She has appointed Mrs Wanley wet-nurse, she has had the family removed to Craven House, where they might all benefit from the good air of the Kensington gravel pits, she has secured the best lodgings at Whitehall for his nursery, she has given thanks – has she not always given thanks? – and for the last few weeks he has thrived, but now here is Mrs Wanley to wait on her in her chamber again, distressed as she was on that most terrible of days, and weeping for her newest charge.
‘Such a strong convulsion fit, Your Highness – I do not think I have ever seen one so bad – and he is listless now, he will not suck, he will scarcely even cry.’
When Anne reaches the nursery, she finds her son in the arms of a weeping rocker, and fitting again. She takes the child up herself, and has the doctor sent for. It takes an age before Dr Radcliffe can be found, and by the time he arrives William has suffered – Anne keeps count – two more convulsions.
‘They are almost continuous,’ she says. ‘What is the cause of them, doctor? What can you do?’ ‘I can only answer one question at a time, Madam. As to the cause: I do not know – he is feverish – it may be measles, or the smallpox – do not take on, I did not say it was, only that it might be, and I was about to add, that I do not think it either. The case does not look good, I am afraid, but you must try a change of milk – that would be your best chance – the only chance, I should think.’
Mrs Wanley’s face crumples, and she runs from the nursery.
‘Oh dear,’ says Mrs Berkeley, ‘there was no need for that: she will keep her place as bedchamber woman.’
‘Find another wet-nurse,’ the doctor says. ‘Any other physician will say the same.’
For the next few days, Craven House is full of doctors concurring with Radcliffe, and nursing mothers, whose own babies must be no older than one month, competing for the chance to provide the better milk the doctors recommend. At first, a Mrs Ogle, the wife of one of the Prince’s footmen, seems the ideal candidate, but she has scarcely been installed before Mrs Berkeley is looking at her askance. She has a dishonest air about her, this Mrs Ogle, and sure enough, when Mrs Berkeley checks the parish register, it turns out that her milk is nowhere near as fresh as she has claimed. And so the Duke, who has not ceased fitting, is dragged away from yet another breast.
New candidates are called in, and a notice sent out, offering a reward to anyone who can discover a remedy. The Prince walks about the rooms of Craven House, casting his eye over the countrywomen who line the walls in their dozens, searching for whatever it could be in this one’s face or that one’s figure that might signify the capacity to supply exceptional nourishment. He catches sight of one particular woman. She is a big lass, vigorous-looking, who stares back at him in a way that he ought to find insolent.
‘You there – what is your name?’
‘I am Mrs Pack, of Kingston Wick. Sir.’
‘Mrs Pack. Very good. Now go to the nursery and feed my son.’
She does as she is told. Within the day, the baby’s fever has gone and his convulsions have ceased. Mrs Pack is not a prepossessing woman; she is plain, and dirty; her manners are coarse, and she is every bit as insolent as she appears – she is a Quaker, as it happens, and they are quite notorious for it. Nobody in the household likes her, but she is the instrument of God’s mercy, so she must have whatever she desires to eat and drink and never be crossed. Fear the Lord, fear Mrs Pack.
Persons Not At Ease
With her son out of danger, Anne returns to London, where she employs the better part of her energy and ingenuity in finding ways to avoid being alone with Mary. The Queen herself makes this a little easier than it might have been, by never staying too long in the same place: when she is not at Whitehall, she is at Hampton Court or at Kensington, outpacing Sir Christopher on long walks through the grounds, checking the progress of the new buildings, finding reasons to put off the hour when she must retire to Holland House, where she and the King are temporarily but most inconveniently housed.
When Anne and Mary find themselves obliged to talk to each other, the building works provide a safe topic of conversation, ready for them to take up when Mary has finished asking after the Duke. He goes on very well now; he takes the air every day; she has received another good report of him. Well, that is good to know. It is. Good.
Mary’s new buildings do not always go on so well as Anne’s son. A workman is killed when the roof falls in at Kensington; not long afterwards two carpenters working at Hampton Court are crushed beneath a collapsing wall. According to Mrs Berkeley, the only lady at Court still on intimate terms with both sisters, Mary blames herself.
‘I have heard her say she has been too impatient,’ says Mrs Berkeley, ‘she has demanded too much of the workers, and now she is humbled for it – she sees the hand of God in this.’
Anne all but snorts into her tea cup. ‘How very like my sister: some other poor wretched woman loses a husband, and she says the chastisement is meant for her. I can believe she thought the same when my child was ill.’
‘And she rejoiced to see him well again,’ says Mrs Berkeley. ‘Should she not be concerned about her own sister’s child?’
‘That was not what Her Highness meant,’ says Lady Marlborough. ‘It is only that the Queen—’
‘Only that the Queen what, Lady Marlborough?’
Lady Marlborough drums her fingers on the tea table. ‘In the matter of Her Highness’s revenue—’
‘Oh Lady Marlborough, please! Have you not exhausted the subject?’
‘No, because the subject is far from being exhausted.’
‘Mrs Berkeley, I must say I am so grateful to Lady Marlborough – if it were not for her efforts, her zeal on my behalf, I am sure the matter had been dropped. That it is now to be brought before Parliament is all owing to her work. If only certain others possessed that sincere concern for my interests that she has . . .’
‘Have you a handkerchief, Your Highness – if not, I shall – ah, you do. If you refer to the Queen, I can tell you how truly grieved she is that there should be a breach between you. I have often heard her express the greatest kindness and affection for her dear sister.’
‘But when she sees me, she can barely speak to me.’
‘But can you blame Her Highness, Mrs Berkeley? The Queen may speak of this great kindness and affection, but do we see the tokens of it?’
‘The Queen longs for kindness from her sister every bit as much as Your Highness longs for kindness from the Queen.’
‘But what has Her Highness done, pray, that is so unkind?’
‘For her own part, nothing, of course, but – and I believe I would be at fault if I did not say this, Your Highness – it could be said – by some – it is being said – it could well appear to some that Her Highness makes parties against her own sister and brother-in-law, and in doing so, provides ample opportunity for those who might seek to make a property of her, to oppose the King and Queen, and promote certain other interests.’
‘But I only want what is mine by right!’ Anne cries. ‘Must I be dependent on the King and Queen for every penny? Must I be impoverished?’
‘Of course not, Your Highness. We will see what Parliament decides.’
‘And until then, Lady Marlborough, may we please talk of something else?’
The matter comes before Parliament, and is debated with some heat. There are Members who think Anne’s request unseasonable: there are wars to be fought, taxes are high, and the King’s own revenue not yet settled. Others desire to know why it is not seasonable that the Prince and Princess, and the Duke of Gloucester should have meat, drink and clothes.
Another argument is put to the House, concerning the possible danger inherent in making the heir to the throne financially independent of its occupier. The House is reminded that when Charles V, in his will, gave great portions to his children, Cardinal Guimeni said, ‘If you provide thus, your son may set up for himself.’ To which Anne’s friends respond that the greatest part of disturbance is usually for persons not at their ease: let the Princess be at ease.
A Want of Kindness Page 23
