A Want of Kindness

by Joanne Limburg

  It begins to look as if the matter may go against the King. The next morning, he sends the Earl of Shrewsbury to talk to the Earl of Marlborough, then to his Lady, and when that proves useless, to her mistress. It feels almost as awkward as having the King himself in front of her, in her own home. Anne cannot look at him.

  ‘The King is prepared to settle your debts, Your Highness,’ he begins. ‘In addition, he will see that you are provided with 50, 000 pounds a year – any more, notwithstanding his very sincere gratitude towards Your Highness, being impossible at such a time as this – but on condition that you accept it as being in his gift, and at his discretion.’

  For him to dangle before me and take away, Anne thinks. She colours, fidgets with the half-knotted fringe in her lap. She does not know what to say. She has to say something.

  ‘I beg your pardon, my Lord, but I have met with so little encouragement from the King that I can expect no kindness from him and so I think I must stick to my friends in Parliament.’

  ‘And is that your answer, Your Highness?’

  ‘Yes. Thank you. You may go, Sir.’

  That afternoon, the Comptroller of the Royal Household announces in the Commons that the King accepts that Parliament might vote the Princess of Denmark her allowance, and moves to have it set at 50, 000 pounds a year. The House agrees.

  Anne has her revenue. She arrives at Court that evening feeling triumphant, vindicated, justified – but not for long. Mary summons her immediately, but not to reconcile.

  ‘Why did you tell my Lord Shrewsbury that the King has been unkind to you?’

  ‘I did not say that exactly – I said I could expect no kindness from him.’

  ‘And how is that different? Look at me, Sister – I hate it when you will not look at me – in what way has he been unkind to you, that you should say such a thing?’

  Anne hates her sister’s face when she is angry – she will not look at it. She is sure she must have a thousand possible answers to Mary’s question, but flustered as she is, she finds she can call nothing to mind but a dish of peas – and she can hardly seek to placate the Queen with peas.

  ‘I—’ she begins, her blush deepening, ‘it is not that—’

  ‘Tell me one thing in which he has not been kind to you: one thing!’

  Peas, Anne thinks, and stands helplessly, mutely, before her sister, touching her fan to her mouth.

  ‘So there is nothing, then – and yet you could not bring yourself to speak to him, or me, of a matter that concerned you so much – you must instead be complaining to your friends, and letting them drag business that should have been private in front of Parliament for everyone to have his say on, making out to the whole world that we are unkind to you? Do you not see what a want of respect you have shown to us both? And how unkind you have been to me?’

  Me . . . me me me me me . . . ‘I never meant to be unkind to you, Your Majesty.’

  ‘But you were.’

  ‘I said I did not mean to be, and indeed I did not.’

  They part ill friends. The King himself visits Anne just before New Year, has her hold her curtsy until she near capsizes – it is an unpleasant habit of his – refuses to take any refreshment, and announces to the portion of empty space just above and to the right of her head that he considers it an ungenerous thing to fall out with a woman.

  ‘I have no desire,’ he says, ‘to live on ill terms with you. You have your allowance. We shall put this business behind us. The Queen has been most upset – it is no small trouble to me to see the Queen upset – you will be friends again, I trust.’

  ‘I will, Your Majesty.’

  In truth she does not think it likely, but she can hardly say so to the King.

  Anne in Lent

  O Lord, once more I am preparing to receive the Sacrament, and more than ever I read over the Catalogue of Sins and I blush, for here is the fourth Sunday in Lent, and though I have forsworn sweetmeats all these weeks – and this year without a lapse, for which I must thank the grace you have given me – I still find I have neglected that repentance, which should have been my proper duty. I have not assigned any set times for humiliation and confession – as Mary says she does – but instead have considered my sins here and there when I might, and so I fear I may not have considered them deeply enough to beget contrition.

  Mary . . . I suppose it might be said we have trespassed against each other, that we ought to confess our sins to each other, and forgive. She has always said that I am stubborn, but I for my part find her every bit as stiff-necked, and if I have pride, so does she. I would rather be in charity with her than otherwise, but if I have not once sought to be alone with her these past months since my settlement was granted me, it is only because whenever I go to Court she never looks upon me or speaks to me as if she were truly pleased to have me there. Besides I fear what might be said if the chance arose: she has already said what cannot be unsaid, such words as have hurt me, and which I find I cannot forget. She believes, I know, I should show more gratitude to her and the King – perhaps I should – but for what ought I to be grateful ? What have they ever given me willingly?

  I do not want to hurt her. I know she will be angry that I am to take the Sacrament in my own Chapel today, and not at Whitehall. Lady Marlborough has chided me for this: she says we should take every opportunity to show ourselves united, when there has been such a public quarrel, but as I said to her, Mary has seen fit to change the order of service at Whitehall, a thing which is not pleasing to me, or to any good Churchman, or surely to you, who must desire peace in your Church above all things. I cannot understand why she seeks to make alterations to that which already had within it all things necessary to salvation, and which was always the greatest comfort in times of greatest trial. The Church is the rock on which I stand – why must she move the very ground underneath me? They will not have stringed instruments in the Chapel anymore, which all my life I did rejoice to hear, and I think it such a great pity they are gone. They have tried – the King and Queen and their friends – they have even tried to change the litany so that Nonconformists might approve it. In doing so they have put the Church in danger, and I thank Christ that they have failed. But still, as I feared the non-jurors are all turned out of their posts; the Church is divided in a way which must give you pain, as it pains me.

  So no: I will not take the Sacrament with Mary today. And I will not go to hear the weekday sermons they have in Whitehall now: there was no need for them. My sister I fear changes services as she changes palaces – all for her own satisfaction, and only because she and the King believe nothing good enough that they have not had the ordering of themselves. And if I have expressed such an opinion to certain people it is only because of my sincere beliefs in this matter – and if in doing so I have murmured against my sister and my Queen and been disloyal then truly I repent of that – or at least I will endeavour to.

  It may be that I have something to reproach myself for in my conduct towards my sister – I do own it, I do – but I hope that I have not failed as a mistress or as a friend, for I am sure nobody ever had more kindness for anybody than I have for Lady Marlborough. It is thanks to her efforts that at last I have my revenue settled – or rather, most of it, for I do not think 50, 000 pounds quite enough to keep me comfortable, although ’tis sufficient to keep me from embarrassment for the time being. It is my desire that Lady Marlborough should accept from me a thousand pounds a year, as an earnest of my good will and gratitude. But I do not wish her ever to mention of it to me, for I should be ashamed to have any notice taken of such a thing from one that deserves more than I shall ever be able to return. (Also it is a relief to me to be able to settle the gambling debts I have run up with respect to Lady Marlborough, for it has been a great mortification to me to have been unable to do so before.)

  Have mercy upon me, O God, after thy great goodness; according to the multitude of thy
mercies, do away my offences; make me a clean heart, O God, and renew a right spirit within me – and if it is that I must be chastised again – as I fear I may deserve – I beg you in your mercy to allow me to bear the affliction in my own person, that my innocent child should not be put in danger again on my account, and I beg you to preserve the lives of the Prince and my Father in Ireland – and the King’s, of course – for they shall meet in battle soon, and if I am with child again as I suspect I am, please spare this child as you were pleased to spare my boy. I offer you my contrite heart. Amen.

  Chintz

  It can only have been a few weeks since Anne was last in the Queen’s Gallery at Kensington, but it seems in that time to have become twice as cluttered. There are new cabinets and new shelves, all of them supporting great, teetering piles of porcelain and Delftware; Anne has to watch her feet, lest she trip over a velvet dog-bed, and her headdress (they have since Mary arrived grown tall, like Dutch gables) in case it gets tangled in a hanging bird cage. She has to make her way round the forest of chairs and embroidery frames Mary has permanently set up, so that neither she nor her Maids of Honour might ever waste a moment in idleness. Two or three Maids are working at the frames when Anne arrives, and are themselves somewhat overfurnished, with long, wide lappets dangling from the sides of their headdresses, lace sprouting abundantly from their elbows, and huge bows jostling each other up and down their stomachers. Not that Anne herself is any more plainly dressed: her sister has set the fashion, and she cannot but keep up with it.

  The Maids very properly stand up and curtsy when they see it is Anne approaching with all proper ceremony, the Lord Chamberlain at her side, and Lady Frescheville behind. When they reach the end of the Gallery, the Lord Chamberlain knocks on the door to the Queen’s apartments, and announces Anne; a Lady of the Bedchamber opens it, and shows her through. Lady Frescheville stays behind in the Gallery. There is no-one in the bedchamber but the King standing, Anne curtsying, and, reclining somewhere behind new chintz bed-hangings, the Queen.

  The King must be in a gentler temper today, because he does not leave Anne to hold her curtsy for more than an instant, but shows her to a chair at the Queen’s bedside.

  ‘We are glad to see you here,’ he says. ‘We were very pleased when you asked to wait on us. The Queen has wished you might come since she first fell ill.’

  ‘Thank you, Your Majesty. I do not think anybody – save yourself, of course – could be more concerned for Her Majesty’s well-being than I – and I have prayed to God a thousand times for Your Majesty’s recovery.’

  Mary smiles, and holds her arms up so that the sisters might embrace. She looks a little feverish, tired, but truly not so ill that one might fear for her.

  ‘Please, dear Anne – we are quite private – there is no need for “Your Majesty” here.’

  Mary’s speaks in a tiny, scratched voice. It makes Anne wince to hear it.

  ‘Does your throat still pain you, Sister?’

  ‘Yes, very much; it has grown worse by degrees, and – I am so glad you are here, for I do fear I might die soon, and I must endeavour to set my affairs in order, and I could not bear to leave this world with such a coldness between us.’

  ‘Mary, I do not believe you are dying!’

  ‘Neither do I,’ says the King. ‘Perhaps you might persuade her of that, for I cannot.’

  ‘Whatever happens, it will be God’s will, and I need to know that when I am gone, things will not go too badly between you.’

  Anne meets the King’s eye and sees that he does not know how to answer this any better than she does: they are neither of them accomplished liars. Happily, Mary spares them the trouble.

  ‘I expect God will take of it,’ she says.

  ‘And if you should live, my dear,’ says the King, ‘which I have every confidence you will, you will need your sister’s friendship when I am in Ireland.’

  Mary takes Anne’s hand and grips it hard. ‘Oh Sister, I am so afraid – I will have my Council to advise me – but I am so unfit for business, so unfit . . .’

  ‘Mary, I have never known you do anything badly – you, who are in all things so diligent . . . And I must say I will be in need of friendship too, with the Prince gone.’

  This is greeted with complete silence. Anne decides to leave the subject to one side, and to say what she has come to say.

  ‘I must not delay more in saying – to both your Majesties – that I have come today not only to see how the Queen does, but also to ask pardon of both of you for all that has passed, and to beg that you might see fit to forget anything I might have done to displease you.’

  The King only nods, but the Queen holds out her arms again, and a single, pretty tear falls down her cheek.

  ‘Pass it all over, Anne – say nothing of it – only please be assured, dear Sister, always, that I will ever be ready to show you any kindness I can – whatever you need.’

  Anne knows that she had far better not say what she is about to say, here, at this moment, and yet she finds she cannot hinder herself from saying it. Perhaps she is possessed.

  ‘Then you now have a fair opportunity to do so, Sister, for I would be grateful if you and the King would consent to make up my revenue from the Privy Purse – I should be quite comfortable, I think, with 20, 000 pounds more.’

  At once Mary lets go of Anne’s shoulders. The look of disappointment on her face is near intolerable, but Anne has started now, and she must carry her point.

  ‘It was the Speaker of the House, M— Your Majesty, who suggested it, and I have spoken also to Lord Rochester, and he agreed that this would be best.’

  ‘And my Lady Marlborough?’ Mary asks. ‘What did she have to say to it? A great deal, I daresay.’

  ‘You look tired, my love,’ says the King, and to Anne: ‘The Queen is tired.’

  It is the strangest thing, but the Gallery seems even more cluttered on the way out.

  Campden House

  As the Duke of Gloucester approaches his first birthday, and it looks every day more likely that he will live beyond it, Anne and Mary suspend their quarrel for a few days and look for a larger, more permanent home for his growing household. Their fancy alights upon Campden House, one of those red-brick merchants’ homes that aspire to be castles, all covered in turrets and chimneys and studded with coats of arms. It is a good size, not too far from Kensington Palace; it has an avenue of elms and a fine shrubbery. The rent is outrageous, but Anne takes it anyway. If it pleases God, she will give birth again come winter, and there will be room enough for that child too.

  Before then, she must endure a summer without George, who has followed the King, at his own expense, to Ireland. In his own coach, too, for the King will not have him in his. The King does not care to talk to George. He does not care to talk to anyone save his old friend Portland and his pretty page, Keppel. George is thoroughly snubbed in Ireland. He is fighting alongside William when they defeat the late King’s army on the banks of the Boyne, but there is no mention of this in the Gazette. When couriers leave for England they do so without waiting for his letters, so Anne has to ask the Secretary of State, Lord Nottingham, to intervene so that she can hear the news from her husband. Anne cannot help but observe that Mary seems to have taken but little interest in the matter herself.

  ‘But did you mention it to her?’ asks Barbara. She is Lady Fitzharding now, and in mourning for her father-in-law, the late Viscount: it is a very uncomfortable thing, to have to wear black in summer. They have had the drawing-room windows opened at Campden House this evening, but the air is unmoving, and warm as soup, so it makes no difference.

  ‘No. It is impossible to speak to my sister about anything that matters – we dine, we play cards, we talk of the Duke and the weather and how her gardens do and that is that.’

  ‘With respect, Your Highness, the Queen has a great deal on her mind, and I am sure
she does not wish to bother you with all the business she is dealing with.’

  ‘Well, I know full well she does not trust me with it.’

  ‘But do you truly desire to hear of it? The petitions, the warrants, the naval commissions, the letters patent – are they what interest you, truly?’

  ‘No. I did not think they interested my sister either, but all of a sudden she has taken to interfering in things she was meant to leave to the Council.’

  ‘It is hardly interfering when it is all done in her name – and by all accounts, she acquits herself very well.’

  ‘My sister-so-diligent? Of course she does.’

  ‘Your Highness!’

  ‘Oh, you think I am unkind, I know, but there is a want of kindness on her part too – you would think, with our husbands away, and our father – you would think we could comfort each other – but we cannot. She does not care for me, or my husband, or my friends.’ ‘Am I not your friend? I find her kind enough.’ ‘You know who I mean.’

  Lady Fitzharding smiles. There is a rumbling sound in the distance. Anne starts.

  ‘Surely those are not guns? The French were in the West but weeks ago – do you think . . .?’

  ‘No! It is thunder, and very welcome, if it brings an end to this heat.’

  Lady Fitzharding must have God’s ear, for out of nowhere there is a gust of wind to stir the elm trees, and in an instant the room is cooler. A moment later the lightning comes. Footmen and pages rush in and close the casements, just in time for the deluge to start.

  ‘We must go to the nursery, Lady Fitzharding. I think my boy might be frighted.’

  But it is only his mother who is frighted. Gloucester is sitting on a carpet the Queen has sent over from Kensington for him, striking a silver rattle against the leg of Mrs Pack’s chair, and crowing at every thunderclap.