A Want of Kindness

by Joanne Limburg

  ‘He looks perfectly content, Your Highness,’ says Lady Fitzharding.

  ‘He’s in a merry pin,’ says Mrs Pack. ‘The louder the thunder gets, the more he likes it.’

  ‘A born soldier,’ says Lady Fitzharding. ‘His uncle will be proud.’

  ‘Not any time soon,’ says Anne. ‘Past his first birthday and he is barely crawling.’

  At the sound of his mother’s voice, Gloucester looks up from his work. ‘Y’ighness!’ he cries, and holds his arms out.

  ‘Dearest! Do you want to play with your mama’s pearls again?’

  Anne picks her son up and, as she expects, he at once seizes hold of the pearls she wears about her neck, and proceeds to examine them with a serious air, as if he were checking them for flaws. Then he pulls at the string hard, watching Anne’s face, laughing at her grimace.

  ‘Ow! Why does he do that?’

  ‘To see you pull that face, Your Highness,’ says Mrs Pack. ‘It is very comical.’

  ‘You are insolent!’ snaps Lady Fitzharding. ‘You must beg Her Highness’s pardon.’

  ‘No, no, not at all . . . I daresay it is comical . . . Mrs Pack, that rattle there –’Anne points to the silver toy on the carpet – ‘was that another gift from Her Majesty? It looks familiar, but I cannot remember its arriving.’

  ‘I found it when we were moving from Craven House, Madam. It was in a cupboard.’

  ‘Now I remember: it is the rattle my sister sent from Holland, that Lady Mary used to play with.’

  For a moment no-one speaks. There is no sound but the rain, and the clinking of Anne’s pearls against each other as the Duke continues his investigations.

  ‘Mrs Pack will have it put away if you wish, Your Highness.’

  Anne looks at the rattle, and then at her son, now rubbing the pearls against his face. Ever since his illness at Hampton Court he has had a small issue kept open on his head, to try to take off the watery humours that swell his head and cannot but make him giddy – she cannot boast of his beauty, or of his good health, but he is lively enough when he is well, and with it content, and she would have him stay that way. ‘No, it was meant for a child to play with – let him have it if he wishes.’

  Abruptly, the Duke lets the pearls go. ‘Down,’ he says. Anne puts him back on the carpet, where he takes Lady Mary’s rattle up again. He strikes it hard on the floor, and as if in obedience to him, the rain falls harder, on Campden House where his mother shudders at it, on the Tower where his great-uncle Lord Clarendon has been committed for his loyalty to his grandfather, on Whitehall Palace where his aunt the Queen, and his governess’s sister Betty both await the King’s return, and on the Cockpit, where his good friend Lady Marlborough prepares to give birth, and her Lord readies himself to travel to Ireland, and finish what the King has started.

  14th October 1690

  The King and the Prince are home, the latter quite unharmed, and the former merely grazed upon the shoulder. The late King has suffered another nosebleed and fled once more to France, where he is safe – humiliated, but safe. Anne is relieved. So is her friend Lady Marlborough, recently delivered of a second son, who expects any day the return of her own victorious husband; the lady is also glad of the news that her sister, Lady Tyrconnell, wife of the late King’s General, has herself reached France unharmed.

  There is so much to be thankful for, and the King has appointed Sunday, 19th October, as the day when everyone will show it. Anne’s visits to the Queen have grown ever more strained, and she is wondering whether she might not plead her condition in order to excuse herself from a Whitehall service, with all the ceremonies performed as Mary would have them; it is almost certain that the King and Queen will find a way to insult George again, either there or at dinner, and Anne fears she might show her displeasure somehow, in front of all the world, and then more harm will be done all round than if she had stayed away as she wishes to. On the Monday before the service she retires to Campden House to think about it, and very early on Tuesday morning, two months before time, the birth pains start.

  It is not to be expected that a seven-months’ child will be strong, but some do live. The household prays, and the child, a daughter, is delivered alive. She is a little pale doll of a thing, with a feeble cry like a kitten. Anne has her chaplain sent for as soon as the navel-string is tied. Within the hour, she has been baptised Mary, after the Queen, and before the morning is out she is dead. God has seen fit to punish Anne by granting her wish: she will not be expected to give thanks at Whitehall.

  The Queen’s Ladies

  The following January, the King departs for the Netherlands, to lead the English army against the French. Mary is alone again. Anne must wait on her every day. As for respect, she hopes she behaves towards her sister with as much as is possible. Lady Marlborough will keep chiding her for not being pleasant enough to the Queen, but the truth is, Anne says, that she does not have it in her to feign an affection she does not feel, and she cannot – no, not if it were to save her soul – make court to any lady she has no very great inclination for. The dissembling she had to do during her father’s reign was surely enough for a lifetime. She will not dissemble with her sister. Not with Mary.

  But duty is duty, and they must be seen to be friends. Anne waits on her sister. They play every night together at comet or basset, at the Queen’s apartments, where Mary keeps the Bank. On Anne’s birthday, the Queen condescends to play cards at the Cockpit instead, and afterwards, in Anne’s honour, she holds a dance in her own drawing-room. All in all, they endeavour to give the Court as little as possible to whisper about, but all the world knows which lady it is takes first place in Anne’s heart, for she cannot hide that either. She offers Lady Marlborough her 1, 000 pounds a year, and after some discussion with Lord Godolphin, Lady Marlborough accepts.

  The Queen may disapprove, but Anne thinks it must be out of jealousy, for Mary has no lady she might truly call a friend: it has been a long time since Lady Bathurst was her ‘husband’, her Aurelia, and her husband’s position in Anne’s household makes it impossible for the Queen to renew their former closeness; Lady Fitzharding moves easily between the sisters’ Courts, but is not quite trusted in either; her sister Anne, Lady Bentinck, died when she was still in Holland; her older sister, Betty, has never been any kind of friend to the Queen. Mary is fond of one of her Ladies of the Bedchamber, Lady Dorset, a sweet and conspicuously virtuous young matron, but otherwise, it seems to Anne, all of Mary’s real friends are bishops.

  On the night of the fire at Whitehall, however, there are no bishops available – indeed, it seems that there are no gentlemen of any kind in the Palace, for when Anne and George find Mary by the Privy Garden sundial, where she is watching the Stone Gallery burning down, there are no men in sight. Lady Dorset stands at the Queen’s side; Lady Scarborough comes forward to greet them; Betty Villiers is there too, keeping herself at a tactful distance.

  ‘The Princess, Your Majesty,’ says Lady Scarborough.

  Mary turns to see them. Her face is orange on one side, lit up by the blaze, and grey as death on the other.

  ‘It began in your boy’s lodgings,’ she says. ‘An accident, I’m told – a maid left a candle burning when she should not, but of course when I was told the news I must confess I did think about – other causes.’

  ‘O Good Lord! Well we must thank heaven he is safe at Campden House!’

  ‘I have heard no reports of anyone hurt,’ says Mary. ‘That is a great blessing, at least.’

  ‘You seem very calm, Sister.’

  Mary shrugs.

  ‘You heard the blast – the men have blown up the Earl of Portland’s lodgings so the fire will not spread to the rest of the Palace. I have been heartily frighted, yes, but – all these lodgings burning there, you remember who lived in them? The Duchess of Portsmouth, all those other lewd creatures, and I always thought them ugly buildings, unhe
althy – the King never liked them either – he will not grieve to hear they’ve been consumed.’

  She laughs, a little uncertainly.

  ‘Portland will not be very pleased,’ says Anne, and smiles.

  ‘He’ll have new lodgings. So will your son. Did you keep much of value there? You’ll have lost it all.’

  She says nothing about compensation.

  ‘Most of my boy’s possessions are with him at Campden. We did not keep much here.’

  ‘I’m glad to hear it.’

  They stand there for a moment, the three of them – Mary, Anne, George – and watch as the old, lascivious, filthy Whitehall their uncle played in burns away. Then there is a shout of, ‘Her Majesty! There she is!’ and the guards that have been so noticeably absent find their Queen and run, belatedly, to defend her.

  ‘I am quite unharmed, as you see,’ she tells them. ‘My Ladies and I will be taking refuge at Arlington House till we’re told ’tis safe to return. And here is our escort—’

  She breaks off, puts her hand over her mouth, and laughs, not half­heartedly this time, but wildly, as Anne has not heard her laugh for years. The escort is one Master Fuller, and he has just fallen face first into a patch of nettles. He recovers very gallantly, dusting off his coat, and making his compliment, even as his face is swelling up; it is an honour, he says, to have been the man who has made the Queen so pleasant.

  Still laughing, the Queen takes her leave of Anne, and leaves for Arlington House, trailing ladies and guards behind her. George decides to accompany her part of the way, an offer she does not rebuff. When he comes back to the Cockpit he tells Anne that the Queen was pursued all the way through St James’s Park by Sir John Fenwick and Colonel Oglethorpe, the Jacobite knaves, shouting after her that the fire was but a forecast of just, eternal punishment.

  Anne Dines at Holywell

  This afternoon Anne dines in paradise, otherwise known as Holywell House. She has George sitting on one side of her, and Sarah on the other. Later, she will have the pleasure of playing with Lady Marlborough’s pretty children; her pleasure for the moment is all in a dish of trout caught from the Marlboroughs’ own stream, and served up in a creamy sauce with all kinds of flavour in it.

  ‘Can you guess?’ Lady Marlborough asks.

  ‘Anchovies, certainly.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Horseradish, thyme . . . lemon peel?’

  ‘Very good, Your Highness. And those first two from my garden.’

  ‘You are so fortunate, Lady Marlborough. We have nothing as good to eat in town. I would rather live as you do here – but I have a sister I must wait on.’ ‘Though I imagine she is much taken up with business, with the King away?’ ‘Indeed, but there is plenty of time left over for her – her knotting and fretting!’ ‘Yes, I can just see her now.’ Sarah takes up her fork and weaves it tightly back and forth as if it were a knotting shuttle. ‘And hear her too:

  “Fret, fret, blabber, blabber, knot, knot, Lady Fret how charming, your children Lady Blabber, fret, fret, knot, the King, when I was in Holland, last night at cards, the gardens at Kensington, fret, knot, fret, knot, most exquisite straight from China, fret . . .”’

  ‘Oh stop it, I pray you – you have made the poor Prince choke on his wine!’

  ‘I beg your pardon, Your Highness.’

  ‘No, no, no, Lady Marlborough – you have the Queen to a nicety, that’s all.’

  ‘Then I fear that was treasonable.’

  ‘Not to us. You may say what you wish before the Prince and me. Especially since this latest insult.’

  ‘Are you so very sorry, my dear, to have your husband with you when the Queen and Lady Marlborough do not?’

  ‘Of course not, George! But for the Queen to forbid you to go to the wars – forbid you – and all your belongings hauled off the ship – as if you were but a schoolboy run away to sea! I’m sure no Prince was ever used so.’

  George shrugs. ‘And yet when I told the King of my design, he embraced me – I took it for consent.’

  ‘Anybody would. And why should you not have gone? Surely all the world would expect you to?’

  ‘Your Highnesses—’ Lady Marlborough looks as if she must say something, but then she hesitates.

  ‘Go on, I pray you.’

  ‘Very well. I did not tell you this before, but the Queen asked me for help in this. Her request was that I persuade His Highness that he should not go, but that I should do so as if I were only giving him my own thoughts on the matter – so you would not think she had interfered. Of course I said I would not do it.’

  ‘Your loyalty does you credit – my Mrs Freeman.’

  ‘Mrs Morley, I am at your service.’

  ‘These are the names you told me of, Anne? That you use in letters? Very droll – I like them.’

  ‘It is only good sense to use pseudonyms,’ says Lady Marlborough. ‘Between Holywell and the Cockpit, who knows? A dozen hands might open them, and two dozen eyes peruse.’

  ‘There is that, but what pleases me so much, George, is that it removes that distance between us, that comes from our different places in the world – I do believe I could do without my rank and all that comes with it, if it meant I could enjoy our friendship the more.’

  ‘Your High— dear Mrs Morley, would you care for some peas?’

  From the Princess of Denmark to the King

  Tunbridge, August 2, 1691

  I hope you will pardon me for giving you this trouble, but I can’t help seconding the request the Prince has now made to you to remember your promise of a Garter for my Lord Marlborough. You cannot certainly bestow it upon anyone that has been more serviceable to you in the late revolution nor that has ventured their lives for you as he has done ever since your coming to the Crown. But if people won’t think these merits enough, I can’t believe anybody will be so unreasonable to be dissatisfied when ’tis known you are pleased to give it to him on the Prince’s account and mine. I am sure I shall ever look upon it as a mark of your favour to us. I will not trouble you with any ceremony, because I know you don’t care for it.

  Anne

  Anne’s Non-Naturals

  O merciful and righteous Lord, the God of health and of sickness, of life and of death, I must own that my great abuse of those many days of strength and welfare which you have afforded me, has most justly deserved this present visitation. I have much time at home and here at Tunbridge to meditate and search my heart, for though my fever is gone, there are still days when I am so lame I cannot go without limping. We have two companies of foot guards stationed here with us, but poor fellows, they can do nothing but kick their heels outside my lodgings, for I scarcely go abroad.

  Dr Radcliffe says it is most likely the gout – though the joints are not inflamed quite as he would expect in such a case. When I felt the pain first I was much reminded of what I suffered after I last miscarried, before the late King went away – that was as if I was burning on the inside – the most terrible torment – and what I have now is that same pain in little: little fires in my legs, that burn me if I am so foolish as to move too much. Perhaps that is how your displeasure feels . . . and if so, I must accept there is no mending my legs until you give me grace to mend my soul, and I pray for that grace this day, that I might search my sins out, and repent of them.

  It is intemperance that Dr Radcliffe thinks me guilty of: I have indulged myself too much at the table, he says; now there is such an excess of blood in my body, that nature cannot manage it in the usual fashion, but is pushed to this extreme remedy, this gouty attack on my joints. He does not think it is wise to purge, but I trust very much in the waters here: I have some brought me fresh every morning – and while the effects may render me still less capable of venturing out, I am satisfied in them, for they are the signs that the waters are working well with me again.

  The doctor
’s preferred remedy, of course, is temperance. He says I ought to pay proper attention to my ‘non-naturals’, as he calls them. Less meat and drink, of course; I should neither sleep nor watch too much; I should have a care of the passions of my mind, not fright myself over every little thing; I should stay where the air is good. Most of all, he believes I do not exercise enough. I do love to exercise, I do love to ride, but in my present state I cannot without great pain mount a horse – I have ordered a caleche to be made for me, so I might hunt in that – though Sir Benjamin says I can scarce bear the expense. Whatever I require, he says there is not the money for: the King and Queen never would give me that twenty thousand more – and of course I cannot help but worry over that, and other matters.

  I cannot but be concerned with the health of those whom I love, and there is always much to be concerned about – I am forever on the rack over the condition of my poor boy; I fear he will always be sickly: there is the watery humour in his head, he is often suffering with fevers and not so long ago he was quite ill of a looseness though through it all his temper was good. He can at last cross a room by himself but I do not think he shall be able to go abroad with leading-strings, he is so clumsy and so heedless. I was advised against carrying him with me to Tunbridge, but he must always be with me in my thoughts – I am his mother. Permit me to commend him, Lord, as I do daily, to your blessing and protection.

  Let me this day commend to you my Lady Marlborough, who is here not only to attend me but also to take the waters herself, for she is not this summer as strong as she is usually and it is a great trouble to me to see her suffering. She complains of the vapours and of headaches which she says are like a weight on her eyes. ’Tis plain to me that the headaches are caused by her excessive reading – Seneca and the like, which she says is to improve her mind but she has already such a sound understanding that I cannot see the good of it – what is in Seneca that can make her manage her household better, or raise her children, or be a better friend to me? Yes, I confess I am jealous of Seneca – and of Lady Fitzharding, who I am sure draws my Lady Marlborough away from me whenever she can to play cards and laugh together, but when she is with me does nothing but put a sullen face on and complain. I should repent of my jealous temper, but Lady Fitzharding does not treat me as she ought, and I wish she might repent of that. But I do not mind her so much as I do the state of Lady Marlborough’s house, for I fear very much it might cause her to resign her post, and without her I do not know how I will go on. I beg you, do not suffer anyone or anything to take her from me.