My Lord Godolphin is with us, and also takes the waters. I pray that they will do him good, because he is vexed daily by the Treasury business that comes to him here, much of which he says might be carried on just as well in his absence as if he were there himself. Lady Marlborough says it is the peculiar predicament of men as reliable and able as he, to find themselves so burdened by those who trust no-one else. That the King and Queen trust him I have no doubt. The late King trusted him too – and it is true that he took no part in the revolution. He is a prudent man. He gives good advice. We play cards together every day. If he were to resign his post, I do believe I would have no real friends left in Council.
I would do what is prudent; I would also do what is right. When I was in Tunbridge that other summer, and His Grace the Archbishop – the Dean, he was then – preached on the Ten Virgins – I did truly believe that it was both prudent and right to join with my sister and my husband against my father. I was in better health then than I am now – though I must beg your forgiveness for having dissembled about that, because I thought it expedient. I lied, and in dishonouring my father I broke a Commandment, and these are the fruits of it: fires in my joints, a sickly son, another dead daughter, a near-empty purse and between my sister and I a coldness that must pain us both.
I put aside my rights for the King and Queen, and we have not asked them for much in return, the Prince and I. The Prince has given up his lands and received this month but meagre compensation – and even then no money, but only the promise of it. And to our letters requesting the Garter for my Lord Marlborough we have received no reply, and I do not believe we ever shall.
That the King and Queen neither like nor trust my friends the Marlboroughs is clear enough. The King will not give him the commands that he is more than fit for; the Queen will barely speak a civil word to my friend – for all that she is not above trying to use her influence with me if she thinks it in her interests to do so . . . I can only regard their unkindness to our friends as further unkindness to us . . .
While we have been in Tunbridge, Lady Marlborough has told me that her Lord has written to my father to beg his pardon; Lord Godolphin has written to him too. I understand that half the country has done the same. For myself, I do not feel safe as I had hoped I would: the Jacobites are defeated in Ireland, but threaten to rise in Scotland; my own uncle Clarendon is a prisoner in his own house; no-one knows how the war may go in the Low Countries. The Queen is afraid, she jumps at the slightest thing; now her Lady Dorset has died there is no company at Court might render her less splenetic.
I beg you give me the grace to know where my duty lies, to tell what is dangerous from what is safe, for my own sake, and for the Prince’s, and for that of my sister whom I do love even though she is unkind, and of my true friends, and my household, and most of all my boy.
Amen.
The Reformation of Manners
‘I think I’m ready, Lady Marlborough – the duckett, please.’
Sarah passes the cloth to Anne, and gathers up her mistress’s skirts. Anne rubs her thumb over the duckett for a moment: it feels rough, unkind; far too unkind for its delicate office.
‘Your Highness? Are we to stand like this in your stool closet all evening? There’s no sense in putting it off.’
‘I beg your pardon. I’m a coward, I know. Very well then—’ She grimaces, wipes the cloth over her privy parts and at once, without glancing at it, hands it back to Lady Marlborough.
‘Well? Tell me what it is.’ ‘Wait – I must get a candle . . . Ah, I thought so! ’Tis good news: no sign of Lady Charlotte – if you were with child before, then you are still.’ ‘Let me see. Are you certain? Are you sure there is no blood? What about that dark patch there?’ ‘That is nothing. Only – only moisture, Your Highness. Of course, I can keep the duckett by me till daylight if you are not sure.’
‘No, no! I would not have you sleep with my soiled ducketts! It is just – I thought I felt some – when one has miscarried so many times, one always fears . . .’
‘I know, I know . . . Well, let’s drink to the health of this child. Did you say anything to the Prince?’
‘No. I would not have him frighted without cause.’
Danvers is waiting outside the closet door. Sarah tells her that there is no need to alarm herself, and to answer the scratch on the bedchamber door.
‘It is Lady Fitzharding, Your Highness.’
‘Come in, Babs! Sit down with us! We are to drink to the health of my unborn – Danvers, ask for some wine – no – brandy – and cakes with it.’
‘Brandy? Is that not a touch strong? Would the Queen not consider the drinking of brandy by ladies in the evening to be a disorderly practice?’
Anne frowns. ‘I know she would not do it herself, but . . .’
‘I do not think Lady Marlborough is serious, Your Highness. She is talking of the King and Queen’s attempts to promote a reformation of the manners of their subjects.’
‘Oh, I see! Well, as we are merely to drink a toast in my chamber, and not in the street—’
‘—and will not at the same time indulge in any profane cursing, swearing, profanation of the Lord’s Day, or any other lewd, enormous or disorderly practice, I think we may proceed without fear of dishonouring God, bringing curses upon the nation – or, worse than that, upsetting your sister.’
‘The Queen’s intent is only for the nation’s good.’
‘Yes, Lady Fitzharding, it is, but I fear the nation will only laugh at her – and do so on the Lord’s Day, too.’
‘My sister was used to laugh more herself,’ says Anne.
‘She still does.’
‘With you perhaps, Lady Fitzharding – not with me.’
A footman comes in with the brandy and cakes. Anne tells him to set them down upon the table: she will serve her friends herself. She pours for Sarah, then for Barbara, then for herself. They drink a toast to the child.
‘And to the King and Queen?’
‘Of course, Lady Fitzharding, though I think, so as not to offend, we should call the liquor “cold tea” this time.’
‘Yes, let’s – and would you like a measure more of cold tea to make the loyal toast?’
With all due respect, they toast the King and Queen.
‘This reformation of manners business,’ Anne says, ‘is all the Dutch influence. They look down upon us, they call us lewd – I heard that Bentinck sent his eldest daughter back to Holland; he said he would not have her “debauched” by remaining in England! Imagine!’
‘And this from a wooden fellow who can barely utter a civil word.’
‘He and the King are of a kind. All coldness. I have heard the King strikes his servants with his cane when he is vexed – the Prince and I would never treat our family so. How is that a good example?’
‘It is a dreadful example!’ Sarah slams her glass down on the table: she is working up to one of her rants. ‘He has no gratitude, no proper feeling for anyone who is not a countryman! He is King of England, yet we have Dutchmen all over Court, Dutch Officers of State, and so many Dutch generals, when there are Englishmen twice as capable!’
‘And one Englishman in particular,’ says Lady Fitzharding, ‘who, I’m told, has made his feelings known in Parliament – and among his army friends.’
‘My husband is very popular in the army,’ says Sarah, ‘and so he should be. They know his true worth at least. And is it such a terrible notion, that Englishmen only should fill English places?’
‘Not to an Englishman, but the King might see it differently. Would you not, if you were in his place, wish to have your old friends by you?’
‘Is this how he thinks? Is this what Betty tells you? Will he not accept an Englishman’s oath? It is insulting. Does he not believe my husband can be trusted?’
Lady Fitzharding says nothing, only contemplates her emp
ty glass; Sarah scowls; Anne breaks the silence to offer more cold tea.
From the Princess of Denmark to King James, written with the assistance of the Earl and Countess of Marlborough
The Cockpit, December 1, 1691
I have been very desirous of some safe opportunity to make you a sincere and humble offer of my duty and submission to you, and to beg that you will be assured that I am both truly concerned for the misfortune of your condition and sensible, as I ought to be, of my own unhappiness. As to what you may think I have contributed to it, if wishes could recall what is past, I had long since redeemed my fault. I am sensible it would have been a great relief to me if I could have found means to acquaint you earlier with my repentant thoughts, but I hope they may find the advantage of coming late, of being less suspected of insincerity than perhaps they would have been at any time before.
It will be a great addition to the ease I propose to my own mind by this plain confession if I am so happy as to find that it brings any real satisfaction to yours, and that you are as indulgent and easy to receive my humble submissions as I am to make them, in a free, disinterested acknowledgement of my fault, for no other end but to deserve and receive your pardon.
I have had a great mind to beg you to make one compliment for me, but fearing the expressions which would be properest for me to make use of might be perhaps the least convenient for a letter, I must content myself at present with hoping the bearer will make a compliment for me to the Queen.
Anne
Anne and her Sister Mary
After all that has passed between them, all Anne desires from Mary is that she leave her be, but she is not to have even this most meagre satisfaction. The Queen has summoned her to her presence; they are in her closet, with the door shut, alone. Anne makes her compliment dutifully.
‘Oh don’t “Your Majesty” me, Anne! We are quite alone. Do sit down.’
Anne eases herself, stiffly, bulkily, into a chair.
‘Look at the pair of us, Anne – both grown so stout.’
‘I am with child.’
‘You are always with child. The Prince gives you no time to recover; it’s disastrous for your health – can he not leave you alone for a while after this one?’ ‘I am sensible of your concern, Sister, but I don’t care to be left alone. We prefer to share a bed.’ ‘So I’ve heard – as if you were paupers with no choice about it – very odd. But then, I find your household arrangements odd altogether.’
‘I don’t understand you, Sister. What do you mean?’
‘Mrs Pack, for example.’
‘What of her?’
‘She is dirty, and her manners are appalling. I do not think her a suitable person to attend upon the Duke.’
‘We owe Mrs Pack a great debt.’
‘Yes, but he has been weaned so long, surely you have redeemed it by now?’
‘She is a perfectly capable dry-nurse, and my boy loves her.’
‘I suppose he loves Jenkin Lewis too.’
‘Oh, I do believe he prefers Jenkin Lewis to any other soul on earth! What is wrong with Master Lewis?’
‘He is another very capable servant, I’m sure, but should he be such a close companion to the boy? The child is talking more and more now – and sounding more and more Welsh with it.’ ‘Lewis only ever speaks English with him.’ ‘Well it’s some strange variety.’ ‘But if you only saw them together, Mary. Such good friends. And
Master Lewis is no booby, you know – he is Lord Fitzharding’s protégé; he gives him the run of his library. You only see my boy when you summon him here – you cannot know how we care for him.’
‘No, I suppose I would know nothing of child-rearing.’
‘Mary, I did not mean to—’
‘But Lady Marlborough gives you all kinds of advice, I expect.’
‘Yes, she does.’
‘And not only about the boy.’
‘Sister, I do not know what you mean.’
‘Did she advise you that she needed an annuity?’
‘It is up to me what I do with my own income.’
‘That income was given to you so that you might run your household, not make presents to your favourites.’ ‘It is up to me what I do with my own income.’ ‘You should not have given her that money.’ ‘It is up to me—’
‘Oh stop it, Anne – stop saying the same thing over and over, it is enough to try a saint’s patience when you do that.’
So Anne says nothing at all. She will not look at Mary either.
‘Well, even if you will not speak, you can at least listen. I see the influence that woman has over you, and I am truly appalled by it – the King is too. We had hoped that in time your infatuation would wear itself out – heaven knows you forgot about Mrs Cornwallis quickly enough – if she were a more trustworthy person, we could smile on it, but we have good reason to doubt her loyalty to us – and her Lord’s even more.’
‘I don’t know what you mean.’
‘Oh don’t you? Do you know what is meant by “Caliban”? Or how about “the Dutch Abortion”? No, you need not bother protesting – your blushing gives you away.’
‘I do not wish to pick quarrels, Mary.’
‘Is that what you think this is, Anne? “Picking quarrels”? We are not in the nursery anymore. I am the Queen, and my husband is the King, and you are our heir, and there are those who will seek to make a property of you just as there were those that made a property of our poor cousin Monmouth!’
‘What has that to do with my Lady Marlborough and me?’
‘And now you pretend to be stupid – of course! You never change. Listen: this is what you will do: you will cancel that annuity—’
‘No.’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘No. It is up to me what I do with my own income.’
‘If you do not cancel the annuity, we will take half of your income away.’ ‘You cannot. It is not in your power. Parliament granted it to me.’ ‘Then I ask you as your sister.’ ‘No.’ ‘Then you do not love me.’
‘Mary. Don’t cry, please – I’ll cry too.’ ‘Only because I have vexed you. You don’t care.’ ‘Mary—’ ‘You are dismissed.’ ‘Mary.’ ‘Leave my presence.’ All Anne can do is to make a deplorable curtsy, and obey.
The Earl of Marlborough’s Dismissal
Next morning, the Earl of Marlborough, who is a Gentleman of the Bedchamber to the present King as he was to the last, takes his turn in waiting upon his master. The King accepts his shirt from him in absolute silence, but then he always does, so it is a shock to the Earl, only a little later on, when Nottingham calls upon him to give him the news that he is dismissed – from the bedchamber, from Court, from the army, from everything. There is no reason given by the King or Queen, so the Court tries to find out its own: Marlborough has been stirring up trouble in the army; the most compromising letters between him and King James have been discovered to the King; he has, through carelessness and his wife’s family connections with the Court in exile, caused damaging intelligence to reach the French; he has been caught taking excessive bribes and has been extorting money at every opportunity from officers under his command.
‘It is all lies,’ says Anne to Godolphin, through tears, ‘because surely the only true reason is that the King and Queen have no real friends in England and so they must needs deprive me of mine.’
A letter arrives at the Cockpit, unsigned, in an unknown hand. Its author, as a friend and well-wisher, desires to beg Anne to have a care of what she says before Lady Fitzharding: remember, the letter says, she is Lord Portland and Betty Villiers’ sister, and Anne may depend upon it that these two are not ignorant of what is said and done in her lodgings; it is for Anne to judge whether they make not their Court at her expense, by exposing her and preserving the King, as they take it. Anne must know that she is but an honourable prisoner, be
ing in the hands of the Dutch Guard, and if any violence were to be offered, what could her friends possibly do for her then? The King and Queen have been told that not a day has passed since Lord Marlborough’s being out, that Anne has not shed tears. Without a doubt, the Earl will be arrested as soon as the present Parliament is up, and if Anne does not part with his Lady of her own accord, she will be obliged to it. Lady Fitzharding is not sincere in her concern, and she is the confidant of poor, deluded Lady Marlborough. Should Anne slight this advice, the writer wishes she may not have leave to repent it. And by the way, it has been taken great notice of Lord Godolphin’s being at Lord Marlborough’s lodging so late the night he was turned out.
Anne cannot take such a letter as absolute proof of Lady Fitzharding’s treachery, so she does not confront her, though it seems reasonable enough to have a care of what she says in that lady’s presence from now on, and to encourage Sarah to do the same. She cannot take seriously any suggestion that violence might be offered her – Mary, even at her most unkind, would never, ever countenance such an act – but the other evil the letter warns her to expect, that she will be made to part with Lady Marlborough, seems all too likely an eventuality, and one that she resolves to do all in her power to prevent. William and Mary must understand that she simply will not tolerate any such interference in her own household: the Prince may have relinquished Lord Scarsdale when the late King ordered him to do, but that was all part of their pretended obedience to her father, and there were good reasons for it. Her sister and brother-in-law will have her sincere obedience, or no obedience at all.
A Want of Kindness Page 26
