A Want of Kindness

by Joanne Limburg

  Sometimes she feels she must be the most contemptible creature alive; at other times, when she reads over the unreasonable letters Mary has sent her, or looks into Lady Marlborough’s unjustly stricken face, she feels only outrage. They are neither of them being treated as they deserve. In her own household she is greeted with insolence and ingratitude. Lady Fitzharding is avoiding Lady Marlborough, which much increases her distress, and with it her mistress’s. One of the Prince’s servants, a Mr Maul, who only gained his place in the household because Lady Marlborough helped him to it, tries to prevail upon the Prince to dismiss that lady, then shows his resentment at his failure by waiting upon them at table in as unpleasant a manner as he can, slamming the meat in front of them and hurrying it away again, without a glance or a word. Anne, to vex him, lingers that bit longer over dinner. And yet it is not at all like her to make work hard for her servants: formerly her first thought was always to send them to dinner as soon as possible, so that they might be easy. She would always prefer to be kind; she does not know herself.

  News comes that the Jacobite fleet has been defeated. Anne does not bother to send her sister any compliment on her victory; neither does George trouble to pay his in person. They could not offer them with much sincerity; neither do they suppose that the Queen would accept them. Never mind: if Mary will not relent towards them, they can at least hope, now the immediate threat is passed, that the Marlboroughs’ condition will improve.

  It does, but not before it pleases God to worsen it. Their youngest child, their son Charles, is taken gravely ill. Sarah rushes from London to St Albans, in hopes that he might be saved, but nothing can be done. Knowing well what Sarah suffers, and not wishing to inflame further the grief she must already feel, Anne forbears from saying too much on the subject, but makes an offer to visit whenever Sarah will have her. She is now able to go up and down stairs so if dear Mrs Freeman will only give her leave she can come any time . . . but Sarah does not ask for her, and when the Earl is released in June they retire to St Albans, there to grieve in private.

  The Duke of Gloucester’s Birthday

  The issue on little William’s head is kept open, but more in hope than for any other reason, for it has not prevented his head from becoming oversized; neither has it reduced the frequency of his illnesses. Every time she hears he is ill again, the Queen sends messengers to see how he does and if Anne is there, they walk straight past her as if she were any rocker. It is no help to her to be the Queen’s nephew’s mother.

  On the other hand, it does no hurt to William to be her estranged sister’s son. He has retained his guard, and receives every courtesy due to his rank. The Queen sometimes has him brought to her when he is well. She gives him the most lavish presents, and makes sure that every one of them is mentioned in the Gazette. Her latest gift to him, for his third birthday, is a miniature tool set, with every piece carved in ivory. Anne and George are staying with him at Campden House when it arrives. However angry Anne may be with Mary, she cannot help but acknowledge the perfection of the gift, and share a little of her son’s very obvious pleasure in it.

  ‘How clever of the Queen,’ she says to him, ‘to know that you wish to be a carpenter.’ ‘I think Lewis must have wrote a letter,’ he says. He only sounds a little bit Welsh. ‘He told her which tools were best. He knows about tools and he taught me so now I know as well.’

  ‘Then you both have the advantage of me, for I am afraid I do not know anything about them at all.’

  ‘Do you not? Never mind, Mama, I will teach you. Come and sit with me at my table.’

  Anne does as she is told. Her boy takes the tools up one by one and passes them to her, naming them as he does so.

  ‘This is a hatchet. This is a handsaw. This is a brace and this is its bit. This is a hammer. This is a mortise chisel – now, this looks a bit the same but it is not, because actually it is a paring chisel. This—’

  ‘Wait! Wait, my darling! Your mama is not clever like you, she cannot take in so much new knowledge at such speed! Before we go on, I must see if I have this correctly: now this – this is a brace?’

  ‘No, no, no, Mama – it is the bit! The bit!’ He sighs and shakes his head. ‘I am afraid you are not being such a good scholar today. I do not think you listen. You will not learn, you know, if you do not listen.’

  ‘I beg your pardon.’

  ‘I will not punish you, but there is no good teaching you today. Instead I must mend this table which is not suitable.’

  ‘May I stay and watch?’

  ‘Yes, but you must not talk.’

  ‘Very well, but that will be a trouble to me, for I do love to talk with you. I wish I could bring you with me to Bath.’

  ‘I said no talk, Mama. No talk.’

  Letter from the Earl of Nottingham, Secretary of State, to the Mayor of Bath

  Whitehall, 30th August 1692

  The Queen has been informed that yourself and your Brethren have attended the Princess to the Same Respect of Ceremony, as has been usually paid to the Royal Family. Perhaps you may not have heard the occasion Her Majesty has had to be displeased with the Princess, and therefore I am commanded to acquaint you that you are not for the Future to pay Her Highness any such Respect or Ceremony, without leave from Her Majesty who does not doubt of receiving from you and your Brethren this public mark of your Duty.

  Your most humble servant

  Nottingham

  Anne is Pardoned

  Dear Lord, I find once more I must beg your forgiveness for the neglect of my private devotions these past months. In truth this move to Berkeley House has been far more troublesome than I ever could have imagined; Lady Berkeley has so drawn matters out with her demands and complaints and being always so generally unreasonable and out of temper that we almost changed our minds and took a house in Hampstead instead, but at last she has decided to be satisfied with what she has at the Cockpit and to permit us – permit us, mind! – to use the rooms we need here for our household. So now all is installed, although it does still smell of paint, which in some parts of the house is strong enough to make one nauseous – but I am here for the winter, and I thank you, and I shall forbear from complaining more.

  Grant me I pray the grace to bear my troubles patiently. I cannot help but find it a most melancholy thing to be on this other side of St James’s Park, looking across at the Palace that was once my home, but where I cannot now go except on the most unreasonable conditions – and since the King and Queen must know that I will never accept them, whatever they say to the contrary, they have as good as banished me. We have but little company here to divert us: only my Lord Shrewsbury comes to play cards, but he is out of office, so he knows it can do him no hurt. Also I am honoured – if that is the word – with visits from the likes of Lord Ailesbury and his Lady and others of the Jacobite party; I know what hopes they have of me and I fear they will be disappointed in them. My father will ever remain a Papist and I have no more respect for that religion and no more desire to see England and the Church under siege from it than I ever did. I know which is the true Church and I will never be swayed from it, not even if I were to undergo a million tortures.

  I did not write to the late King because I wanted him back, but because he is my father, and I knew very well how I had wronged him and I desired more than anything to beg his pardon for it. His letter which I have lately had by my Lord Marlborough is the greatest comfort to me, for he says in it that he understands how truly penitent I am, and he has given me his pardon, and expressed sincere satisfaction at what he says is my return to my duty.

  Of course he also says how he would desire me to deserve his forgiveness by my future actions, and as I do not know what to say to that I have not written back, though he has offered his pardon to Marlborough too, and says he will trust him to send him back any letters on my behalf. I do not know what to say, and in truth now that an invasion seems so much mo
re unlikely than it did, I am no longer plagued with fears of punishment at my father’s hands. Of your forgiveness, Lord, I know I can never be sure. For the mercies you have already shown me I am truly thankful; I beg that you will grant me the grace to deserve more, so that you will not be compelled to chastise me too much in the days to come.

  In Bed with the Denmarks

  There is some small disturbance going on outside Berkeley House: drunken shouts, running feet, the watchman’s bell ringing. It is enough to wake both the Denmarks, who have been sleeping together in Anne’s bedchamber, according to their peculiar habit.

  ‘Did you hear what hour it is, my dear?’

  ‘No, George. He was not telling the hour – he was after some rogue or other.’ ‘Again? That is the third night together. It was not like this at Syon.’ ‘No, but we could not stay there, and we must make the best of it . . . anyway I think I will have watched more than slept tonight, even without the noise.’

  ‘Why is that? Is it your pains?’

  ‘They are not so bad – and I’ve not seen any blood since yesterday. I have taken the new medicine again and I swear it is doing me more good than anything.’ ‘That medicine. I am of Mrs Freeman’s mind – you should tell your doctors about it. Heaven knows what is in it.’

  ‘Why should I? They would only tell me not to just because they did not think of it themselves, and you are as desirous of children as I am, so why should you not want me to try a thing I’ve heard so much good of? I am sure it can do me no harm. If the child is weak I hope it may strengthen it, and if it be loosened it will not stop it for many days.’

  ‘As you wish, my dear.’

  ‘It is not my pains that keep me awake. It is that letter – I cannot forbear from thinking about it and whenever I do, I get so mightily vexed.’

  ‘You mean the one I had out of my own country? But I have already said: we are of a mind that it is none of my brother’s business, and I will write to tell him so. Why must you keep troubling yourself about it?’

  ‘Because of Caliban – ’tis plain he is behind it – why else would your brother ask us to reconcile with them? What business is it of his?’

  ‘As I said, none. And I will tell him so. Stop troubling yourself.’

  ‘It is none, but to be sure Caliban will endeavour by all ways that can be thought on to make us yield rather than make one step towards it himself—’

  ‘True, but—’

  ‘—and if I – if we – ever make the least step, may I – we – be as great a slave as he would make us if it were in his power!’

  ‘We are not about to be slaves, my love. Put it out of your mind.’

  ‘I only wish I could, but you know how it is with me and such ugly matters: they get inside my head, and then I never can be rid of them.’

  23rd March 1693

  The patent medicine Anne has been taking does not work quite as well as advertised, for when spring arrives her pains come back with it. They wake her rudely every morning; sometimes they attack her knees and ankles, sometimes her hips – sometimes, for a change, her wrists and hands – wherever they are, she is mightily on the rack.

  On those days when she has been sleeping alone and wakes too early for George to be disturbed, she calls Danvers to help her out of her bed and into her easy chair, where she might arrange herself comfortably enough to try and sleep a little longer. She will dream, and start awake, and then dream a little again, until it is time for chocolate, and for prayers. One morning, she is startled out of a most agreeable dream of walking with Sarah through the orchards at Holywell by a catching in her limbs: they have woken by themselves, and without her will or leave, they are dancing a lively jig, such as Anne has not been able to do on her own account for a good many months, if not years already. After a short space the dancing stops, leaving Anne very much frighted. As soon as she can, she writes to Sarah to ask her to send Dr Radcliffe. She is glad that none of her women were in the room, for had they been, they would quite certainly have told other women in other households, who would tell their mistresses, who would then tell their friends, who would tell it to malicious people, who would then spread a rumour abroad that she has got fits.

  When Dr Radcliffe comes, Anne makes a tearful confession of her secret medicine-taking, for which he scolds her, because he is certain that it is the cause of her limbs convulsing, since she has never been afflicted in that way before. He has the bottle brought to him, so that he may destroy it himself, and says he will have Anne’s apothecary make up some pills for her out of rue and castor, to prevent further convulsions. He cannot promise Anne that the child has not been harmed by her foolish actions. And so the old, melancholy qualms come back, and before the week is out she has miscarried and then there is another dead daughter to bury.

  What a Good English Prince Knows About Warfare

  As soon as Anne has recovered sufficiently to go abroad, she makes a visit to her son at Campden House. She arrives to find him exercising his troops in the gardens. Lady Fitzharding is watching proceedings from a chair at the top of the front steps. She cedes the chair to Anne at once, and orders another.

  ‘So these are the Duke’s Horse Guards, that I have heard so much of.’

  ‘Yes, Your Highness.’

  ‘What are those weapons they are carrying? Surely not—’

  ‘Only wooden swords – they can do no harm with those. And they wear paper caps.’

  William has had his troops line up, and is walking up and down in front of them. He stops in front of one boy, who at once salutes, and straightens his hat.

  ‘It is a pity we could not sit a little closer, Your Highness, so that you could hear how His Highness talks to his men – it is a near-perfect imitation of the King!’

  Anne laughs. ‘These days, when my son speaks, more often than not, it is the King’s words I hear. “Soldiering is better than carpentry, Madam, and a thing most fit for princes.”’

  ‘His Highness so loves to wait on the King. It is very hard to settle him when he comes back: His Majesty has a way of speaking to him as if he were a man already, and he does not care to be a boy again after that.’

  ‘Perhaps it is just as well then, that His Majesty only comes back into England when he desires more funds for his war.’

  Lady Fitzharding says nothing. Anne recalls how close her son’s governess is to the Queen, and wishes, too late, that she had bitten her tongue.

  ‘Who is that who walks behind my boy?’

  ‘His Aides-de-Camp, Madam. The boy is young George Lawrence, and the man, of course, is Lewis.’

  ‘Lewis is such a very good friend to William.’

  ‘Indeed, he is, but he is not His Highness’s tutor, and he is wont to forget that.’

  ‘Does it do so much harm, that Jenkin Lewis should tell him what he knows of – of fortification and Caesar and the like, when that is the stuff His Highness most loves to speak of?’

  ‘There might well be no harm, Your Highness, except that he pretends to teach him mathematics and such things, which are more properly left to Reverend Pratt, and then I have Pratt complain to me that His Highness will not listen to him, and tells him that, in his opinion, Lewis is the better tutor!’

  Anne laughs. ‘He will come about. It is only that Lewis is such an old friend to my boy, and Reverend Pratt so newly arrived here. I do not think any worse of my boy that he is so loyal to his friends.’

  The troops disperse, and William comes over to make his compliment to his mother. Anne cannot help noticing how unsteady he is on his feet still, and when she sees how the other boys – fine, strong fellows all – can run and jump about, there is that familiar little bite in her heart. For all his soldierly ambition, her son still refuses to go up and down stairs by himself.

  When William makes his bow, he stumbles a little, and reaches for Lewis’s arm, to steady himself again.


  ‘There is no need to look like that, Mother – I am perfectly well, only that was not one of my best bows. Lewis, why are women so easily frighted?’

  Lady Fitzharding scolds William for showing his mother so little respect, and tells Lewis to take him off and change him into clean clothes, so that he might appear to his mother properly attired, and with the like manners.

  ‘“Women are easily frighted”,’ Anne repeats. ‘I do believe I have heard the King say just that.’

  ‘Perhaps he had it from Lewis. He depends too much on him. Did you see how quickly His Highness grabbed his arm, when he had barely stumbled?’

  ‘Who else’s arm would he have grabbed, when it was Lewis who stood behind him? I am sure he depends every bit as much on his nurses, his footmen . . .’

  ‘He seems to regard Lewis and his footmen as his private guard: last time the surgeons came to blister him, he called for them to come and fight the scoundrels off!’

  When William returns, with two of his footmen, he makes a perfect bow, and waits very properly to be given permission to sit.

  ‘I am told that you are having all manner of lessons now,’ Anne says. ‘What has Master Pratt been teaching you?’

  ‘Master Pratt has taught me Mathematics and History and Greek and other such things – though he does not know as much about war as Lewis does. Lewis told me only today that it need not matter that the King lost at Neerwinden, or that the navy did at Lagos. Lewis says that when the war is won the country will forget all the losses and all the expense and honour the King as they should. It is true that the King is not strong, but that does not matter because a General’s best weapon is his mind.’

  ‘Very true,’ says Lady Fitzharding, ‘but now you must tell your mother what Master Pratt has taught you.’