If you are indeed punishing me, I know full well what it is for and I have always known. I have wondered often if you have not hardened my heart like you did Pharaoh’s, as it was all part of your design for the freeing of the Israelites from bondage, and so was the slaying of his first born; I do believe what I did, I did to free this country from Papist tyranny, but I had to break a Commandment to do it, and we have all suffered for it – myself, my poor sister, who for all her faults – her unkindness and ingratitude – was I believe as good and sincere a servant of yours as ever lived. Do you also punish me for my disobedience to her? Would you have had me betray a friend who has always been so good and loyal to me? Surely that would have been at least as much of a sin: Lady Marlborough is a member of my household and as such she is in my care – that I understand, that I am sure of.
She and her Lord have been my consolation through all these trials – and do not begrudge me that, I beg you. I had hoped she would be with me more now that he is made Privy Councillor, but it has not been so. Still she has shown her goodness by sending her cousin Hill to be my bedchamber woman and she is so capable, so kind, so discreet, so thoroughly pleasant a young woman that I am sure Lady Marlborough must have done herself a hurt in parting with her. I am thankful for both of them, for the Prince who loves me and is always so kind – for my boy too, of course. I pray you preserve his life – and as for his mother, let her pray also that you might make her at ease in the next world, for she knows she must not expect it long together in this one.
Anne’s Bedchamber Woman
Kind, quiet, plain Abigail Hill – Anne has every day more reason to be thankful for her. Before she has been a few months in Anne’s service, she seems to understand the needs of her mistress’s heart and person as thoroughly as if she had spent a lifetime waiting on her. She has a way of knowing, without being told, when Anne is in pain, and will appear by her side, discreetly whispering, is Her Highness uncomfortable? Would she like assistance to move to another chair? To her bed? Does she require some of the medicine that Dr Lower prescribed? Some laudanum, perhaps? Some more cold tea? Her touch is as gentle as her voice, and Anne will have no-one else to put ointment on her gouty limbs, or to change her bandages.
Hill is a better nurse than poor Danvers, and better company than any Lady Charlotte. She plays the harpsichord beautifully, and is a fine mimic too. Her impersonation of Lady Marlborough is a marvel – so wonderfully exact in tone and gesture that Anne is almost moved to write to Sarah and tell her about it, but something tells her she had better not. She would never want her Mrs Freeman to think she was in any danger of being replaced. Even though Anne sees her so seldom, that would be unthinkable.
‘I am writing again to your cousin, Hill,’ she says. ‘Shall I write that you send her your compliments?’
‘Yes, thank you, Your Highness. Always. I take it you have received a reply from my Lady?’
‘Yes – and it pains me to say so, but – and you must not tell anyone, Hill – I fear we are at odds.’
‘Your Highness and her Ladyship? Forgive me, but I cannot believe it.’
‘Tell me, Hill, when you were with the family at Holywell, did you ever have cause to meet the Sunderlands?’
‘Yes, often – Lady Marlborough was even kind enough to introduce me to them. And I have accompanied her Ladyship to Althorp more than once.’
‘I see. And what did you make of them?’
‘I found my Lady Sunderland to be a very pleasant lady.’
‘Oh, she is certainly charming. And what of him?’
‘I did not have so much to do with the Earl, Your Highness.’
‘What of their son? Lord Charles Spencer – have you seen him?’
‘I cannot recall.’
‘Well, if you had, you would recall a young man with no more genteelness than a porter, with a face all over smallpox scars, and so Whiggish withal he would have Parliament in the King’s place – indeed no King at all – and this is the man Lady Marlborough would marry Lady Anne to. I cannot like it.’
‘I am sorry, Your Highness.’
‘And I know I have displeased Lady Marlborough by saying so, but I cannot but think it would be a most dreadful mistake, and if I tell her so it is only out of the greatest respect and kindness that I have for her.’
‘I am sure no-one could ever have had more kindness for anyone than you have for her Ladyship, Your Highness.’
‘Why that is just what I am always saying to her, Hill! How well you know me!’
‘You flatter me, Your Highness.’
‘Dear Hill – I shall tell you something else – but of course you will know that I have missed my courses for two months now.’
‘I did notice, Your Highness, and I was pleased at it. If I may ask – are you feeling well with it?’
‘As well as I ever do. You will take good care of me, won’t you Hill?’
‘Of course, Your Highness. It will be my pleasure.’
This Latest Mortification
For much of the time, Anne and William are able to avoid each other, and thus remain cordial. She spends her summers in Windsor; he spends his in Holland, at Het Loo, looking out over his late wife’s finest garden. When they are compelled to be nearer each other, they have bad health on both sides as a ready excuse for neither waiting nor receiving: Anne has her perpetual childbearing and her worsening gout, William has his failing lungs and swollen legs. It seems that Anne might outlive him after all, and that will be her Sunshine Day.
This afternoon, however, is the King’s birthday, so she must sit next to him at the dining table at Kensington Palace, listening to his disgusting eating noises. He has served her a fresh morsel of resentment to gag upon, for here is the poor Prince, whose brother the King of Denmark has only recently died, compelled – as she has also been – to put off his mourning and attend the King, all in bright colours, and in full view. It is too humiliating – worse than that, it is unkind.
And it is as it always is when they dine with the King: the Prince puts himself out to engage the King in conversation, the King rebuffs him, and it breaks Anne’s heart. She has learned to arm herself against William’s baleful stare, but George is still put as much out of countenance by it as she once was, when she sat at a table in Holland, gabbling about tulips.
‘Sire,’ George begins. Oh dear. ‘I did mean to tell you, I have lately finished another model ship – I thought you might do me the honour of taking it for your closet in Kensington – it is one of your Dutch fleet, the Vreekheed.’
‘It is pronounced “Vrijheid”, and thank you but no: I have quite enough models for my closet.’
‘Our son will be delighted to have it,’ says Anne. ‘He is always delighted by your beautiful models.’
‘Gloucester will do more than build models,’ says the King. ‘Such a great understanding already – a natural admiral.’
Anne decides to overlook the fresh insult to her husband. She swallows down all the things she would like to say, and says thank you instead. She would like to ask the King if he ever means to hand over the rest of the money that Parliament granted for her son’s household; she would like to ask when her husband is to be paid back for the lands he surrendered ten years ago; she would like to ask him why he must always be so uncivil, and unpleasant, and inhospitable to all but his Dutch friends – but they dine in public today, the Court leans in on all sides, and even if they were alone, and she did dare raise such questions, no possible good could come of it.
Then the King surprises her, and everybody else. He speaks, unbidden, to her.
‘Madam, I have a request to make of you: it has long been on my mind that we have had no drawing-rooms here since the late Queen died, and for a long time I did not think it right that we should have any, but now I think differently – we shall hold them again every week – with cards, and so forth – and Madam, you
will be the hostess. You must preside.’
‘It will be an honour, Sir,’ says Anne. From now on she will do her duty every week, and every week she will hate it, though it will become a little less excruciating after the drink is served.
25th January 1700
Sometimes Anne has an apprehension that she is to be disappointed again, and in such cases she is able to arm herself a little, but this is a calamity of the crueller, more unexpected kind. She dines, she prays, she spends a pleasant evening at cards, then she retires, and two hours later is delivered of a stillborn son. Her seventeenth delivery, her eighteenth child – or nineteenth, depending on the reckoning.
From the Princess of Denmark to the Countess of Marlborough, in gratitude for her Lord’s good offices in securing a repayment for the Prince
St James’s Palace, February 15, 1700
I was once going to endeavour to thank your Lord myself for what was done last night concerning the Prince’s business, it being wholly owing to your and his kindness, or else I am sure it would never have been brought to any effect but I dearst not do it, for fear of not being able to express the true sense of my poor heart, and therefore I must desire my dear Mrs Freeman to say a great deal both for Mr Morley and myself and though we are poor in words, be so just as to believe we are truly sensible and most faithfully yours, and as for your faithful Morley she is more if it be possible than ever, my dear dear Mrs Freeman’s.
The Duke’s Eleventh Birthday
Gloucester’s birthday feast is over for another year: the fireworks are spent, the bells have finished pealing, gardeners are snuffing out the lanterns that have blazed so prettily in the trees, and servants are moving through the Great Hall, clearing away what remains of the banquet. It is time for Anne, George and Gloucester to retire.
‘And far too late for you, I think,’ she says to her son, ‘for you look quite worn out!’ ‘It will do him no harm,’ says George, ‘and he enjoyed himself – you did enjoy yourself, son, did you not?’
‘Very much, Sir. It has been a wonderful day: only the presence of the King could have made it better. I wish he would not spend every summer in Holland – he always misses my birthday.’
There are many things Anne might wish to say, but she knows better than to say them, especially when Bishop Burnet stands at her elbow. It is the Bishop who breaks the silence.
‘But Your Highness must surely wish the King to be well, and these summers in Holland have a most restorative effect on him. We must all be grateful for that.’
‘I suppose we must. But I do wish that, if he could not remain here, he might sometimes take me with him.’
‘When you are older, perhaps. For now, you must try to be patient: I do believe you are old enough to understand how melancholy His Majesty finds his English palaces, since the Queen departed them.’
Gloucester nods. ‘Yes, I understand that, and besides he has no wars to fight, and his Dutch Guards are all gone, and now Parliament has taken almost all his army away, and he has told me himself, that a General without an army is a miserable creature.’
‘I am sure he will send for you when he returns,’ says Anne, ‘and then you may have more discourse with him. Now have your Gentlemen take you to bed.’
‘Very well, Mama. In truth, I am perfectly content to retire, for I find I am afflicted a little with a headache – but it is only a little headache, Mama – so I am certain that a good night’s sleep will cure it.’
30th July 1700
‘Your Highness? Your Highness, are you asleep?’
Anne opens her eyes and sees three women standing dismally by her bed: Danvers, Hill, one of the Ladies Charlotte. This is not good. ‘Hill? Why do you stand like that? Is there bad news?’ Hill looks at the other two, as if to beg their pardon for what she is about to say. ‘It is Gloucester, Madam – he is taken ill.’
Anne stirs herself at once with a vigour she thought never to have again. ‘Then do not stand there! Dress me! Dress me straight away!’ The women move then, but not nearly fast enough: no, Anne does not care which shoes are brought, she does not wish her hair to be dressed, and must they be so nice over every little thing? No, she will not wait for a chair with short poles – Danvers and Hill must walk either side of her so she might lean upon them, and that way they will reach Gloucester’s rooms the quicker.
George is already in his son’s chamber. His face, his demeanour, are a study in dismay. Not so Gloucester’s: he looks peevish, almost angry. He beckons Anne over and whispers into her ear.
‘Mother, they wish to bleed me, but it is all nonsense – I am only tired after yesterday, so that accounts for the headache and the fever, and my sore throat is surely from talking to so many people, and if I feel sick it is only because I was such a glutton at the feast – tell them they must not bleed me.’
Anne puts her hand to his forehead, which feels to her as it often did in Campden House days, hot and moist.
‘Darling, you must forgive me – I know it is always tempting to be one’s own physician, but it is better to heed the proper ones.’
It is a pity that the chief physician on duty should be the Catholic Dr Harris, but the King thinks highly of him, and the King is very critical when it comes to physicians. Anne is attending to her son, who has burst into tears, but the man is set on taking her aside, so she gives her place to George, and goes to talk to him.
‘I am sorry, Your Highness, but I must tell you what I have told the Prince already, which is to say I fear this is a lapse of that illness that we had thought long outgrown.’
‘I thought as much.’ She lowers her voice. ‘Is my boy in danger?’
‘We must pray he is not. We shall watch him today and if the fever has not abated by tomorrow, then he must be bled.’
They bleed him the following morning, and although he is weak, he bears it with fortitude. At first it appears to have succeeded admirably, for the Duke’s blood is instantly cooled. He is able to take a little nourishment, to talk quite reasonably with his parents and his tutor, and to sleep comfortably. It seems there might be no need to pray after all, except to give thanks, but then the evening comes, and the fever rises again. For a little while his condition is as bad as it was, and then it is worse: the Duke is talking gibberish, and he no longer knows anyone.
Desperate now, Anne sends for Dr Radcliffe. He bursts into the chamber in his old, rude fashion, neglecting to make any compliment to her and demanding to know what remedies have been tried.
‘You let blood!’ he shouts. ‘Then you have destroyed him – and you may finish him, for I will not prescribe.’
He tries to leave, but Anne begs him not to, and because he is not entirely devoid of pity, and she weeps so very much, he stays. He has the surgeon apply blisters. The fever rises again. They have eight physicians in the chamber with them now, and Bishop Burnet, and Dr Pratt, and Compton. The Duke is thrown in and out of sleep; he tosses himself this way and that in the bed, and cries, and now and then he shouts. The doctors pour potions down him, order him to be blistered, or cupped, and in between times they argue. The clergy encourage Anne to pray. Since Dr Radcliffe arrived, her composure has amazed everybody, but by Sunday she has borne too much, and she falls into a swoon. Radcliffe sends her out.
It is not for him to keep her out. She returns on Monday. Dr Harris approaches her and tells her that there is hope today: His Highness’s breathing seems to have eased a bit, and his pulse is mending. Anne looks at Radcliffe: he shrugs.
‘I have told Dr Harris we might apply more blisters,’ he says. ‘We can do no more harm to him now.’
She does not ask Dr Radcliffe what he means by this, but she nods to Dr Harris. So the boy is blistered, then they watch again for a short while, then his breathing turns convulsive, he cannot swallow anymore, his speech grows ever wilder, his cries more piteous, his movements more violent. Anne keeps hold of his hand.
She is quite composed again: it is quite clear now that they are coming to the end. It is what God has all along intended, and no less than she deserves.
Settlement
George meets Sarah at the door of Anne’s chamber. He has the look of a man who has not slept for days together, who has spent the time weeping instead. ‘We thought she was with child again,’ he says, ‘but we were wrong, and now she has a fever, her heart is quite broken, she will see nobody—’
‘In that case, Your Highness, I ought not—’
‘—except for me, and you. She has been asking for you – no physician, no divine – only for you, Madam. Only you.’ The Prince shuffles off in the direction of his chamber, where the bottles will be lined up and waiting.
There is only one candle lit in the chamber: it is as dark as if it had been burrowed out of the earth; there is a strong smell, composed mostly of unwashed linen and brandy, but with a touch of blood in there, and with it a tincture of sickness. It forces on Sarah the remembrance of other rooms, in which she has watched a parent or a child die, or lain by herself and grieved. She knows what it is to be in Anne’s condition – she pities her sincerely – but she does not mean to join her in it. She is here to be of use, and they will both feel better for her usefulness.
A Want of Kindness Page 32
