The Queen's Favourites aka Courting Her Highness (v5)

by Jean Plaidy

  He wanted to be in the circle of his family; he wished momentarily that he and Sarah could have abandoned ambition, the quest for wealth and fame … everything … to go and spend their days quietly at St. Albans … together … all through the days and nights.

  Oddly enough he knew as they faced each other that Sarah felt the same—his wild tempestuous Sarah who could be tender only to him, and then rarely so. Yet, he told himself, for him her frequent anger made her occasional sweetness all the more precious.

  She clung to him now. “Oh, John,” she whispered, “there’ll be dangers over there.”

  “And here there’ll be dangers too. You will have to be careful of your behaviour, my love, for although I go to war with a ruthless enemy you stay behind in a country of tigers and wolves.”

  Sarah’s eyes glinted momentarily. “I’d like to see them attack me. Just let them try.”

  “They’ll try, Sarah. They’ll never cease to try.”

  “I shall be ready for them. Now that I have got young Abigail Hill to take over some of the more unpleasant duties I have more time for important affairs. I’m thankful for that girl, John. She does her task well. And she is respectful and grateful.”

  “As she should be.”

  “As she should be. She dare not be otherwise. But it is rarely that I have to remind her what I have done for her. She should serve me well. But I’ll reward her.”

  He touched her cheek lightly with his finger. “It is always well to reward a good servant.”

  She took his hand and kissed it. “You will think of me when you are away?”

  “Constantly.”

  “Let not thoughts of me turn you from those of war. I want this finished quickly. I want you back in England.”

  “You can be sure that I shall lose no time in hurrying to you.”

  “Oh, my love, these are great days.”

  “Yes,” he replied, “this will be warfare with a difference. I want to beat the French in the field and then march on to Paris to take their capital. That is the only way to beat the French.”

  “And you’ll have opposition to those plans, I’ll warrant.”

  “There is always opposition. To turn to Spain would be suicidal … and if we succeeded there no decision would have been reached.”

  “Well, John Churchill, I do not think you are the man to let others fight your wars for you.”

  “As usual my love is right.”

  When the hour for parting had come and he must set sail, leaving her behind, Sarah declared her intention of seeing him go aboard, for she was determined to be with him until the very last moment.

  “How I wish that I were coming with you!” she cried vehemently.

  “Ah, my love, then I should indeed be happy. But there are affairs at home which need your attention.”

  She nodded. “Have no fear. Sidney Godolphin will do as I wish and Harley seems amenable. I believe he is delighted that you selected him to join you. He as much as told me so.”

  “He’s a clever fellow whom we can’t afford to have as an enemy.”

  “I shall be watching them. I wish I didn’t have to listen to Morley’s gossip. Sometimes I could scream at the old fool to be silent.”

  “You must never do that, Sarah.”

  “I believe that woman would take anything … just anything from me.”

  “I beg you do not put it to the test.”

  “Oh, come, Marl, you can trust me.”

  “With all my heart, but you can be a little impetuous, my love.”

  “She dotes on me. Her stupid old face looks almost human when she sees me.”

  “She is not a fool, Sarah. She is a woman who successfully hides her true feelings as well as any. I’ve heard that said and I know it to be true.”

  “I know what her true feelings are for her beloved Mrs. Freeman, I do assure you.”

  “God bless you, Sarah. Take care of yourself and the family.”

  One last embrace. Then she must let him go. He stood on deck watching her; and she stood waving to him, praying earnestly, and what was so unusual, humbly. “Let him come safely back to me.”

  Marlborough held up his glass that he might see her for as long as possible; and when he could no longer see her he could only endure the parting by writing to her without delay.

  “I watched with my perspective glass for a long time in hopes that I might have another sight of you. At this moment I would give my life to come back to you.”

  “Hill,” said the Queen, “pray bathe my feet. They are most painful today.”

  Abigail inclined her head and in a few minutes was kneeling at the Queen’s feet with the silver bowl half full of water that was neither too hot nor too cold.

  Anne smiled placidly and lay back, her eyes closed.

  “That feels good,” she said. “Danvers is either too rough or afraid to touch me. You have magic in your hands, Hill.”

  “Your Majesty is so gracious to me.”

  “You’re a good creature.”

  “And the happiest in the world to give pleasure to Your Majesty.”

  “You’re quiet and there are times when I feel the need for quietness.”

  Abigail patted the feet dry, anointed them, powdered them and put them into the large and comfortable slippers.

  “Your Majesty feels better now?”

  “Greatly refreshed Hill. Did I hear Danvers scolding you this afternoon, my dear?”

  “She said I was in too constant attendance on Your Majesty.”

  “What nonsense!”

  Abigail folded her arms and struck a pose that was so like one of Mrs. Danvers’ that the Queen opened her eyes wide and laughed. “I do declare, Hill, you look exactly like her.”

  “ ‘Hill,’ ” mimicked Abigail, “ ‘you push yourself too much. Lady Marlborough has put you here to do those tasks which are not to her liking, but I have not asked you to take my place.’ ”

  “It’s Danvers to the life!” cried Anne.

  Abigail looked up meekly at an imaginary Danvers and murmured her excuses. Then greatly daring she pretended that Sarah had arrived and mimicked a scene between her and Danvers.

  She was almost afraid to look at the Queen. Had she gone too far? What would Anne’s reactions be to a little poking of fun at Sarah.

  “Clever little Hill!” murmured the Queen, smiling. It was a further step forward in their relationship.

  “Your Majesty,” said Abigail, “Mr. Masham left a message that the Prince was hoping to visit you this day.”

  “Then I am pleased, Hill. I trust this means that his breathing is a little better.”

  “Mr. Masham tells me that his breathing was much easier this morning and that he enjoyed his dinner.”

  “He is a good man, young Masham. I believe he is fond of the Prince.”

  “I am sure of it, Madam.”

  “He confides in you, does he?”

  “A little, Madam.”

  “Clever little thing. Now help make me ready to receive the Prince and then Hill you shall play some of your pieces on the harpsichord. Why, Hill, I am always discovering fresh talents in you. I am very fond of the harpsichord and I was telling the Prince what a pleasant touch you have.”

  Abigail was delighted with her progress in the bedchamber. If only Sarah would stay away for months. Then she would make a real advance.

  George, Prince of Denmark, came to his wife’s apartments accompanied by his page, Samuel Masham. There were signs in the Prince’s face of past good looks, but he had become so fat through an excessive fondness for good food and wine that he was now almost a ridiculous figure as he trundled painfully along, leaning on a jewelled-topped stick. He wheezed painfully, for he suffered greatly from asthma, but his expression was one of kindliness and a placidity which matched that of his wife.

  “My angel,” he said, his Danish accent obvious, for he had never tried to eradicate it. He was far too lazy. “I trust I find you better today.”

  “Y
es, my dearest. My good Hill has just made me comfortable. And you are wheezing less, I fancy. Come sit down here beside me so that I may see you clearly.”

  George sat down heavily in the chair which Abigail had set close to the Queen’s couch. He took the Queen’s hand, kissed it and retained it, stroking the beautifully white plump fingers admiringly. Even as he did so he nodded drowsily. He had drunk heavily and always found it hard to keep his eyes open in the afternoon—or at any time for that matter.

  “Dear George!” murmured Anne.

  He nodded happily. Then they were silent.

  He was such a good husband, Anne was thinking, but there was never anything to say to him, except: “My angel!” Or: “My dearest George.” Of course when their boy was alive they had had him to talk of and that had been the most engrossing subject in the world; but if they talked of their darling now it could only end in sadness. In actual fact it was so much more enlivening and amusing to talk to—or rather listen to—dearest Mrs. Freeman; it was much more pleasant to talk to that quiet little Hill who was turning out to be so clever.

  Anne yawned.

  In the ante room Abigail was smiling at Samuel Masham.

  “If you will forgive me the liberty,” he was saying, “I should like to say how well you are looking.”

  “I am well. And you?”

  He nodded and his eyes were brighter than usual. “It is pleasant without Madam Virago at Court.”

  Abigail opened her pale green eyes very wide and looked astonished.

  “I am sure you suffer at her hands more than most,” went on Samuel. “The Court seems quiet and peaceful. She will soon be back though. As soon as the Earl sails she will return.”

  Abigail lowered her eyes. She agreed with Samuel but she was not certain whether it was wise to speak of Lady Marlborough disparagingly here in the royal apartments. And she was determined to be discreet. It was true that Sarah Churchill was the most indiscreet woman in the country and she had not appeared to suffer for it, but Abigail was well aware that she could never follow in Sarah’s footsteps; she would have to go an entirely different way.

  “I am sure,” she said discreetly, “that Lady Marlborough will lose no time in returning to her duties.”

  Samuel too was discreet; and he would take his cue from Abigail, so he changed the subject. “I heard Her Majesty speak of you to the Prince the other day. She said that she was beginning to wonder what she would do without you.”

  Abigail was excited. If Anne spoke of her when she was not present then she must have made a deep impression on the royal mind.

  Samuel brought his head close to hers. “Of course,” he said, “more and more will depend on the good graces of The Lady. They are saying that the Triumvirate with the Queen behind it, will be all powerful. The Queen behind it! It is The Lady who is behind it. Marlborough, her husband! Godolphin, her daughter’s father-in-law! Harley their man! And the Queen completely in the hands of The Lady. Those of us who fail to please Madam will not long retain our posts.”

  “We shall have to be watchful to please,” murmured Abigail.

  “Hill!” called the Queen.

  Abigail came into the apartment where George had slumped forward in his chair and was breathing heavily. He had clearly fallen into a doze.

  “Hill, I wish for some music on the harpsichord.”

  “Certainly, Madam.”

  Abigail sat down and played. Anne beat time with her fingers.

  “Hill, one of the dogs wants to come up. Which one, I cannot see.”

  Abigail lifted the dog and set it on the Queen’s lap. Anne stroked it lovingly. “There, there! Listen to Hill’s playing. Is it not pleasant? Such a clever little thing! Go back to the harpsichord and play something lively.”

  Abigail obeyed and the Queen sat smiling at the straight little figure with the limp ginger hair dressed high in the fashion, at the straight back in the neat grey gown.

  Such a pleasant creature, she thought. Also so eager to please … as though it gives her pleasure to serve. Never strident. Always quiet. Oh dear, how I do miss my dearest Mrs. Freeman!

  George began to snore and she leaned forward and tapped him with the fan which lay on her lap.

  “Eh? Vat?” cried George.

  “You had fallen asleep, dearest. Listen to Hill’s playing. Such a good, clever creature.”

  “Very nice … Very nice,” murmured George sleepily.

  “A little music is very pleasant now and then. I cannot be grateful enough to my dear Mrs. Freeman for bringing me this good kind creature.”

  George scowled. He was not very pleased with the Freemans. He had had dreams of commanding the Navy or the Army and the Earl of Marlborough had been one of those who had put a stop to that ambition.

  “It is gut she’s away,” he grumbled. “She make too much noise.”

  Anne laughed. “Oh, that is Mrs. Freeman’s way.”

  “Don’t much like,” murmured George. “Nice, peaceful …” He waved a fat hand.

  “Well, George, there is something to be said for peace in one’s apartment, I do agree.”

  Abigail’s fingers faltered because her mind was so alert. But neither the Queen nor the Prince noticed it. She was thinking: The Prince resents the Marlboroughs. It’s a mild resentment because he is too lazy to feel deeply, but it is there and he’ll not forget it easily. The Marlboroughs were getting stronger and stronger and yet there was a place in the royal bedchamber for a quiet and soothing personality.

  “George, you are going to sleep again,” Anne was saying. “A little game of cards will keep you awake. Hill. Get the cards. Call in Masham. He plays a good hand. Then join us.”

  Abigail rose from the harpsichord, eager to obey.

  Anne smiled at her. The dear good creature!

  It was an uneasy summer. Marlborough was out of England fighting the French and Sarah watched constantly for news of him; without him to lay the restraining hand on her—he was the only one who dared do this—she was more blatantly outspoken than ever. She thought nothing of interrupting the Queen, hectoring her and even showing her irritation. She was nicknamed Queen or Viceroy Sarah. Anne meekly accepted her behaviour, and to Abigail’s secret chagrin it seemed to have no undermining effect on their relationship. How could she, wondered Abigail, after overhearing that most unkind and unwarranted attack over the gloves, ever feel the same towards Mrs. Freeman again. But apparently she did. What was the magnetic attraction of the woman that could have made a Queen all but grovel to her, and an ambitious libertine, as Marlborough had certainly been before he met her, become her devoted slave? Slave was a word one thought of when one considered people’s relationship with Sarah. She would wish to see us all her slaves! thought Abigail. She is invincible.

  But often an insistent voice within her said: Not quite. And when she listened to that voice, life became wonderfully exciting to Abigail.

  She took every opportunity of talking to Samuel Masham. They discussed affairs; it was surprising what that young man discovered; and he was always eager to impart what he knew to Abigail. There was no doubt, he told Abigail, that John Churchill was a brilliant soldier. He was a born leader; so calm, so serene, so courteous to all, yet he was always firmly in control and his men were ready to follow him to the death. Even those who envied his command grudgingly admitted that when he was engaged in war he showed a quality which might well be genius. Small wonder that Marlborough wanted to conduct a war against England’s enemies. Thus he would show the world his own greatness, and at the same time add to England’s stature.

  “Marlborough abroad, his lady at home …” mused Samuel. “They are invincible.”

  During that summer Marlborough drove the French from the Maas and the Lower Rhine. It was an achievement which put new hope into the hearts of the Allies and apprehension in those of the enemy.

  Sarah, as news of her husband’s triumphs was brought to her, grew more and more aggressive. Sometimes, though, when she received his
letters, she would take them to her private apartments and shed a few tears over them. His love for her was always the theme of those letters. He did not consider he had had any real success in the battlefield as yet, he told her, but he knew it would come. He was aware of the power within him, but everything he would give up—all hope of advancement and honour—for the sake of being with his dearest Sarah.

  Sarah allowed herself moments of tenderness when she kissed his letters and put them away to be re-read later. Then she set about making everyone aware that as the wife of the greatest genius living she received the respect due to her, and ranting through the apartments, quarrelling with everyone, she was a great trial to all.

  Even Anne would sigh sometimes and, when Sarah had left, send for Hill to soothe her with gentle massage and that wonderful gift of being able to listen. Hill would ask questions that had been asked before; would ask to hear what the Queen’s dear boy had done on such and such occasion although she had heard it many times before. Dear, kind Hill! Anne found herself thinking often. What a contrast to dear Mrs. Freeman. So odd that they should be related!

  “Your Majesty is very tired,” Hill would murmur.

  “So tired, Hill. So very tired.”

  “Lady Marlborough is so amusing. But I think her brilliant conversation has tired your Majesty.”

  “She is indeed brilliant, Hill. And how handsome she is! I declare it is a joy to look at her. I have so much to be thankful to her for, Hill.”

  “And she to Your Majesty.”

  “We have been friends since we were children, Hill. I was taken with her from the beginning and so happy when she wanted to become my friend. And one of the nicest things she ever did, was to bring you to me, Hill. There! Just soothe my brow. I have a headache and there is quite a magic in those fingers of yours.”

  Triumph … in a strange way, thought Abigail.

  Sarah had brought her daughter Elizabeth with her to Court. Elizabeth was just past fifteen and a charming girl. Sarah was fond of her because not only was she very beautiful and accomplished but she did not argue as Henrietta did, nor was she petulant like Mary. Elizabeth was a perfect daughter because she bore such a striking resemblance to her father. Anne was serene also, but her marriage to Sunderland had naturally made her withdrawn from her mother and Sarah was not completely satisfied with her daughter Anne; therefore, at this time, Elizabeth was her favourite. Young John, the Marquis of Blandford, now at Cambridge, was definitely in her bad books. It was not so much the fact that he wanted to go against her wishes but that he had dared consult his father and tried to form an alliance against her. That was something she would not tolerate.