Виктория Холт - Courting Her Highness

“Resignation. This is my son … my only son!”

He did not remind her that the boy was his son too. He was wonderfully gentle and she clung to him in her despair which, even at such a time, was tempered by rage. What right had death to threaten her son—her only son who would one day have been the Duke of Marlborough?

She was suddenly overcome by fear. “John, you must take care. You must not go near him. There could be an even greater blow than this.”

She looked into his face and he saw the fear there and he marvelled that she of whom it had been said she cared for neither God nor man could care so much for him.

He turned away; his emotions were betraying him.

John Churchill, sixteen-year-old Lord Blandford, died at Cambridge and was buried in King’s College Chapel.

Sarah was bewildered by her grief and astonished all by her quietness. She and the Duke went to their home in St. Albans and remained quietly there. John was the only one who could make any attempt to comfort Sarah and he must soon make preparations to join his army which had been delayed by the death of his son.

Sarah wandered from room to room. She could not believe that young John was dead. It was so short a time since he was pleading to become a soldier.

She who had never attempted to control her rage and arrogance, now could not control her grief. She would throw herself on to her bed and sob so wildly that it was feared she would injure her health. If only there had been someone on whom she could have vented her wrath she would have felt better. But how could she shake her fist and insult Providence; how could she warn Death that she would have her revenge on him for flouting Sarah Churchill’s wishes.

“My dearest,” soothed the Duke, “we will have another son.”

“He is dead … he is dead … he is dead.… And soon you will go from me.”

“I shall be back with you soon.” She clung to him, weeping bitterly.

Her beautiful complexion was blotched with tears; her blue eyes once so bold and flashing were red and swollen with so much crying.

The servants said: “She will lose her reason if she goes on giving way to grief in this way.”

The Queen who had heard the news immediately wrote to express the sympathy of Mrs. Freeman’s poor unfortunate faithful Morley. “Christ Jesus comfort and support you under this terrible affliction, and it is His Mercy alone that can do it.”

When Sarah read the letter she threw it from her.

“Poor unfortunate Morley!” she cried. “Now I suppose we must sit together mingling our maudlin memories. Does she compare that big-headed boy of hers with my Blandford.”

The Duke suppressed the impulse to restrain her. Let her rant against the Queen. At least it had turned her thoughts from her son’s death.

She hated her relationship with the Queen; she hated the cloying affection, the protestations of fidelity and devotion. Yet, it was due to the Queen’s love for Sarah that they had come so far.

When Sarah was calmer he must warn her of her attitude towards the Queen. He could understand how she found Anne a bore, how she disliked making a show of affection she could not feel, but the Queen’s approval was necessary to any ambitious man or woman.

But at the moment let her rage against the Queen. It was an outlet for her grief.

And from that moment it seemed that Sarah grew a little more resigned.

The Court was peaceful without Sarah; and peace was what Anne really enjoyed. She had never greatly cared for balls and banquets. She was too infirm to dance; so was George; and as for banquets—one enjoyed food, but more so when it was eaten comfortably in one’s own apartments. Of course it was not always possible to eat in comfort. There must be state occasions; one must eat in public. But when she remembered the Court of her uncle Charles II she realized how different was her own. William had set the mode in Courts which could hardly be called by the name. He had spent as much time as was possible in more or less retirement at Hampton or Kensington, making gardens and superintending building; and had only come up to London for council meetings when absolutely necessary. But the people had not liked William; and whenever he had appeared he had never added to the gaiety of the occasion. They had never cheered him and even now drank toasts to The Little Gentleman in Black Velvet. It was different with herself. They knew that she was a martyr to the gout and the dropsy; they knew that she had had to be carried to her coronation; but they had never heard scandal about her private life. They saw her with the Prince and to see them together was to know how devoted they were to each other. The Prince took no mistresses; the Queen took no lovers. Even William had had one mistress and there had been a mild scandal about Mary and Shrewsbury. But Queen Anne and her consort remained the perfect example of conjugal bliss.

Sovereigns set manners. There had never been a more profligate period than that of Charles II. Why? Because he made no secret of the mistresses, of whom he kept many at a time; he would saunter through St. James’s Park with them and his dogs and acknowledge the greetings of the passers-by as he did so. The whole of London speculated as to which was most important to his comfort; and the names of Cleveland, Portsmouth, Mancini, Moll Davies and Nell Gwyn were on every tongue.

The people had so loved the scandal their King provided that they forgave him everything else, but it had been so because they had lived through the dreary years of puritanism and needed a violent change. Now that was over; and they wanted to settle down with a good and virtuous woman as their figurehead.

Anne often thought of this as she sat fondling her little dogs.

I want to be a good ruler, she assured herself. I want to be remembered as Good Queen Anne.

She must rouse herself. She was not going to be persuaded to what she did not want to do by anyone … anyone. That was a fact she would make clear in her own way, which was not to quarrel with a person’s opinion. She loathed quarrelling. It demanded too much energy and it was pointless. She was the Queen and she would have her way—only she wanted people to realize it without a great deal of discussion.

To set a good example to her people; to do good; to make England great. What a pleasant subject to contemplate while her dear little dogs nuzzled against her and she nibbled sweetmeats from the dish at her elbow, or sipped a cup of chocolate, or simply lay back contentedly while the efficient and most skilful hands of Abigail Hill massaged her swollen limbs.

George came into the Queen’s apartments, more animated than usual and with him he brought an odd pair—a country man and a woman, in all possibility his wife—who looked so incongruous in the Windsor apartments that Anne was startled.

Abigail who had been playing the harpsichord stopped and turned to watch; Anne’s attention was all for her husband and the odd little pair.

“My dearest,” cried George, “I must present to you these good people. This is John Duddlestone of Bristol and this his good wife. You remember, my dear, vot I haf told you of the gootness of John Duddlestone.”

Anne smiled at the pair of them, who seemed struck dumb, and said, “John Duddlestone, my dearest? Of Bristol?”

“You remember, my love.” He turned to them. “The Queen is so goot. She remember everything I tell her … and she likes much those who haf shown me the kindness.”

Anne mildly wished that George would express himself more clearly and come to the point, but she sat smiling graciously, never betraying by a fleeting expression that she had no notion who these people were.

Abigail, watching, thought then that it would be a great mistake to dismiss the Queen as a foolish woman. She was by no means so. Physical debility might make her seem lazy, amenable; but it was not so. Anne was so like many calm goodnatured people; she could give way frequently until she decided to make a stand; then none could be more stubborn. Moreover, a great determination to be worthy of her office had come to her. To watch her now with these two country people was a lesson in good manners and diplomacy. She had not wished to be disturbed; she could not be greatly interested in the Duddlestones; she could not remember what she had heard of them; yet she betrayed nothing of this.

George went on: “It is ven I am in Bristol. Ven I vas at the Exchange and none asked me to dine. Then Master John Duddlestone came to me and he says: ‘Vos you the husband of our Queen Anne?’ And I say, my love, that I haf that great joy and honour and he say ‘I am a humble bodice-maker of Bristol and no one asks you to dine because they think you too great and important gentleman because you are husband to our Queen. But the shame of Bristol vould be great if the husband of our Queen must dine at a inn because no Bristol door was opened to him.’ So, my love, he takes me to his home.”

George was beaming with pleasure and Anne was always delighted to see him pleased.

She looked at John Duddlestone and said: “Anyone who has shown kindness to the Prince, my husband, is a friend of mine.”

The Prince whispered: “You must kneel to Her Majesty.”

John Duddlestone did so with some awkwardness and Anne gave him her hand to kiss.

Then his wife came forward and made her clumsy obeisance.

George chuckled. “He call to his wife and say: ‘Wife, the Queen’s husband haf come to dine with us, so put on a clean apron and come down to greet the guest.’ So down she came in a clean apron.…”

“It were blue, Your Majesty,” said Mistress Duddlestone.

Anne smiled as though the colour of the apron was a matter of great interest.

“And a very good dinner it was,” said George reminiscently.

“His Highness is very particular about his food,” put in Anne; and again Abigail was surprised by her ability to take part in such a scene.

“So pleased,” went on George, “that I say, when next he comes to Windsor he must call and I give him dinner.”

“We came to buy whalebone, Your Majesty,” John Duddlestone told Anne.

“And you make …?”

“Stays, now, Your Majesty. For the fashion has changed. Once we made bodices but now we make stays.”

“So, they haf come to dine with me,” said the beaming Prince.

“Then,” said Anne, “they must dine with me also. Hill! Oh there you are, Hill. You will take Master and Mistress Duddlestone and tell them what they will need, and see that it is supplied for them.”

“Yes, Your Majesty,” said Abigail, and led the couple away.

The Queen’s servants were discussing the affair.

The pages, Saxton, Smith and Kirk paused in their game of cards to offer their comment.

William Lovegrove, the coffer-bearer, said to Mrs. Abrahal, the Queen’s starcher: “Such a thing would never have happened if the Duchess were at Court.”

“Who ever heard of a stays-maker dining with the Queen?” demanded Mrs. Ravensford, the Queen’s seamstress.

“I repeat,” said Lovegrove, “the Duchess would never have allowed it.”

“Fitted out with Court dresses, if you please … provided from her own wardrobe and made to fit!”

“Purple velvet. Because when the Prince dined with them that was what he wore.”

“And the Queen knighting the fellow so that the bodice-and stays-maker will return to Bristol Sir John Duddlestone … and all because he gave a dinner to the Queen’s husband! Did you ever hear the like?”

“And what do you think? Not content with giving the man and his wife their titles the Queen took the gold watch from her side and gave it to Lady Duddlestone.”

Amid the shrill laughter that followed Mrs. Abrahal said that she reckoned Lady Duddlestone would go to market in her apron wearing the Queen’s gold watch.

The picture increased the hilarity to such an extent that Mrs. Danvers looked in to see what all the merriment was about. When she was told she tut-tutted with disapproval.

“I never heard the like!” she declared. “I wish I had been told earlier that the wardrobe was going to be raided to provide purple velvet for bodice-makers.”

“Mrs. Hill received the orders, Mrs. Danvers,” said Mrs. Abrahal. “I wonder I was not asked to starch a head for the new lady when I was doing the Queen’s.”

“Mrs. Hill receives most of the Queen’s orders now,” added Lovegrove.

“It’s true,” agreed Mrs. Danvers thoughtfully. “That girl is with Her Majesty most of the day.”