All through the days that followed news of the disaster was brought to the Queen. Fifteen of her warships with countless smaller craft had been destroyed, hundreds of merchant ships were missing; the sea had swept inland; the rivers had overflowed; houses had been demolished.

There had never before been such a storm in living memory; all prayed that there never would be again.

The south of England lay shattered beneath its impact, although in the north it had been scarcely felt, and it was said that nowhere in London had it struck so fiercely than at St. James’s Palace where part of the battlements and many of the chimneys had been wrenched off. In the parks, trees had been pulled up and flung aside as though by some giant hand—trees which had stood there for many, many years.

“Nothing,” said the Queen, “will ever be the same again.”

They were sad days which followed the great storm as news of disaster after disaster kept coming in.

Anne was horrified to learn that a stack of old chimneys in the episcopal palace of Bath and Wells had fallen and that the Bishop and his wife, Dr. and Mrs. Kidder, had been killed in their beds.

“What terrible disaster, Hill! It is like a judgment.”

Then the news reached the Court that the recently built Eddystone Lighthouse had been swept into the sea and that its architect Mr. Winstanley had gone with it.

“It is like a judgment,” repeated the Queen.

Abigail, who knew how the Queen’s thoughts were running, refrained from mentioning the cause of the Queen’s remorse—her disloyalty to her father. Instead she said: “Madam, you will doubtless decide to help those who have suffered from the storm.”

“I shall indeed, Hill.”

“And perhaps a service to thank God for bringing us safely through the storm and asking him not to send such a one again.”

“Oh, Hill, of course. Of course. That is what we must do.”

So the Queen’s thoughts were turned from the possible curse which might have fallen upon her and gave her mind to good deeds.

“Madam,” said Abigail, “in the streets they begin to call you Good Queen Anne.”

Good could come out of evil then. The storm had been quite terrible, but it did help her people to understand how much she cared for their welfare.

She sent for Godolphin and they arranged that there should be a fast throughout the country—a public fast with special services in the church.

There should be a general proclamation.

“Hill,” she said, when Hill was massaging her painful limbs, “I sometimes think that good can come out of evil.”

“I am sure you are right, Madam.”

Soon after the great storm the Archduke Charles of Austria was expected to spend a few days in England on his way to Spain to claim the throne.

He had been proclaimed King of Spain in Vienna and had met the Duke of Marlborough in Düsseldorf that October. There he had presented the Duke with a diamond encrusted sword and earnestly thanked him for all he had done.

It was important therefore that the Duke be in England to receive the visitor when he arrived. Sarah was delighted to see her Marl. No matter what success or failure they had to suffer, for both of them these reunions were the most enjoyable periods of their lives. Some might maliciously say it was fortunate for John Churchill that he did not have to live day after day with Sarah without hope of escape; they might hint that the great felicity of the marriage—which none could deny—was based on the long absences, the fact remained that both could be completely happy in those short weeks when they were together.

Sarah raged about the follies of the Queen, the intractability of their daughter Mary who—at her ridiculous age—was trying to make a most unsuitable match; she might talk of the absurd knighting of bodice-makers, the difficulties of bringing son-in-law Sunderland to heel, her suspicions of Robert Harley and Henry St. John—of whom Marl and Godolphin seemed to have such a high opinion—but all the same there was no joy like having her husband home with her—safe within her sight.

And the same applied to Marlborough. He might be one of the most ambitious men alive; his heart was deep in military affairs; he longed to continue the war, but he yearned all the time to be at Sarah’s side. None but himself saw her soft, tender and gentle, for she had no softness, tenderness nor gentleness for any but him.

Marlborough, with the Duke of Somerset, went to Portsmouth to greet Charles of Austria; and it had been arranged that Prince George should go to Petworth, the Duke of Somerset’s mansion, there to greet the guest in the name of the Queen and bring him on to Windsor.

“I do declare,” said Anne, “that I am a little worried for Mr. Morley to make the journey at this time of the year.”

“It’ll do him good,” countered Sarah, who was now at Court superintending all the preparations for the visit.

“But you know, Mrs. Freeman, how bad his asthma has been this winter. He was bled three times in forty-eight hours and it was only the blisters that relieved him.”

“A little more action would be good for him.”

“Dear Mrs. Freeman, you enjoy such rude health yourself that you do not always understand the weakness of others.”

Sarah allowed the faintest look of exasperation to cross her face.

Hill would have understood my anxiety, thought the Queen; and dismissed the thought at once. It was disloyalty to dear Mrs. Freeman, and it was such a pleasure to have her back at Court. There was not the same peace, but how vital Mrs. Freeman was, and what a pleasure to look at those flashing scornful eyes and to listen to the invective which came tripping from that fluent tongue. One felt so alive with Mrs. Freeman about. And how handsome she was! One forgot how handsome until one saw her—with her beautiful golden hair hanging about her shoulders or dressed high for a state occasion.

All the same she was worried about George and she did wish Mrs. Freeman would have been a little sympathetic. The roads would be even worse than usual at this time of the year after the bad storm.

So George had gone off to Petworth, and when he returned he would be accompanied by their august visitor with Somerset and dear Mr. Freeman.

It was clear that Sarah believed this was as much her occasion as anyone else’s. Who, for instance, had made it possible for Charles of Austria to go to Spain and lay claim to the throne? Marlborough! Whose military genius was deciding the fate of Europe—and England? The answer was the same. And on whom did Marlborough depend for counsel and comfort and to fight his battles at home. His Duchess.

She behaved as though the Queen were her puppet. She all but ordered her; but not quite. Anne never argued; she would nod and smile and then go her own way; or sometimes make up her mind, find the phrase she needed to express it, and go on repeating it at intervals.

Nothing could have maddened Sarah more, but at the same time even she could not be blind to the warning it implied. John had cautioned her a hundred times. He was, of course over-cautious; but in her calmer moments Sarah did admit to herself that the Queen was a stubborn woman who could at times, as she put it, brandish the orb and sceptre.

It was evening when the party arrived at Windsor. Anne had ordered that every alternate man in the guard of honour should hold high a lighted flambeau, and the sight was impressive. The Queen, with Sarah—who should have been behind her—almost at her side, stood at the top of the staircase to greet her guests.

The Archduke was a delicate looking young man, handsome yet with a melancholy expression, and graceful manners; his blue coat with its gold and silver galoon was very becoming.

Poor young man, thought Anne. He looks tired.

He stooped and kissed the hem of her gown, then he kissed her cheek.

Sarah exchanged glances with John. But for you, she was reminding him, that young man would not be on his way to Spain. I hope they realize this.

John returned the smile. Never did a man have a more faithful champion.

Before meeting for supper the company would retire to their apartments and the guest taking the Queen’s hand led her to hers and, when that was over, Prince George conducted the Archduke to his.

Anne was pleased to see Hill in the apartment quietly waiting to be of use, and for a moment she thought how pleasant it would be if instead of going down to the banquet she could visit the green closet where she could lie back in her chair and leave everything to Hill.

Almost immediately it was time to assemble before supper and the ceremonies began. All the ladies of the Court must be presented to the Archduke. He seemed to like them, for he kissed them all with a little more heartiness than seemed necesary and, during dinner when he was seated at the right hand of the Queen, he kept rising to attend to the wants of some lady.

Anne glanced about the table at Sarah who was completely absorbed in Mr. Freeman and he in her, at George who was completely absorbed in, to him, the most serious business of life—eating and drinking.

What a handsome young man! thought Anne. My boy would be a young man now. Would she never have a child? Fruitless pregnancies came and went and she had almost accepted them as part of her life. They were no more inconvenient than the gout and the dropsy. But never a child.

How morbid she was—and at a banquet! And this was such an important occasion. When that young man was King of Spain how friendly England would be with his country for he would be grateful for ever—and it was all due to the Freemans.

Dearly beloved Sarah! But how much more comfortable to lie back in the green closet. She thought of Hill’s white hands among the tea things. So pleasant.

She was relieved when she could retire to her apartments.

George sat wheezing in his chair. She noticed that he was very breathless after a banquet—even though George’s appetite made a banquet of every meal.

“I fear this has been a little trial to you, my dearest,” she said.

“Bed vill be goot.” George’s pronunciation grew more broad when he was tired.

“The journey was too much for you, my love. I was saying to Mrs. Freeman I was uneasy about your making it.”

“Oh … that journey. Never shall I forget. How glad I am, I said to Masham, how glad the Queen does not come. The roads … my dear love … the roads …”

“The storm of course has devastated everything. It was really not necessary for you to go. I would rather have gone myself.”

“That, my angel, I vould never allow.”

Dear George—only stern when he felt the need to protect her!

“It iss forty miles from Vindsor to Petvorth, they tell me. Fourteen hours it took, my angel, and no stop ve made safe vhen the coach was turned over and ve vas stuck in the mud.”

“My poor, poor George. And how was your wheeze then?”

“My veeze vas terrible, my love, vas very terrible.”

“My poor, poor George.”

“And ve should be there now, but for the men who lift up the coach vith bare hands, my angel, vith their bare hands … and they carry the coach and set it on the road.”

“That was wonderful, George. What good and faithful servants! You must present them to me and I will tell them how grateful I am. I was so anxious. I said continuously to Mrs. Freeman how I wished you had not gone.”

“But I vould not haf allowed my angel to go.”

“Nor should I have allowed mine.”

“Vell, ve are safe now … and tired … and let us to bed. But a little brandy vould be varming.”

“A little brandy. I will call Hill. Hill! Hill!”

She came at once. She could not have been far away. How pleasant she looked—how simple after all the brilliant costumes of the evening!

“His Highness fancies a little brandy, Hill. I will take some, too. Such a tiring day … and another before us tomorrow. It will help us sleep.”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

And almost at once—how was she so quiet and so quick?—there she was.

So pleasant … sipping brandy with George dozing in the chair and Hill hovering in case she should be wanted.

“Hill, tell Masham His Highness is ready for bed.”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

“I too, Hill. Oh, what a tiring day!”

Samuel Masham went with the Prince into George’s dressing room and Abigail remained with the Queen.

“Such a day, Hill! What ceremonies! And this young Archduke—King as he is now. I hope he is allowed to remain so, poor boy. But I daresay Mr. Freeman will see to that. I thought Mrs. Freeman looked magnificent. And so delighted to have Mr. Freeman back. But I am worried about the Prince, Hill. He does not look well to me and that journey to Petworth must have been an ordeal. His coach stuck in the mud … overturned, if you please. And the boors had to lift it out. I really cannot think it has done His Highness any good at all. I wish you would speak to Masham, Hill. I want the greatest care taken of His Highness. Make sure that his underwear is of the warmest and he should not be in draughts.”