Виктория Холт - Courting Her Highness

“The King and Queen of England!” repeated the Queen. “You see that is an insult, Hill … to me.”

“But it is only the King of France, Madam.”

“And Marlborough has the Army in Germany. Oh dear, I do hope he succeeds in what he is trying to do, for the Government is very angry with him. Really, Hill, I don’t know what should be done.”

“We can pray, Madam.”

Pray! Dear, good, pious creature. It was comforting to be with her.

Anne was at Windsor and Sarah in London during that hot August. The tension was too great, Sarah told herself, for her to be able to endure Anne’s inanities at this time. It was better therefore that they should be apart and she could trust Abigail Hill to do what was necessary.

She longed for news of John. She was even a little remorseful that, the last time they had been together, she had been so cruel to him. Now that his enemies were preparing to tear him apart she wanted the whole world to know—but most of all John—that she was beside him and would defend him with her life.

What was happening on the Continent? The rumours grew daily. Godolphin was no comfort. Spineless fool! thought Sarah. It was being said that John had disobeyed instructions. Whose? Those who did not know what warfare meant? Those who stayed behind in London and told the greatest general in the world how the war should be run? And they were waiting for disaster. Almost hoping for disaster, not caring if they saw the downfall of England as long as it brought with it the downfall of John Churchill, Duke of Marlborough.

Occasionally letters reached her, but she knew that for every one she received there were two or perhaps more that went astray. John was marching through Germany; he had told her that the weather was alternately uncomfortably hot or, almost worse still, very wet. She knew from the scrappiness of his letters that he was often apprehensive and she wished that she could be with him to encourage him.

It was the twenty-first of August and there had been no news for some time; tension was growing; she was afraid every time a servant knocked at her door that ill news was being brought to her. She, who never found it easy to remain calm, was now overwrought. She bullied her servants and any members of her family who came near her; it was her only way of releasing her feelings.

And on that day the news came. It began with a scratching on her door.

“Yes, what is it?” cried Sarah, her voice almost shrill.

“A gentleman to see Your Grace. He says he is Colonel Parke.”

Colonel Parke! John’s aide-de-camp. Sarah cried: “Bring him to me. No … I’ll go to him.”

She was running down the stairs and there he was—travel-stained and weary, holding out a letter to her.

“From the Duke,” she cried and snatched it.

August 13th, 1704.

“I have not time to say more, but to beg you will give my duty to the Queen and let her know her Army has had a glorious victory. Monsieur Talland and two other Generals are in my coach and I am following the rest: the bearer, my aide-de-camp Colonel Parke, will give her an account of what has passed. I shall do it in a day or two by another more at large.

Marlborough.”

Sarah read the note through and read it through again. No loving message. No word of tenderness. Then she realized that the battle had just been over when he had written that note—it was scrawled on a bill of tavern expenses—and that he had bidden Colonel Parke ride with all speed to her. It had taken a week for the Colonel to reach her.

“The Duke has been victorious,” she cried.

“Yes, Madam, and he wrote first to you. He spread the only paper he could lay hands on on his saddle and wrote. Then he said: ‘Carry that to the Duchess with all speed.’ ”

“To me first …” she said. “Tell me the name of this battle.”

“It was the battle of Blenheim, Your Grace, and it is one of the greatest victories of all time.”

“Blenheim,” she repeated. “Now,” she went on briskly. “This note must be carried to the Queen with all speed. You must take it, Colonel Parke. But stay a short while for refreshment. You need it. Then be off.”

“Thank you, Your Grace.”

Sarah herself ordered the refreshment and was with the Colonel while he ate and drank, plying him with questions.

And all the time she was thinking, “A great victory. And I am the first to receive the news. This will be a slap in the face for all our enemies. This will show Mrs. Morley and the rest that they had better take care next time before they revile the Duke of Marlborough and his Duchess.”

The Queen was in her boudoir at Windsor—the polygonal room in the turret over the Norman gateway—with Abigail in attendance.

Anne was in a silent mood, thinking of the disagreement of her ministers and Marlborough. It was most disturbing. Abigail had brought her her favourite bohea tea and ratifia biscuits, but she could not drive from her mind the memory of discord. Mr. Freeman was determined to have his way and the ministers were determined to have theirs … and that meant strife and great trouble on the Continent.

A scratching at the door. Silent-footed Hill was there.

“Her Majesty is resting.…”

“This is a messenger from the Duchess of Marlborough. She says he is to be taken to Her Majesty without delay.”

“Who is it, Hill?”

“A messenger from the Duchess.”

“Bring him in then.”

So he came and bowed to her and put into her hands the tavern bill on which was the first news of the victory at Blenheim.

“A great victory, Madam. The Duke himself says that it is a decisive battle and that it is the greatest victory of his career.”

“My dear Colonel, you have ridden far. Hill, bring some bohea for the Colonel. But perhaps you would prefer something a little stronger. Now tell me everything.”

The Colonel told, and as he did so Anne glowed with pride and pleasure.

“He was justified in his action,” she murmured. “I am so pleased. He is the greatest general in the whole world and he works for me. My dear Colonel, how can I tell you how happy this has made us?”

“This will make all England happy, Your Majesty.”

“And rightly so. We will have the Duke’s note copied and circulated in thousands throughout the City. I do not want this wonderful news withheld a moment longer than it need be. And you, my dear Colonel, shall have your reward of five hundred pounds for being the bearer of such news. I shall never be more glad to see a messenger so rewarded.”

“If you please, Your Majesty, I should prefer a portrait of yourself.”

“My dear Colonel,” laughed Anne, “your request shall be granted.”

The next day Colonel Parke received a miniature of the Queen set with diamonds; and as Anne realized that this victory was indeed the greatest of her reign she added a thousand pounds to the miniature, that the bearer of such news might be doubly rewarded.

Sarah, flushed with triumph, treasuring the fact that she had been the first person in the country to hear of the victory at Blenheim—even before the Queen—came hurrying down to Windsor. There she took triumphant charge of affairs; truculent, laughing in the faces of those who had dared criticize the Duke, she was ready to show them who was mistress of them all—the Queen included.

“We must,” announced Sarah, “return at once to London. The people must be made to realize that this is indeed a great victory. There must be celebrations.…”

“And thanksgiving,” put in Anne. “We must give thanks to God to whom we owe this victory.”

“Well, Mrs. Morley,” cried Sarah with a loud laugh, “I think we owe this victory to Mr. Freeman.”

Anne was shocked by such irreverence, but she had always known that dear Mrs. Freeman had never been really devout.

“We shall be eternally grateful to Mr. Freeman,” said Anne with dignity, “but we must not forget that victory or defeat—both are in the hands of Almighty God.”

“There should, of course, be a thanksgiving service at St. Paul’s,” cut in Sarah, her mind forging ahead, making plans. A carriage with herself and the Queen. It was fitting that she should share the Queen’s carriage. This was the Duke of Marlborough’s victory and no one was going to forget it.

The Queen was delighted at the prospect of a thanksgiving service and willing enough to discuss it.

“You should be most splendidly attired,” said Sarah, “and wear your most dazzling jewels. I will choose them. Both should be quite splendid.”

“Oh dear, I am a little worried about Mr. Morley. I do hope his asthma will not worry him unduly. These ceremonies tire him so and there is nothing like fatigue for bringing on an attack.”

“I was referring to us, Mrs. Morley, for I think it only right and fitting that I should accompany you to St. Paul’s. I am sure Mr. Freeman would wish it. You will remember it was to me that he sent the first news of the victory.”

“But of course, dear Mrs. Freeman should ride with her unfortunate Morley.”

“I do not think the King of France is calling you unfortunate at this moment!” laughed Sarah. “Well, I shall choose our jewels and I think we should have the service as soon as possible.”

“I am in entire agreement,” said Anne.

So Sarah and Anne returned to London with Abigail—now relegated to be the chambermaid once more—and in her post as Mistress of the Robes, Sarah chose what the Queen should wear.

Such splendour she could never match, and as she was not one to take second place she decided to attract attention by the very simplicity of her own attire.

They rode from St. James’s Palace to St. Paul’s—Anne resplendent, Sarah simply clad; but Anne’s jewels could not compete with Sarah’s beauty; and in any case she was the wife of the hero of the day.

Anne was elated as she was always by her visits to church, and a thanksgiving service for a great victory must be doubly inspiring.

When they returned and Sarah had dismissed the Queen’s attendants, Anne said to her, “I and the nation will never cease to be grateful to Mr. Freeman.”

Sarah bowed her head graciously.

“And I have been thinking,” went on the Queen, “that it is only fitting that we should show our gratitude, and how better than by bestowing on Mr. Freeman and yourself some fine estate.”

Sarah’s eyes had begun to shine.

“It would be a magnificent gesture,” she agreed, “if we could persuade Mr. Freeman to accept it.”

“I am sure,” said Anne, with the glint of a smile, “that if it is Mrs. Freeman’s wish it will be Mr. Freeman’s.”

“I may endeavour to persuade him,” agreed Sarah. “What has Mrs. Morley in mind?”

“I was thinking of the Manor of Woodstock, a delightful place in a charming setting. It is my plan that that site might be used to build a house … a palace … for nothing else would be worthy to celebrate this great event … for the use of Mr. and Mrs. Freeman and their heirs.”

“Woodstock,” murmured Sarah, subdued for once. “It is an excellent spot.”

“Yes, a palace,” went on the Queen, “which you and Mr. Freeman should plan together.”

Sarah’s eyes were shining now. A palace! A pile of stones, gracious and imposing, which in the centuries to come should be the home of the Marlboroughs.

“No expense should be spared in the building of this palace,” went on the Queen, seeing how excited her beloved Mrs. Freeman was becoming. “It should be the gift of a grateful nation to its greatest general. I should only ask one concession.”

“Concession?” said Sarah.

“Yes, Mrs. Freeman, I would ask that it be called Blenheim Palace so that none should ever forget this famous victory and the man who was responsible for it.”

“Blenheim Palace,” repeated Sarah. “I like it. I like it very much.”

Robert Harley sat in his favourite spot at the Apollo Club, indulging his favourite pastime—drinking. Harley enjoyed the night-life of London. He liked the atmosphere of the clubs which were springing up all over the City. He even visited the coffee houses and taverns in order to exchange conversation with literary acquaintances who frequented them. Next to drinking he enjoyed talking, and when Harley talked others enjoyed listening; for he was witty, brilliant and persuasive, in spite of his discordant voice and hesitant delivery.

Since his new appointment—he had recently replaced Nottingham and become Secretary of State for the Northern Department—he still found time to mingle with his literary friends and if he was not at the Apollo he would be at the Rota, invariably accompanied by his friend and disciple, Henry St. John, who, naturally enough, had received an appointment at the same time as Harley and was the new Secretary at War.