Anne trusted Mr. Harley. So did Abigail. When he had gone they drank tea together—Anne’s laced with brandy—and talked about the brilliance of Mr. Harley and how they were sure that given the opportunity he would rid the Queen—and the Church—of those whose self-interest made them the enemies of both.

Mr. Harley was right. Mobs were parading the streets demanding the fall of the Government. Sacheverel was the hero of the day and the majority were behind his criticisms of Godolphin. Many a widow and orphan of the great war hated the very sound of Marlborough’s name and did not hesitate to say so. He was the warmonger, who, because he liked playing soldiers, used men and deadly weapons to amuse himself. Not only that, he wanted to be the dictator. A fine state of affairs. There would be battles every day with such a man in power. This war had been costly enough in men and wealth. “Have done with Marlborough!” cried the people. “Have done with war! And down with the Government.”

When the Queen rode to the opening of Parliament that November the crowds cheered her frenziedly.

“Long live the Queen! God save Sacheverel!”

Anne smiled benignly and lovingly on her people; she was different, they noticed, sad and ill at ease. Why? Because she was on Sacheverel’s side. Because she, like themselves, was heartily sick of the Whig Ministry.

When she made her speech she sounded listless.

“She is telling us,” said those who listened, “that she is not with her Government in spirit and that she is merely performing a necessary duty.”

The writers were busy. They thrived on such occasions. All through the country people were alert, watchful of events. There was going to be change.

Mr. Harley with Mr. St. John and others among them were ready for the moment for which they had long been waiting.

Abigail reviewed the situation. She was certain that the Government would soon fall and that Robert Harley would replace Lord Godolphin as the Chief Minister. What a triumph for her!

Everything was going well for her. Sometimes she would lie in bed nursing her baby and telling herself that her life was more satisfying than Sarah Churchill’s. The fact was that Sarah would never be satisfied.

Samuel had come home from the war—different, more mature. She was not sure that this pleased her. Would he be less willing to be led? But temporarily it was a challenge. He was devoted to her and delighted by their child. They would have a boy, he said, next time.

Her brother Jack, quite a seasoned soldier now, was a friend of his; and she enjoyed seeing them together, particularly when Alice came too.

They were often in her apartments. Alice, of course, had been in attendance at the birth of little Anne. In attendance! Abigail mocked herself. I talk like a Queen.

But of course to be Queen’s favourite was next best to being a Queen.

Queen’s favourite! Little Abigail Hill—at the beck of and call of Lady Rivers, poor relation in the Churchill nursery—and now she could decide the fate of Sarah Churchill … and perhaps the country.

People were now beginning to realize her importance. When Alice and Jack came to see the baby she could sense the difference in their attitude towards her. They were in awe of her. As for Samuel, he was frankly proud.

They stood round the child’s cradle. Alice—getting even fatter—gurgled her pleasure; Jack was seated, for he had been wounded at the siege of Mons; and Samuel was beside Abigail, his hand on her shoulder.

“Such a little darling!” cooed Alice. “I’ll swear your mamma is planning a grand marriage for you.”

“What, already!” cried Samuel.

Abigail smiled at him. He was sentimental and the thought of losing a daughter so newly acquired even in marriage at some distant date appalled him.

“Oh come, Alice, there’s time enough for that,” said Abigail.

“But she’ll have a grand future I wouldn’t mind swearing,” insisted Alice. She stood up and looked at her sister admiringly. “You’ll see to that. And the Queen won’t deny you anything. I heard that said only yesterday.”

“It’s not wise to be too sure of anything,” said Abigail sagely.

“And Abigail is the wisest woman in the world,” added Samuel.

Alice wanted to know whether Mrs. Abrahal washed the baby’s linen and what the Queen had said about the new tooth; the two men talked together of battles. They moved to a table, sat down, and picking up any small objects they could lay their hands on they used them to indicate their forces, and like a couple of generals fought out Malplaquet.

Watching them, Abigail said: “Do you remember the day Lady Marlborough called and how alarmed we all were. The first time we saw her …?”

Alice nodded and her plump complacent expression was clouded. This life of plenty and excitement was far removed from those days.

“She brought us here,” said Alice. “It’s something I try to remind myself of now and then.”

“That she might use us,” retorted Abigail. “Do you remember how she constantly reminded us of what she did for us?”

“And still does.”

“She does not remind me.”

“Oh, you, Abigail, you have become more important than she is. Abigail, I have heard it said …”

“Yes?”

“That you rule the Queen just as Sarah Churchill once did.”

“She listens to me.”

“Oh, Abby … Though it doesn’t seem right to call you that now. My own sister. You, Abigail Hill, to be the friend of the Queen!”

“And others …” murmured Abigail, thinking of Robert Harley. Her eyes went to Samuel—the general at the table. That was all he was capable of. He would never be a Marlborough … never a Harley. If she and Harley … But that was a dream long ago abandoned. She must use what she had at her disposal and not reach out for the impossible as Sarah had done.

Alice was smiling at her with something like adoration. She would not forget that the present respect she enjoyed in the royal household was due to her sister.

Abigail savoured that adoration. Alice had sent her thoughts back to the past and she saw now a poorly furnished bedroom where she and Alice had tried on the cast-off dresses of the Churchill girls; she saw herself and her sister studying their reflections—Alice plump and gay, Abigail pale and thin. Then Alice had pitied Abigail, the plain one.

It was a different story now. She had shown them that a pale, plain face was no deterrent. She had an adoring husband; Alice had none; she had the Queen’s love; and the admiration of a brilliant statesman.

She felt all powerful and she said on impulse, “I must see what I can do for Jack. As soon as a Colonelcy falls vacant I shall speak to the Queen on his behalf.”

“Oh … Abby!”

“Not a word yet. We’ll wait, and it’ll be a surprise for him.”

“What of Sam?”

“His turn will come,” answered Abigail serenely.

Those were trying weeks for the Queen. She wanted to be rid of her Government but could see no means of constitutionally doing so. It cheered her to know that her people were firmly behind her, but this in itself would not rid her of men whom she so heartily wished to dismiss.

She had not seen Sarah since the last outburst, but Sarah continued to write. It seemed that the woman must give in to her feelings somehow, and she could not rid herself of the desire to direct. The insolence of the woman was almost past belief; as Anne said to Abigail, if she had not the evidence before her eyes such behaviour would seem incredible.

Christmas had passed and the unsatisfactory state of affairs still persisted. Sacheverel was still waiting trial; and a great deal would depend on the outcome of that. But the new year, Anne told Abigail, would bring great changes.

They were sitting in the green closet when a messenger brought a package which by the writing on the outside Anne knew to come from Sarah.

She sighed and calling Abigail to her stool, asked her to open the package. This Abigail did and together they read Sarah’s long letter of recrimination and advice.

“There is a copy here of Jeremy Taylor’s Holy Living and Dying together with a prayer book,” said Abigail.

Anne read Sarah’s letter and sighed. How could she ever have cared so deeply for such a woman. Sarah once more told her of her follies and how she should reform. The passages marked in the books were meant to convey a lesson to the Queen.

Sarah Churchill for all her vitality, for all her arrogance, thought the Queen, was a fool. She wants to return to her old place and everything she does makes me feel that I never want to see her again.

“What shall I do with the books, Madam?” asked Abigail.

“Put them in a drawer and let us forget them. These are very trying times, Abigail. I should like to get away for a short time to think.”

“Yes, Madam. Have you anywhere in mind?”

“I like the quiet of Hampton.”

“Shall I make preparations at once?”

Anne’s fingers rested on the sandy hair. What a comfort! she thought. How different!

Hampton was delightful even in January. The Queen used a small chamber because of the cold, and it was very cosy to sit there with Abigail and talk of pleasant things like the virtues of Prince George and the brilliance of their boy; the future of Samuel Masham and the charms of his daughter Anne.

But there were other matters which could not be ignored.

“How I long to be rid of this Marlborough junta. But how? Only an election can dislodge them.”

“The people are eager to be rid of them too, Madam.”

“Yes, but the Ministry cannot be dismissed as easily as that. There is one drawback to Hampton, Masham. Mr. Harley cannot visit me so secretly. If he came to Hampton he might be seen. And then there would be talk. From St. James’s it was easy for you to take a message; but if you left Hampton your absence would be noticed. You are being watched now, my dear.”

“Oh yes,” said Abigail. “I am not simply the chambermaid now. But perhaps an idea will occur to us.”

“We will watch for it,” said the Queen.

It came when the Lieutenant of the Tower, the Earl of Essex, died. The Marlborough faction immediately chose one of their men to fill the vacant post, which was, naturally, in accordance with their policy.

“Your Majesty cannot allow them another victory,” warned Abigail. “You should decide on the man for the post and insist.”

“You are right of course. How I wish it were possible for you to bring Mr. Harley up to me by way of the back stairs so that I could discuss this matter with him.”

Abigail agreed on the wisdom of this. But how bring Mr. Harley to Hampton without attracting attention?

“If we send someone with a message to him—someone who is so humble that his departure would not be noticed …” began Abigail.

“But it must be someone whom we could trust,” replied the Queen.

“Your Majesty is surrounded by servants who long to serve you.”

“We must select carefully, my dear,” replied Anne.

They chose one of the gardeners. He was astounded when Abigail approached him as he worked in the gardens and gave him a letter which she said the Queen wished him to take with all speed to Mr. Harley in Albemarle Street. The man expressed his willingness to serve the Queen; and even the lowest servant knew that Mrs. Masham came direct from the Queen—in fact they were saying in the household and in the streets that Mrs. Masham was closer to the Queen than the mighty Duchess of Marlborough had ever been.

Knowing that he would come promptly in answer to the Queen’s command, Abigail was watching for the arrival of Harley.

For a few moments, before he was conducted to the Queen, they were alone together.

“I thought this was the time to send for you,” Abigail told him.

He surveyed her from under his curiously hodded eyes, and as she smelt the strong smell of spirits, she was, for a moment, dismayed. She prayed he would not allow his love for drink to impair his talents; but need she have worried? He had always been a heavy drinker; he had once told her that he needed the stimulus of wine and was at his most brilliant when he was as near intoxication as such a hardened drinker could get.

“Wise Abigail,” he murmured, taking her hand and kissing it. His eyes were tender, but she knew that his caresses meant nothing; and she was too wise a woman to go on sighing for the impossible.

“The death of Essex is important,” she went on. “Your man must have the Tower … not Marlborough’s.”