There was John Hill, brother to the Creature, whom she had found as a ragged boy, clothed and fed and sent to school. And she had prevailed upon my lord Marlborough to give the lad a place in his Army which he had done, against his judgment. And how had John Hill repaid such benevolence? When wicked charges were brought against the Duke of Marlborough, he had risen from a sick bed in order to go and vote against him.

“There is gratitude for you!” cried Sarah. “Did you ever hear the like?” She would talk of how she had devoted her life to an ungrateful monarch; how she had sat for hours listening to banalities which had nearly driven her mad—all this she had done and what was the result? She was thrown aside for a chambermaid. Lord Marlborough had won honour and glory for his country; he was the saviour of England and what was his reward? Exile! He had been promised a palace, which was to be built at Woodstock and to be named after the greatest victory of all time: Blenheim. And what had happened? A fool named Vanbrugh—with whom she would never agree—had been allowed to plan it; and the money which had been promised had not been supplied. On and on she raved about the ungrateful country to which she longed to return.

“Better a cottage in England,” she would say sometimes, “than a palace anywhere else in the world.”

And her longing for home was like a physical pain.

She knew of the conflict which was raging there and longed to join in, partly because she liked to be at the heart of any conflict, partly because what happened after the death of Anne could be of such vital importance to her and her husband.

She had news of the efforts the Pretender’s friends were making to bring him to the throne and she and John spent many anxious hours discussing whether it was possible to swerve their devotion which had up till that time been given to Hanover. In fact he was in communication with Hanover at that time and was making plans as to what action he should take, should the Queen die suddenly.

It was disconcerting. Abigail Masham was a Jacobite and she would have every opportunity, fumed Sarah, for pouring poison into that stupid ear. Moreover, the Queen was a sentimental fool and would doubtless believe that by naming her half brother as her successor she was expiating her sins.

“Our only hope is her passion for the Church,” declared Sarah. “She will think very hard before she lets a papist in.”

In the meantime she and John must be content with moving from one place to another. They had stayed too long in Frankfurt and were growing restive, so they moved on to Antwerp. “Like sick people,” grumbled Sarah, “glad of any change.”

It was while they were in Antwerp that a terrible blow struck them.

Elizabeth, their third daughter, had died of the smallpox. When Sarah read the news she was stunned. Elizabeth had been well when they left England; and this blow, in addition to all their frustration and despair, was almost too great to be born. Marlborough was even more deeply affected than Sarah. He had always been more devoted to his family than she had been and when he received the news he collapsed with grief. Sarah found some solace in nursing him for in her hectoring way she was an efficient nurse, providing the patient obeyed her absolutely and John was too wretched to do anything else.

Sarah sat by his bed and they talked of her—their little Elizabeth—who now seemed to have been the most beautiful and accomplished of all their children.

“I remember,” said Sarah, “how she would marry … and she only fifteen. I thought she was too young but she would have her way. She adored Scroop and he her … and no wonder. And of course it was a good marriage. That was only eleven years ago, Marl. Twenty-six … it is too young … too young.…”

Sarah covered her face with her hands and sobbed. John tried to comfort her; he felt ill and, like Sarah, he longed for home. To be with his family … to continue with his career … to wield power … to accumulate wealth. There was so much he desired, so much that could have helped to comfort him. These were indeed dark hours.

Seeing him so distraught Sarah cried angrily: “She is happier, I doubt not, than in a world like this!”

But they continued to mourn their beautiful Elizabeth; and there was no news from home to comfort them.

In London a crisis was threatening. There was an open rupture between Oxford and Bolingbroke. The Queen’s health deteriorated every day, and the Court was in a ferment of excitement. Letters were passing between Hanover and London on one hand and between St. Germains and London on the other.

The Queen swayed between her two beloved women—Lady Masham and the Duchess of Somerset; but there were days when she was too ill to think of much but her own relief.

Oxford, who had always hated to make decisions and whose greatest weakness was his vacillation, was now uncertain how to act. He had gone over to the Whigs but still tried to placate the Tories. In view of the strength of his enemies he was doomed, and Bolingbroke was ready to destroy him. Oxford searched for the solution to his problems in the bottle, and it was not difficult to turn the Queen against a man who reeled in her presence, who now and then gave way to ribald and disrespectful comment and at the best mumbled so that she could not understand what he said.

“Our drunken dragon will soon be slain,” Abigail told Bolingbroke.

He agreed with her. They were allies, though not lovers, as Bolingbroke had expected. But that was a small matter to be shrugged aside. There were plenty of women ready to share his bed; there was only one Lady Masham to smooth his way to the Queen.

Oh, what a fool was Oxford! He had used Abigail to climb to favour, for what he owed to those têtes-à-têtes in the green closet he should have been in no doubt. And just as Abigail had given him a helping hand in the beginning now she was barring his way—more than that, she was forcing him down to disaster.

He understood; but it was too late to change. Bolingbroke had the support which had once been his. He was angry with himself … too late; and because his brain was so often fuddled by wine, he was unable to control his temper.

His good friend Jonathan Swift, appalled at what was happening, had made an attempt to reconcile him with Bolingbroke—to no avail. The rift was too wide; and Bolingbroke was too ambitious. He wanted the position Oxford now held and how could he achieve it until Oxford had lost it?

Oxford could see the end in sight. He had wanted to placate the two parties; he wanted the support of both Whigs and Tories, in the same way as he swayed between St. Germains and Hanover. After the Peace of Utrecht he should have broken away from the Tories; he saw now that he should have boldly asserted his beliefs—instead of which he had wavered, he had procrastinated—and had won the approbation of neither. Moreover he had neglected those who would have helped him; and Abigail Masham was the first, and most important of these.

Oxford was about to fall and Abigail Masham was the reason. The Court watched and waited. Why had Abigail who had once thought so highly of him, suddenly turned against him? No one was quite sure. He had not treated her with the deference she had expected and hoped for, perhaps. Was that it? He had not given her the shares she had desired in the South Seas Company. Could that be the reason? Had she been his mistress? Never. Oxford was an uncommonly virtuous man which was noticeable in a society of rakes. Had she transferred her affections to Bolingbroke? There was a rake if ever there was one! But there was no scandal of that nature attaching to Lady Masham.

No one was quite sure where that partnership had turned sour. No one could be really certain about the relationship between Lord Oxford and Lady Masham.

Abigail herself was not always sure. He had failed her, she knew; and it was not because of lack of shares in the South Seas Company, although that might have been part of it. She had dreamed a dream and he had destroyed it.

Oxford must go. Those words were being whispered throughout the Court. Bolingbroke was ready to leap into his place. It was the chance he had been waiting for.

The Queen had been persuaded by Abigail that she could no longer tolerate her Lord Treasurer. There was no doubt that he had come into her presence completely intoxicated.

“Your Majesty is disturbed and distressed by this conduct,” said Abigail. “I know how it affects you. Your health is not good enough to allow you to endure it.”

Masham was right. Anne was so weary. Sometimes she heard the arguments of her ministers going round and round in her head. There was one matter which worried her more than any other. If only her half brother would give up his religion; if only he would become a good member of the Church of England; then he would be accepted and she would be so happy. Then she could feel that she had righted a wrong; then she would be able to face her father if and when they came face to face in another life. She had tried so hard since she had become Queen to be a good and Christian woman; she had wanted above all things to right any wrong she had done. If her brother could come into his inheritance and be King of England and she could bring it about, she would have expiated that long-ago sin.

“Masham,” she said, “I have written a letter which is to be opened after my death. I want to keep it under my pillow.”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

The succession! thought Abigail. James Stuart will be King when she dies and he will remember that I have worked for him.

“You will not forget, Masham.”

“I will remember, Your Majesty.”

Anne held her swollen hands, swathed in bandages on her lap.

“Are they painful, Madam?”

“I think fresh poultices might comfort them.”

Abigail set about preparing them. The Queen’s health was rapidly declining and that saddened her. She would never have another mistress like her; but when James Stuart was James III of England he would remember those who had worked for him; he would remember the one who had found the letter under the pillow.

She must not forget her enemies though—the chief of these was Oxford. He had at last realized that he could waver no longer on such an important point and had come down on the side of Hanover, and would do everything he could to bring the Germans over.

“Your Majesty is tired,” she said, “and I know this is due to Lord Oxford’s behaviour.”

The Queen sighed. “Dear Masham, he was even more difficult than usual.”

“Your Majesty should put an end to the trouble he causes you, by dismissing him.”

“I really believe I should, Masham.”

“Bolingbroke will be so much easier to deal with. There, Madam. That is not too hot?”

“Just warm and soothing, Masham. You are always so good with the poultices. You soothe away the pain.”

“I wish I could soothe away Your Majesty’s other afflictions as easily.”

Anne was thoughtful. The following day she told her Council that she would ask for Lord Oxford’s resignation. Her reasons were that he neglected business and was seldom to be understood, and when he did explain himself she could not be sure that he spoke the truth. Above all, he often came into her presence drunk, which was obnoxious to her, and when he was in a state of intoxication he had behaved indecorously and disrespectfully. She could no longer tolerate such conduct from a minister in his position.

Oxford was dismissed. This was triumph for Bolingbroke … and Abigail.

In the Council chamber Oxford faced his enemy—Bolingbroke.

Bolingbroke was a traitor, declared Oxford. He had lied and cheated his way into the Queen’s graces. He was ready to bring the Popish Pretender into the country; he had abused and misrepresented the man who had befriended him and who had made his way easy along the path of politics. Bolingbroke was a liar, a cheat and a traitor.

Anne sat in her chair trembling; her head ached; her limbs throbbed; and she longed for nothing so much as escape.

Bolingbroke, went on Oxford, the worse for drink, had been aided in all these wicked practices by a certain woman.…

Anne’s swollen fingers twitched; she felt as though she would swoon. She looked appealingly at her ministers. They must not wrangle about Abigail; they must not attempt to probe the intimate secrets of her bedchamber.

She threw a look of dislike at the ranting Oxford. Was it meet and fitting that drunken men should give vent to their feelings so in her presence?