On that dreaded day I left St. James’s and went to Whitehall to say good-bye to the Queen.

Queen Catherine was a gentle, kindly lady. She had trouble of her own, but still had sympathy to spare for me. She understood my feelings and reminded me of how she had come to England to marry a man she had never seen.

I burst out: “But, Madame, you were coming to England and I am going from it. You came to the King ... and I . . .”

I said no more. She understood. She had come to the most kindly and charming of men and I was going to one completely lacking in these qualities. She had come to what would have been great happiness if it had not been tainted by perpetual jealousy. Poor Queen Catherine. It seemed there could be no perfect happiness.

I left her tearfully, feeling I should never see her again.

At Whitehall stairs the King was with my father and there were crowds on the river bank. William was there with Bentinck beside him, and others of his suite. They were saying that the wind was fair for Holland, and my heart sank, for now there would be no postponement. It could only be a matter of hours.

We sailed down the river to Erith. There we dined and after that there was the last farewell.

The King kissed me tenderly. He said I must come back to Whitehall whenever I wished. There would always be a hearty welcome for me while he was in his court.

I clung to my father. There was no ceremony now. He could not restrain his tears. I believe he had loved me more than any other and this marriage was as much a tragedy for him as it was for me.

And then we sailed down the river toward Sheerness where the Dutch fleet was waiting to take us to Holland. There, what I had prayed for in my childish way happened. The wind had changed and it was decided that we could not sail until it took a more favorable turn.

William looked angry. He was impatient to be gone and this delay was frustrating to him.

A message came from Whitehall. It was from the King. Why did we not return to the court? He could promise that we should pass the time pleasantly enough while waiting for the tiresome wind.

William had no desire to return to the frivolous court. He preferred to remain at Sheerness and we spent a night there and were entertained by Colonel Dorrel, the Governor. William continued to remain aloof from me, a fact which comforted me considerably and made me dislike him a little less, though I was still filled with misery and resentment.

William, I know now, was one of the most astute of men. He firmly believed that one day he would take the crown of England. There had been a prophecy at the time of his birth, of which I will write later. He was a man who would always grasp an opportunity when he saw one, and often turned adversity into advantage. He was frustrated by the delay but decided to make use of it. He was fully aware that he lacked the charm of the King and my father but he had one great asset: his religion, and he knew that the marriage had been popular. If the time should come when I inherited the throne, he wanted the people to respect him.

I think that was why he decided that the Dutch fleet should move from Sheerness to Margate and that we should sail from there. The fleet could move at its convenience according to the wind, while our party could travel by road to Margate by way of Canterbury. Thus we should show ourselves to the people and if the great day came when William should return to the country as its king, he would not be a complete stranger to them.

It was devious thinking, but I was to become used to that, for he was indeed a great ruler and there was room in his life for little else.

So we traveled to Canterbury, and it was clear that the people on the route were pleased to see us. We had the approbation of the all-important people.

Most of the party had stayed with the fleet at Sheerness, and there were only a few of us: Lady Inchiquin, a maid to attend on me, William Bentinck and another Dutchman named Odyke.

What followed was really rather extraordinary and I did not realize at that time that it was part of a plan.

We arrived at an inn where William declared himself to be short of money. This seemed incredible to me, for I knew he had received a part of my dowry which was forty thousand pounds. However, what he did was send Bentinck to the City Corporation to beg a loan, explaining that the Prince found himself without means.

This was, I understood later, meant to arouse the indignation of the people against my father, whom William despised and was beginning to regard as his greatest enemy. My father had tried to stop the marriage; he had not hesitated to show his dislike of it. William wished to be seen as the great Protestant leader who would save England from the Catholic yoke as represented by the Duke of York, the present heir to the throne.

I think this did have the effect William intended, as so many of his actions did.

Throughout the city there was great sympathy for the Prince who had married the Duke’s daughter and been so meanly treated as to be left without money. Doctor Tillotson, the Dean of Canterbury, called on William and begged an audience.

This was immediately granted.

“Your Highness,” said Doctor Tillotson, “this is a state of affairs which is greatly deplored by all the good people of Canterbury. I beg of you to honor the deanery with your presence. It is a scandal that you should be here without means, and I must tell you that it is the custom of people of your rank to stay at the deanery when visiting our city.”

William thanked Doctor Tillotson for his offer of hospitality, but he said he was content to stay at the inn. However, he accepted the offer of a loan and said he would not forget Doctor Tillotson’s goodwill.

There was a great deal of sympathy for William and criticism of my father who was blamed for William’s poverty. This was, of course, what William had hoped for, and he looked more pleased than he had since our marriage.

More messages came from Whitehall inviting us to return and wait there for a suitable time, but William refused, rather ungraciously, and renewed his friendship with Doctor Tillotson who, I learned, had in the past preached vehemently against Catholicism.

During our stay we saw much of him. He was a man of much charm and gentleness. William did not visit me at night; I was still in England and I was faintly comforted.

It was a strange interlude and I had never before stayed in an inn, so it was a great novelty. It was here that I received the distressing news that Lady Frances Villiers had died of the smallpox. I thought then of my arrival at Richmond so long ago; and then of the discovery of Frances’s letters. One remembers such things when one knows one will never see a person again.

I wondered about the Villiers sisters who would receive the news at Margate, where they were waiting with the Dutch fleet.

My fears for my sister Anne increased and I waited for news of her with great trepidation.

Then the wind changed and William wanted no more time to be lost.

I was relieved to be with Anne Trelawny again. The Villiers girls were grief-stricken by the news of their mother’s death. I shared their sorrow but my thoughts were dominated by Anne.

November is not the best of times to make that teacherous crossing and, no sooner had we left Margate, than the wind arose. How it buffeted our poor ship! How cruelly it tore at the sails! I thought that my last moment had come. All the women, except myself, were sick. Perhaps I was too unhappy to let the storm touch me. I just sat in my cabin, not caring much what happened to me. If I were going to die, I should not have to go to Holland to be the wife of William of Orange. There seemed some comfort in that.

The wind had subsided a little as we approached the coast.

We had arrived, battered by the tempestuous journey. We landed at a place called Ter-Heyde and were immediately taken to the Hounslaerdyke Palace. I was glad because I was too exhausted to think of anything beyond rest; and on the first night in my new country, I slept long and deep.

The Princess of Orange

A “VERY INCOGNITO” VISIT

I suppose one cannot remain in deepest depression for weeks on end — especially when one is young. I was only fifteen, and young for my years, and the young, I believe, are resilient.

It was a relief to be on dry land after experiencing that turbulent sea and wondering if I would survive, and I had realized that, after all, I wanted to live.

I could not help being impressed by The Hague Palace to which we came after leaving Hounslaerdyke. It was a magnificent spot, grand indeed, with its Gothic halls and the lake, which they called the Vyver, washing the wall on one side.

It was the official residence of the Stadholder, which would account for its formidable formality, and much as I admired it, I was relieved to discover that I was not expected to live there.

There were two residences which were really part of the palace. One of these was the Old Court, which was a Dower Palace, and very pleasant, but the place which I really liked was the House in the Woods, and I was delighted to discover that this would really be my home.

True to its name, it was in a wood, but the house itself was surrounded by beautiful gardens. Two new wings had been built onto the house to accommodate my household.

It was about a mile from The Hague Palace and in the front of it was a long avenue, at the end of which was an impressive statue of the Stadholder William Henry, my husband’s grandfather.

I think I felt a little more hopeful when I entered the House in the Woods for, in spite of its splendor, there was a homeliness about it. The walls of the domed ballroom were covered by paintings and among them was my grandfather, the never-forgotten Charles the Martyr; and I was shown another picture of a member of my family. This was my Aunt Mary, who had married into Holland and become my husband’s mother.

As the weeks passed, I entered into a state of resignation. I soon realized that I should not see a great deal of William. We did not meet even for meals because he usually dined at the Hague Palace with his ministers when my presence would have been undesirable.

There were occasions when he came to supper at the House in the Woods, and those were the times I dreaded, for I knew they meant we were to spend the night together.

I tried to understand his point of view. These occasions were as distasteful to him as they were to me, for I was perpetually on the edge of tears which frequently overflowed; and the manner in which I clenched my teeth in preparation for the ordeal was not conducive to lovemaking.

He was not the sort of man to hide his feelings or to make things easier for me.

“Stop crying,” he would say. “Do you not understand that this is our duty?”

Oh yes, such an attitude must curb the most intense passion, except that of a sadist, of course, and William was certainly not that. He wanted to get the unpleasant business over as speedily as he could and he made no secret of it.

Perhaps I should have been glad of this, but there must have been something perverse in my nature. I did not want him, but with a certain feminine logic, I wanted him to want me.

I knew that I was by no means repulsive. I was rather too plump, but I had been called beautiful. I was young and virginal — indeed too much so, it seemed. I believe my youth irritated him and my dread certainly would.

It was strange that I should feel this faint resentment because the “duty” was as repulsive to him as it was to me. I thought of Mary Beatrice and my father. In fact my father was constantly in my thoughts, and I longed for his presence. Mary Beatrice had been as young as I was and as frightened. It must have happened to her just as it had to me. And then, suddenly, she had ceased to be frightened and instead became jealous of Arabella Churchill and the rest. But she had come to love my father. Should I ever grow to love William? They were as different as two men could be. My father and the King had what was called the Stuart charm. That had completely passed over William without touching him. I must remember that people who paid compliments as charmingly as the King did did not always mean them. William would never say what he did not mean. William would never pretend.