Виктория Холт - The Queen’s Devotion: The Story of Queen Mary II

There was so much to talk of. I wanted news of my father.

“He never ceases to talk of you,” Mary Beatrice told me. “He wishes you were back with us and reproaches himself for letting you go.”

“It was no fault of his. He would have kept me in England if he could.”

She nodded. “He could do nothing,” she said. “But he still blames himself. This appears to be a pleasant country. The people are very agreeable.”

“Orange,” said Anne. “It’s a strange name for a country.”

“I call you Lemon ... my dear little Lemon,” said Mary Beatrice. “Orange and Lemon, you see. Do I not, Anne?”

“Yes,” said Anne. “She says, ‘I wonder how little Lemon is today among all the Oranges.’ ”

We were all laughing. There was so much to know. How were all my friends — the Duke of Monmouth, for instance. All missing me, I was told.

I said: “It is wonderful that you have come.”

“Your father was so uneasy about you. He would have liked to come himself but he could hardly have done that. It would have made it too official. But when we heard what was happening here . . .”

“What did you hear?”

Mary Beatrice looked at Anne who said: “People wrote home ... some of the ladies, you know. They wrote that the Prince does not treat you well. Does he not?”

I hesitated — and that was enough.

“Lady Selbourne wrote home and said that you were neglected by the Prince who treated you without respect.”

“The Prince is very busy,” I said quickly. “He is much occupied with affairs of state.”

“He will always be Caliban to me,” said Anne. “That was Sarah’s name for him.”

I said: “Pray, do not let anyone hear you say that.”

“Well,” laughed Anne. “He is rather alarming. My poor Mary, I am sorry for you. I can’t help being glad he is not my husband.”

I looked at her placid face and wondered who would be found for her. Of one thing I was certain: it would not be long before she had a husband. The thought apparently did not occur to her, or if it had, it had not alarmed her. Very little did alarm Anne. She had an unswerving faith in her ability to sail serenely through life.

“I will tell you a secret,” she said, dismissing the unpleasant subject of my marriage. “It is very much a secret at the moment. Only our stepmother knows, is that not so? But I must tell my dear sister, if she promises to say nothing of it to anyone.”

I promised readily.

“It is Sarah,” she said. “What do you think? She has married John Churchill.”

“Well, I knew he was courting her. Why should it be a secret?”

“The Churchills have fine ideas of themselves ever since Arabella started to advance their fortunes.” Anne paused for a moment, faintly embarrassed. Our stepmother knew, of course, of Arabella’s relationship with her husband and how, because of it, her family had received many favors.

“The Churchills think themselves far above the Jennings and that Sarah is not a good enough match.”

“Sarah will soon teach them differently from that!”

“Of course. Sarah is good enough for anyone. But if he had to go away with his regiment and Sarah went with him, what should I do without her?”

“You will have to arrange that she stays behind or let her go,” I said.

Anne smiled complacently, certain of her power to keep Sarah with her.

“It is a secret until the family have been brought round to see good sense. Our stepmother thinks that can be done.”

“I did hear a whisper that John Churchill was a wayward young man,” I said.

“You must mean the Lady Castlemaine scandal. There was something. But so many people have been involved with that woman.”

“I have heard it said that the King sent him to Tangiers to separate them.”

“That was long ago. John is now reformed. He thinks of no one but Sarah. I dare say he will do exactly as Sarah wants.”

“Knowing Sarah, I am sure that is very likely.”

I wondered how long this deep friendship with Sarah could last. Anne herself must marry one day and that was most certainly to be in the near future.

She said: “How did you get on with Dr. Hooper?”

Dr. Hooper was the almoner who had replaced Dr. Lloyd. I frowned. William did not approve of him. Dr. Lloyd had not minded if I attended the Dutch services, but Dr. Hooper had advised me not to. In fact, he was almost as fierce against it as he was against Catholicism. This had given rise to some unpleasantness, for Dr. Hooper was not a man to keep silent about his opinions. There had been one or two far from felicitous encounters between William and Dr. Hooper.

“He is a man of strong opinion,” I said.

“And the Prince did not approve of him?”

“Well, not exactly.”

Mary Beatrice smiled grimly and I said quickly: “You know he is returning to England. He is going to marry.”

“I had heard that.”

“He has promised he will come back again, bringing his wife with him.”

“Does that please you?”

“I like him.”

My stepmother did not answer, but I knew she was thinking that my husband had probably made life very difficult during Dr. Hooper’s stay at The Hague.

He would no doubt make his views at the Dutch court known when he returned to England. He would be quite fearless about that, and with the letters which found their way to England, it would be known that my life in Holland was not as serene as it might have been.

The visit was very brief and I was very sad to say good-bye to them. It had been a mixture of joy and sadness to be with them, for, while it was wonderful to be in their company, memories flooded back of the idyllic life I had led before my marriage. I was beset by such nostalgic longing for the old days that I was not sure whether the visit had been good for me or not.

They had promised to come again.

“The journey is not so far,” Anne had said on parting. “Of course, there is that hateful crossing, but I would face that a thousand times to be with my dear sister.”

And my stepmother agreed with her.

So I was hopeful that there would be another visit before very long.

Soon after their departure, William paid me one of his rare visits. As I was pregnant, it was not for the usual purpose.

He said: “I have a letter from your father.”

He handed it to me and I read:

We came hither on Wednesday from Newmarket and the same night the Duchess, my wife, arrived home so satisfied with her journey and with you as never I saw anyone; and I must give you a thousand thanks from her and from myself for her kind usage by you. I should say more on the subject, but I am ill at compliments and I know you do not care for them.

There was more of the letter. He did not give me time to read it, however, but snatched it away as I prepared to do so.

“Well,” he said, his lips in a straight line, his eyes cold, “The spies gave a good account of us.”

“They were not spies,” I said with a touch of indignation.

“Were they not? You surprise me. Their grateful thanks are couched in the language of diplomacy. They are adept in that art at your uncle’s court, I believe. Your father is an uneasy man at this time.” He waved the letter at me, and I stretched out to take it, but he held it back. He was not going to share it with me. All he wanted me to see was the good report which had been given of the visit.

“There is trouble in England,” he went on.

“Trouble?” I said quickly. “What trouble?”

“Your father, I fear, is not a wise man. His obsession with a religion which does not please the people will be his undoing.”

“Is anything wrong with my father?”

“Only what he inflicts on himself.”

“Please tell me if you have any news.” I was losing my fear of him in my anxiety for my father, and I felt bold suddenly. If my father was in trouble I must know.

“Is he in danger?” I asked.

William did not speak immediately. A slow smile crossed his face but he seemed as cold as ever.

He tapped the letter.

“There is a plot being talked of in England. A man named Titus Oates has claimed to have discovered it. This is a papist plot to take command of England and bring back that faith.”

“And my father?”

“They will seek to involve him, of course. There is a great excitement in England because of it. All Catholics will be suspect. Your father, your stepmother, the Queen herself. The English will never again have a Catholic on the throne. That is why I say your father is unwise.”

“He is an honest man,” I said. “He does not pretend. He will not lie to the people.”

“Honest ... and so unwise!”

I wanted to read that letter. I wanted to know exactly what had been written. William knew it, but he would not show me.

I understood later, but I could not then.

His hopes were high. The popish plot raised them. Charles, my uncle, could not live forever, and then it would be my father’s turn. And would the people have him? If not, the next in line was myself. I would be the one and William was my consort. Consort? When he had a claim himself ... not as strong as mine, it was true, but a claim. He wanted me to know that, however high my rank, he was my husband and I owed obedience to him.

That letter pleased him indeed. Not because my sister and stepmother had not mentioned his harsh treatment of me, but because of the news about a papist plot.

* * *

I CONTINUED TO WORRY about my father. News came from England. We heard of little else but Titus Oates and the popish plot. Everyone was talking about it. I knew that William was in communication with some of the ministers at my uncle’s court. There were several of them who were determined not to tolerate a Catholic king and they turned to William.

I realized that William was aware of the close relationship between myself and my father and he did not want me to be influenced by him.

Although he had a certain contempt for me, and I was sure believed he could subdue me if the need arose, he had to remember that, if my father was removed, he could only secure the throne through me; and I believed on one or two occasions he had seen in me a certain rebellion — a determination to stand up for what I believed to be right, even if it were against his wishes.

He was already conspiring with men in England and must have been anxious to keep me in ignorance of this, for fear I should betray the fact to my father.

Soon after the departure of the visitors I was taken ill again with the disease which had attacked me before. I was suffering alternate fits of shivering and fever and they diagnosed the ague.

I became very ill and during the illness I lost the child I was carrying. It had happened exactly as before.

I was completely desolate, more so than ever. It was a significant repetition. I knew what it meant. The curse of the queens was upon me. I began to believe that I should never have a child who would live.

I knew William was deeply upset. Our efforts were in vain. A child was conceived and that was the end.

He blamed me. Of course. What had I done? I had been careless, stupid. I had let another chance go by.

I was too ill for some time to care much. I thought I was dying and so did some of those about me. I knew this because Anne Trelawny told me afterward.

There was a great deal of gossip among the women about William’s callous behavior. There were occasions when he did come to see me. I supposed diplomacy demanded it. I pretended to be too ill to speak to him.

He stood by my bed, looking at me with obvious exasperation — the wife who could not do what every little serving-maid could with ease — produce a child; and yet I held the promise of a crown in my hands.

He was anxious about me for one reason. I must get well. I must not die, for if I died, I should take William’s hopes with me, for Anne would be next. Idly I wondered how she would have acted if she had been the one chosen for William. I thought of her indifference, her lassitude. She would have ignored him and turned to Sarah Churchill for comfort.

Often now I thought of Frances Apsley. One of my greatest compensations was the letters I wrote and received; and I often thought how pleasant it might have been if we could have lived together.