I learned that this visit to The Hague was, as he had said of that earlier one made by Mary Beatrice and Anne, “very incognito.” The situation was too delicate for it to be a state visit. William was, in a way, involved in English affairs; no one could be unaware of what the refusal of the English to accept a Catholic monarch would mean to him. If my father had a son now he would be taken from him and given a Protestant upbringing, but child rulers usually caused trouble, and at The Hague was one of the most staunch Protestants, married to the present heir to the throne — if my father should be rejected.


* * *

WHEN I WAS ALONE with Mary Beatrice I realized how troubled she was.

She told me that she had been happier in her first years in England than ever before and now it had all changed.

“I often think,” she said, “that, had your father been a Protestant, we should still be enjoying that happy life. The people were fond of him once, as they are of the King. They both have what is called the Stuart charm in good measure. The King is clever and determined to keep his crown; but the fact is that your father is too honest to deny his faith and for that we must suffer.”

She told me of how they had had to leave.

“We wanted to bring your sister with us, of course, and she was delighted at the prospect of seeing you, but when it was known that she was coming there was an outcry. The people thought your father might seek to make a Catholic of her, and so she was not allowed to go with us.”

“How I should have loved to see her!”

“She said she must come soon. Perhaps it can be arranged.”

“What troubles there are in life!”

“You too?” she asked.

“I miss my home — you, my father, my sister, my uncle ... the ones I loved.”

“You have your husband.” She looked at me intently, questioningly, and I did not answer.

She went on: “The Prince received us well when we arrived in Holland. He had a guard of honor waiting to greet us. Your father was gratified, but he did explain immediately that this was not a state visit and it would be better for him to remain incognito. We went to Brussels and shall return there when we leave here, for, dear Lemon, we must not stay long — we shall have the house which your uncle had during his exile. I think so much of the early years when we were all together, getting to know each other. How happy it was! Who would have dreamed then that all this would happen?”

Poor Mary Beatrice! My poor father! How different everything might have been!

I asked about Isabella and her face lit up with pleasure. Then it was sad again.

“I wanted to bring her with us. She is such a beautiful child. But it was not permitted. Your father is going to write to the King imploring him to allow Isabella to come to us. Perhaps we can persuade him to allow Anne to accompany her.”

“I thought the people did not want them to go with you.”

“I know, but the King would be happy for them to. He understands. But it will, I suppose, depend on the people. The King will never do anything to offend them.”

“He is wise,” I said.

“Wise and determined never to go wandering again.”

“Yet my father will do what he thinks right, no matter what the consequences.”

“Everything is wrong,” she went on. “Wherever we look, there is trouble ... Monmouth . . .”

“What of Jemmy?” I cried.

“He has grown ambitious. This horrible plot delights him. He mingles with the people. Monmouth, the Protestant. One would think he were heir to the throne. I do believe he sees himself as such. He is the King’s son and he wants everyone to remember it and, above all, he is a Protestant.”

“Jemmy cannot think . . .”

“I tell you, he is an ambitious young man. He wants the people on his side. I believe he thinks that one day the crown could be his.”

“That is impossible.”

I thought of my bright and amusing cousin, whose visits Anne and I had looked forward to — and now he had become my father’s enemy! What a lot of trouble could have been avoided if my father had not flaunted his religion. It was not the first time that I had felt a touch of impatience with him. The King kept his counsel and all went well with him. If only my father could have been as wise.

I felt ashamed of these critical thoughts. It was disloyal. I brushed them aside and talked about Isabella.

Their stay was brief. They had come to see me, my father told me. They had been so alarmed to hear of my illness, but because of the circumstances they could not prolong their stay.

The encounter had been beneficial to me and my health visibly improved. And then they returned to Brussels.


* * *

MY FATHER WAS CONTINUALLY IN MY THOUGHTS and I greatly pitied not only him and Mary Beatrice but Queen Catherine as well. It appeared that she was in acute danger, for these villainous men were accusing her of being involved in the plot to murder the King, and therefore of treason, for which the punishment was death. This was sheer nonsense, and I was sure my uncle would protect her from her malicious enemies. But what must the poor woman be suffering now?

The King should never have married a Catholic. My grandfather, Charles the Martyr, had married one, too; the stormy Henrietta Maria had been fiercely religious and was blamed for the troubles of that reign which had ended in such tragedy.

Catholics brought trouble wherever they were and that was at the very heart of the popish plot.

I would always maintain my father’s honesty, but he really was acting in a reckless, foolish manner, and was causing misery to a great many people.

There was a great deal of activity going on at the supper parties. Elizabeth Villiers was still hostess at these affairs and I was astonished that she should be in such prominence even when William was there. But he did not seem to notice her presumption. I had even seen him talking to her when she joined him and some of the English visitors.

As for myself, I was gaining confidence. I had proved to myself that I could stand up to William and I felt better for it.

I had a feeling at those parties which I attended, that they were all very much aware of my presence and that it put a curb upon them. Perhaps that was just a fancy, for how could I know what they were like in my absence? Perhaps I imagined that there was a watchfulness.

On one occasion, soon after my father and Mary Beatrice had left, I noticed a man who stood out among the others because he was so different. He did not look like a man accustomed to court ways. I guessed him to be English and he was deep in conversation with Sidney. Sunderland joined them and they all talked together very earnestly.

I called Betty Selbourne to my side. She seemed to know everyone and was noted for her discretion.

I said to her: “Who is that man talking to Lord Sunderland?”

She paused for a moment and then replied: “I could not remember for the moment, but I do now. I believe him to be a Mr. William Bedloe.”

“Who is he?”

“I do not know, Your Highness. I have not met him. I think he came over with a message for Lord Russell.”

“Bedloe,” I murmured. I thought the name seemed faintly familiar.

“Would Your Highness like him to be presented to you?”

I looked at the man’s mean face and awkward bearing.

“No, Betty,” I said. “I think not.”

It was later, when I lay in bed, sleepless, thinking of my father and poor Queen Catherine, when I remembered where I had heard the name before. “Titus Oates and his friends — Tonge and Bedloe.”

My suspicions were beginning to be formed. William Bedloe was a confederate of Titus Oates.

What were these men who were plotting to ruin the Queen and my father doing here at The Hague? The answer was clear: my father was going to be robbed of his inheritance and William, through me, was going to take the crown of England.

I felt sick with horror. I wanted no part in it. I wanted to break away from it all.

How could my father have plunged us all into this morass of intrigue and misery?

And William? How much was he involved in it?


* * *

I HAD BEEN HORRIBLY SHOCKED that a man concerned in the popish plot with Titus Oates should be received at the court of The Hague, and even more so by a discovery I made soon afterward.

I was really fortunate in having in my service that rather feckless pair Betty Selbourne and Jane Wroth, for I learned a great deal from little details which they thoughtlessly let slip from time to time in their everyday tittle-tattle. Anne Trelawny was discreet and always concerned not to alarm me, and I believe she kept from me any news which she thought might do so.

Some reference was made to my father’s visit, and Jane said: “It was the day before his illness.”

“His illness?” I asked. “What was that?”

Betty was there too and she and Jane exchanged glances.

Betty said: “Oh, it was nothing much. It quickly passed. It was a day or so before he left.”

“Why did I know nothing of this? What sort of illness?”

“It was of no importance,” said Betty. “I suppose he did not want to worry Your Highness.”

“If it were of no importance, how could it worry me?”

They were both silent and I went on: “How did you know of it?”

“People were talking about it,” said Jane. “Your Highness knows how people will talk. The Duchess was so anxious.”

I knew there was something mysterious about this illness and, instead of gently urging them to talk and eventually prizing the news from them, I said imperiously: “I want to know the truth. Please tell me immediately.”

I could see the expressions on their faces. There was no help for it. They must tell me.

“Well,” said Betty. “It was just before the Duke and Duchess left. The Duke was troubled in the night with sickness and gripping pains — so they said.”

“Why did I not know of this?”

“We were told not to speak of it. We should not have mentioned it.”

“But I insist on knowing,” I reminded her. “Go on.”

“The Duchess was very worried. Their servants were there. They thought he was . . .”

I found I was clenching my fists. It was hard to control my dismay and alarm.

“What caused it?” I demanded.

Again that exchange of a glance between the two young women.

“It must have been something he had eaten at supper,” said Jane.

“But he was much better in the morning,” added Betty. “And then, of course, he left for Brussels.”

“Why was this kept from me?”

“Your Highness was recovering from your own illness. The Prince had given orders that you were not to be worried. It was just that your father was briefly indisposed.”

“And my father left almost immediately and instructions were given not to tell me.”

“No one was supposed to mention it, for it would seem as though the cooks did not know their business.”

“And you ladies were told not to mention it? By whom?”

“It was Elizabeth. She is the one who says what we must do or not do now.”

I was very disturbed. Had they tried to kill my father? Those men who assembled for the supper parties were his enemies. They wanted to see him removed to make way for William.

And William? I could not believe that such a religious man would contemplate ... murder.


* * *

I WAS ASHAMED OF MYSELF for entertaining for a moment such a thought of my husband. William was stern, unbending, overwhelmingly ambitious, but he would never be a party to murder — and the murder of his father-in-law.

I felt I wanted to make up for such an unworthy thought.

My attitude toward my father had changed a little. There were those who called him a fool and my uncle was one of them. I had heard that the King had said of him: “The people will never get rid of me, because if they did they would have to have James. That is something they would not want. I doubt he would last four years on the throne.”

My poor misguided father. Such a good man, he was, apart from that lechery which he shared with his brother; but he could be foolish in the extreme.

It surprised me that I could think this of one whom I had idolized for so long. I began to wonder if I were seeing him through William’s eyes.