My father must know that if I were to see Father Morgan, it would be tantamount to a declaration that I was seriously considering the Catholic faith.

“I certainly would not see him,” I wrote.

I had an opportunity of speaking to William about it.

I saw the approval in his face and I felt a certain pleasure because I had won it.

“You are right,” he said. “You must not see this man.”

“Assuredly I will not,” I told him. “I hope there will be no rumors of a possible meeting. I thought I might write to someone of authority in England in case there have been rumors that this meeting might take place. Perhaps a bishop or archbishop to state my adherence to the Church of England.”

“Pray do that,” said William. “It is right that you should.”

Excited by his approbation, I wrote a letter to William Sancroft, the Archbishop of Canterbury, in which I set down my feelings, saying that although I had not had the advantage of meeting him, I wished to make it known to him that I took more interest in what concerned the Church of England than myself, and that it was one of the greatest satisfactions I could have to hear that all the clergy showed themselves to be firm in their religion which made me confident that God would preserve the Church since He had provided it with such able men.

In view of the conflict which had existed between my father and the Church of England, this was clearly saying on whose side I stood; and in view of my position as heir to the throne, it was of great significance.

When I showed the letter to William his smile was so warm that I fancied he looked at me with love. All it meant, of course, was that he no longer feared my defection to my father. I had now placed myself firmly beside William.


* * *

ONE DAY WHEN GILBERT BURNET WAS TALKING TO ME, he said suddenly: “It is not natural in a man to be subservient to his wife.”

I agreed. “It is clear from the scriptures that a woman should obey her husband,” I said.

“That is so,” went on Gilbert. Then he paused for a while before he went on: “It would seem from events in England that the day of reckoning is not far off.”

“What do you think is going to happen?” I asked.

“I think they will not have King James much longer.”

“They must not harm him,” I said. “Perhaps he will go into a monastery.” I paused, thinking of his mistresses. How could he live in a monastery? Where would he go? Exile in France? Wandering from place to place, as he had done in his youth, to the end of his days? As long as they did not harm him ... I thought. To lose his kingdom will be grief enough.

I was melancholy thinking of his fate. Then Gilbert roused me from my gloom.

“There is much dissatisfaction,” he said. “It has to be. He must be aware of that. Everywhere it is felt that he cannot go on.”

I shivered. Gilbert looked at me intently.

“I trust Your Highness is prepared.”

“There has been so much said of it,” I replied. “So many implications, I could not be unaware of the possibility of its happening.”

“If the King were deposed, Your Highness would be Queen of England — the Prince your consort.”

Now I saw where he was leading and I said: “The Prince would be beside me. We should stand together.”

“Not equally, Your Highness, unless you made it so.”

I was silent and he went on: “I wonder whether the Prince could take such a minor position. He is a man of action — a ruler.”

“He has a claim to the throne,” I said.

“There are others before him.”

“Anne,” I said. “Her children.”

“It would be in Your Highness’s hands. If you were to declare the Prince King ... it would have to come from you ... your consent could elevate him from consort to King. As King he would rule beside you. And as you say, he has some right, but you would be the undoubted Queen by reason of inheritance. You would have to give your word that the Prince should be King and you the Queen, to rule together. Would you be prepared to do this?”

I felt a glow of pleasure. I said: “I would not want to rule without him. I should need him. He is my husband. I should be Queen but of a certainty William should be King.”

I could see how pleased Gilbert was and it occurred to me that he had wanted to say this for some time and was relieved that he had achieved the result he wanted. I guessed, too, that William had prompted him to discover my feelings in the matter.

I guessed that Burnet went straight to William and gave him my answer, for William changed toward me from then.

He was more affable; he talked to me of state matters and even showed some affection.

I was delighted and happier than I had been since the days of Jemmy’s visit. I understand now that what had been between us was my greater claim to the throne. Now we were equal and, because he was a man, he believed he had the ascendancy over me.

Strangely enough, I did not resent this; I was so happy because of the change in our relationship.


* * *

I HEARD FREQUENTLY FROM MY SISTER at this time. She seemed to be quite contented in her marriage and completely recovered from the loss of Lord Mulgrave. George of Denmark appeared to be a very amiable person; and she had Sarah Churchill, whom she had refused to relinquish, still with her.

Unfortunately Anne had taken a great dislike to our stepmother, which surprised me. The Mary Beatrice I had known had been such a pleasant person, very eager to be on good terms with the family she had inherited. Before I left England I had seen how fond she had grown of our father. She had realized she must accept his infidelities — and did we not all come to that state in time — and she took him for the good-hearted man he was.

What came between Mary Beatrice and Anne I could only guess was this matter of religion — as I feared had been the case with myself and my father.

Mary Beatrice was pregnant. This could be very significant, for if the baby were a boy he would be heir to the throne. I should be displaced, and it seemed certain that an attempt would be made to bring the boy up as a Catholic. It all came back to this perpetual factor.

But Anne was quite fierce in her denunciation. She had always loved gossip and to surround herself in her rather lethargic way with intrigue.

She wrote that “Mrs. Mansell” had gone to Bath and come back looking considerably larger. Mrs. Mansell was the name she had given to the Queen and our father was Mr. Mansell. She had a passion for giving people names. I imagined she felt it gave an anonymity to the information she was about to impart.

I knew and I supposed others did, that she had given names to herself and Sarah Churchill: Mrs. Morely was herself; Mrs. Freeman, Sarah Churchill; and although these two saw each other very frequently indeed, Anne still wrote notes to her dear Mrs. Freeman at every opportunity.

However, I was now told that “Mrs. Mansell” was making a great show of her pregnancy and that she looked very well indeed, although, in the past during such periods, she had looked decidedly wan.

Anne was implying, of course, that our stepmother was not really pregnant, but pretending to be so in order that in due course a baby might appear who was not in fact “a little Mansell” after all.

I think she was enjoying this and I was amazed when I remembered how my father had doted on her — almost as much as he had on me — and he had always tried to make us happy, as best he could, for I must not forget that our marriages were quite out of his hands.

We were, of course, all waiting for the birth of this all-important child, and Anne was not the only one who was suspicious.

Meanwhile Mary Beatrice grew larger.

“She is very big,” wrote Anne. “She looks well and I do think the grossesse of Mansell’s wife is a little suspicious.”

She wrote that they had quarreled recently and “Mansell’s wife,” in a fit of temper, had thrown a glove into Anne’s face. Anne implied that the poor creature must be very anxious and she was wondering how they were going to produce this suppositious child. Anne would make sure that she was present at the birth, to see for herself.

I was sorry for Mary Beatrice. I could imagine how unhappy she must be. She would be worried about my father. Perhaps she could see more clearly where he was going than he could himself.

Again and again I tried to make excuses for him, but I could not get out of my mind those images of Jemmy pleading with him, of Jemmy on the block while they hacked so cruelly at his handsome head. But I still loved my father.

Then the day came and the news was out. The child was a boy. This could change everything. There was an heir to the throne. I had lost my place as successor. What of William? Was he regretting his marriage now?

The child’s birth was indeed significant. It was the climax. It was that factor which made the people decide that my father must go.

The rumors were rife. Anne had not been at the birth after all. In spite of Mary Beatrice’s grossesse, the baby had arrived a month before he was due.

Anne was at Bath taking the waters. Our father had persuaded her to go at that time, although the doctors had not advised it. It seemed that every action of my father and stepmother aroused suspicion. Anne implied that my father had urged her to go because he did not want her to be present at the birth.

Anne wrote; “Mrs. Mansell was brought to bed and in a short time a very pleasant-looking child was brought out of the bed and shown to the people.”

There was an absurd story in circulation about a baby’s being brought into the bed in a warming pan to replace the one which my stepmother had born — or it might be that she had had no child at all, and had feigned pregnancy and waited for the healthy baby to be brought in by way of the warming pan. It was a wildly unlikely story and the fact was that the people did not want to believe that the child was the King’s.

They had made up their minds that my father must go.


* * *

ANNE’S LETTERS CONTINUED TO ARRIVE. They chiefly concerned the baby.

“My dear sister cannot imagine the concern and vexation I have been in that I should have been so unfortunate as to be out of town when the Queen was brought to bed, for I shall never have the satisfaction of knowing whether the child be true or false. It may be our brother, but God knows . . .”

I reread the letter. Could she really believe our father would be guilty of such fraud? I could not, yet I wanted to. I was ashamed, but I wanted it to be right for William — and myself — to have the crown William looked upon as his and had done so all his life because of the midwife’s vision. As for myself, I wanted it for him, for if he did not get it his marriage to me would be a perpetual disappointment to him. There was another reason: I was now fully convinced that Catholicism must never come to England. There was only one way to prevent it and that was to take the crown from my father.

Anne had turned against him, for the same reason I imagined. Why did she dislike our stepmother so? I wanted to believe this story of the warming pan although I knew it must be false.

Anne could never have written so many letters before. I wondered if Sarah Churchill encouraged her to write. I believe that Sarah’s husband — who was becoming a power in the army — was William’s friend. And Anne continued to write of her doubts about the baby.

“After all, it is possible that it may be her child,” she wrote, “but where one believes it, a thousand do not. For my part, I shall ever be one of the unbelievers.”

And later she wrote with a certain triumph: “The Prince of Wales has been ill these three or four days and has been so bad that many people say it will not be long before he is an angel in heaven.”

I could not stop thinking of my father and stepmother and wondering how much they were aware of what was going on.

More and more people were coming from England to the court of The Hague. They were the miscontents who were waiting for the day when William would sail across the sea to take the crown.

The little Prince did not die. He recovered and there was a great deal of activity; more arrivals, secret discussions and throughout Holland men were busy in the camps and dockyards. It was obvious that great events were about to take place.