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

At this time Anne Bentinck became very ill. She had been ailing for some time but now her malady had taken a turn for the worse.

Much as I distrusted the Villiers family, I had formed a friendship with Anne. I knew that she was her sister’s confidante and that, since she had married Bentinck, she had enjoyed a closer relationship with William. That was inevitable, for William had used Bentinck’s apartments as though they were his own and Bentinck was more often with William than with his own family. I liked Anne and although I could not altogether trust a Villiers I did respect her, and was very sorry to see her so ill.

When I went to see her I was horrified by the change in her.

The doctors had visited her, she told me.

“They will soon make you well,” I said.

Anne shook her head slowly. “No, Your Highness, I think this is the end.”

I was astounded. Anne was young. She had her life before her. The Bentinck marriage had been a happy one. It shocked me to hear her talk of dying.

“You are feeling sad. This is a sad time for all of us.”

“It is indeed. I wonder what is happening. I wish we could have some news.”

“You shall hear it as soon as it comes,” I promised her, and she thanked me.

I stayed with her for a while. To be with people gave me a respite from my continual imaginings of what was happening. I said I would call on her again and I added prayers for her recovery to those I said every day.

There was still no news. I heard that Anne’s condition had worsened and went again to see her.

She looked pleased and grateful for my coming.

“It will not be long now,” she said, and I had to put my ear close to her lips to hear her.

“My lady ... we ... we have not always been to you as we should. You have been a good mistress to us. My sister and I . . .”

“Do not fret,” I said. “The doctors will be here soon. They will do something.”

She shook her head. “No ... Forgive . . .”

“There is nothing for which I have to forgive you,” I said.

“Yes,” she answered. “My husband is with the Prince ... always with the Prince . . .”

“It was a great friendship between them. Your husband would have given his life for him. The Prince never forgets that.”

She smiled. “The Prince must be served.”

“There is great friendship between them.”

“The Prince demands much from those who love him. My husband ... he is like a slave to his master. He has little time for aught else. He is only allowed his freedom when the Prince is otherwise engaged. He is always expected to be there ... on the spot. It is the way of the Prince.”

This long speech seemed to have exhausted her and she was silent for a while.

Then she went on: “My lady ... my children ... when I am gone ... you will look to them.”

I said I would.

“They are young yet. If you could . . .”

“I will see that all is well,” I assured her. “You should not worry. Your husband will care for them. He is a good man. Anne, you were lucky . . .”

She nodded, smiling.

“Your promise,” she said. “Your forgiveness . . .”

“I give my promise,” I told her, “and forgive whatever there is to forgive.”

She smiled and her lips moved, but I could hear nothing.

I stayed with her, thinking of the day I had left England, a poor frightened child, in the company of the Villiers whom I did not much like.

There was not much time left for Anne. I was at her bedside with Lady Inchiquin and Madame Puisars and Elizabeth Villiers when she passed away.

We sat on either side of the bed, my husband’s mistress and I. Elizabeth was deeply affected by Anne’s death. They had been closer than any of the others and I was sure that they had shared confidences about Elizabeth’s relationship with William.

Was that what Anne had meant when she had asked for forgiveness? Death is a very solemn state. I could not feel the same anger in the presence of my rival on this occasion as I should on any other. She was suffering the loss of her beloved sister and I could only feel sorrow for her.

* * *

IT WAS STILL DIFFICULT TO GET NEWS. So far I understood that there had been no fighting and I was thankful for that; but I could not understand why this should be, grateful as I was for it.

My father’s first thoughts had been for his family. Mary Beatrice and the baby had been sent away to safety. I heard they were in France. Anne was still in hiding with Sarah Churchill.

Thoughts of my father filled my mind but all the time I reminded myself that he had brought this on himself and but for him it need never have happened.

If my uncle Charles could see what was happening he would smile that sardonic smile of his and say “I was right. It happened as I said it would. Poor foolish sentimental James. This is no way to rule a country, brother.”

It was heartbreaking. Sometimes I thought it was more than I could bear.

Before December was out I heard that my father was in France. Deserted by his friends, his army depleted, there had been no alternative. But for one thing I was thankful. There had been little loss of life and scarcely any bloodshed.

And then ... William was at St. James’s. It seemed that the enterprise, so long talked of, planned with such care, undertaken with such trepidation, was over and more successful than we had hoped in our most optimistic dreams.

Dispatches came from William. They were not brought to me and I was bitterly hurt. There was no word to me personally from William. No tender display of affection. After our last meeting, I had told myself, there was a change in our relationship.

I understood later that he could not suppress his resentment of me. Although he had changed since Gilbert Burnet had told him that I would not stand in the way of his becoming king, now that he was in England, he heard the views of some of the ministers there and the question was raised again. I was the heiress to the throne, they pointed out, and because he was my husband, he was not king in his own right. So, the old resentment was back. William could not endure taking second place to a woman. That which he craved beyond all things, he was told, belonged to his wife and his power depended on her good will. So he sent official documents to Holland and no communication to me.

To understand is to forgive, they say. If one has tender feelings toward another, one makes excuses. I wished I had understood then. I need not have felt so wounded, but I told myself that what I had thought of as William’s tenderness for me was transient. He had been carried along by the poignancy of the occasion and the possibility that that meeting might be our last on earth.

I heard how William had made his entry into London and thousands had come out to see him. I could visualize their disappointment. I remembered when he had come to London on a previous occasion and how somber he had seemed beside the King and his friends. William would have no smiles for the people. He did not look like a king. The people were silent. There were no cheers for the dour-looking Dutchman. What had he to recommend him, except that he was a Protestant and the husband of their new Queen Mary? Where was Queen Mary? She should be the one who was riding the streets.

Bentinck, mourning the death of his wife, but first of all slave to William, tried, so I heard, to remonstrate with William, to which William had replied that it had been hinted to him that he was but the consort of Queen Mary and he was not the sort of man to play gentleman usher to his wife.

These little scraps of information came to me gradually and I knew that this was what had affected William’s conduct toward me more than anything else.

William Herbert, Duke of Powis, held a meeting of ministers in his bedroom because he was suffering from the gout and unable to leave his bed. Bentinck had been allowed to join them on behalf of his master, and reported what had happened.

Bentinck put forward the view which he had been sent there to state, that the best plan would be for the Prince to be crowned King and myself take the rank, not of Queen Regent, but Queen Consort.

At that, Herbert, infuriated by the suggestion, forgetting his gout, leaped out of bed, seized his sword which he kept close by and, brandishing it, cried that if the Prince of Orange treated his wife so, he would never draw a sword for him again. After that display, he sank back on his bed in acute pain.

Bentinck said that when the Prince heard this he was overcome with melancholy.

He had turned to Bentinck and said: “You see how the people think? I am tired of these English. I shall go back to Holland and leave their crown to whoever can catch it.”

After that William scarcely emerged from St. James’s Palace. Ministers called on him constantly; he listened to what they said but rarely made any comment.

It was not surprising that they wondered what kind of a man they had brought to England.

And as he had intended, when he considered the time was ripe, and they were growing uneasy, he asked the Marquis of Halifax and the Earls of Shrewsbury and Danby, whom he believed to be his friends, to come to him, and he explained the reasons for his serious deliberations.

“The English plan to set Queen Mary on the throne and wish me to reign by her courtesy. I must make it clear to you that no man could esteem a woman more than I esteem my wife, but I am so made that I could not hold power by apron strings.”

The three men looked at him in consternation. Then Danby said he understood his dilemma but, in view of the fact that Queen Mary was the rightful Queen, they could see nothing else that was acceptable.

William then told them that Dr. Burnet had discussed the matter with me and would be prepared to tell them what had taken place at that interview.

As a result of this, Dr. Burnet was sent for and he gave an account of our talk together when I had most emphatically said that I believed a wife should be obedient to her husband and would be ready to resign sovereignty to William.

Lord Danby’s reply was that it would be necessary to have my confirmation of this and no steps could be taken until this was in the hands of Parliament.

As a result I received a communication from Lord Danby stating the case with a request that I should let him know my decision with as little delay as possible.

I immediately wrote back that, as the Prince’s wife, I was never meant to be other than in subjection to him and I should feel no gratitude to anyone who would seek to set up an interest dividing me from my husband.

That satisfied them.

The Lords and Commons were assembled and it was agreed that the Prince of Orange should be offered the three crowns of England, Ireland and France. Scotland, of course, was a separate kingdom and the title of France was a relic from the past. However, the three crowns were William’s now. I was to be offered a joint sovereignty and royal acts would be signed in both our names, but the executive power was William’s. Any children we should have would be heirs to the throne and if we failed to have them the succession would go to the Princess Anne and her children.

William had achieved what he had always wanted.

While this was happening Christmas had come and passed and we were nearly at the end of January. Then news came from William. I was to leave Holland and come back to England. We were to be crowned King and Queen and the reign of William and Mary was about to begin.

The wind was behind us as we left Brill and our journey was swift. I was feeling very emotional and my thoughts were of my father, but I warned myself that I must stand wholeheartedly behind my husband, and that, but for my father’s folly, he might not now be in exile with his sorrowing queen.

I must smile, be merry, pretend to rejoice. William was safe, his mission accomplished, his dream come true. The three crowns were his and I was to share them.

I watched the approach of my native island and thought of that terrified and tearful child who had left it in such misery. I was still young — not yet twenty-seven. I had survived those first years of marriage and had learned to accept what cannot be changed, which I suppose is one of the most important lessons of life.