“Oh, Papa,” she answered blankly and he wept as he kissed her.

“Listen, my little one,” he went on, “Uncle Charles is in Oxford and I have to join him there because that is where the Parliament is. There is much work to do when you are a King and the brother of a King. Do you understand?”

She nodded, lacing her fingers in his and gripping them as though to indicate that she would not let him go without a struggle.

“That is good because you will have to understand the duties of kingship. Why, my love, it could so come about that you might one day be a Queen of England … a Queen in your own right, sweetheart. Think of that.”

“And Anne?”

“Oh, Anne is your little sister. You are before her. But Uncle Charles has no son.”

She was puzzled thinking of handsome Jemmy, whom she loved so much and who was known as Monmouth. She had thought he was Uncle Charles’s son.

“No, he has no sons who could inherit the throne,” went on her father, “so therefore if Uncle Charles died I should be King. And if I were to die …” She looked alarmed and he kissed her tenderly. “I shall not for years and years … but one day I shall be a poor old man and you will be a woman with husband and children of your own. Then, my love, if Uncle Charles had no children at all and you did not have a little brother, you could be Queen of England.”

It was all very complicated to her, but he was glad he had told her; it was as well to learn as early as possible what part one might have to play in the country’s affairs.

Then he changed the subject abruptly; he told her wonderful stories of how he had been a soldier in Europe and he and Uncle Charles had been two wandering exiles because the wicked Oliver Cromwell had driven them from England. He had many exciting adventures to relate; but what Mary liked best was the story of how the people decided that they wanted no more of the puritan rule and sent to Europe for the Princes. She liked to hear how he and Uncle Charles came back to England, how the bells rang out and the people strewed their way with flowers while they danced in the streets and laughed and embraced each other because England had ceased to be a somber place.

“They knew Uncle Charles would make them laugh again,” said Mary.

Her father nodded. She was right. Charles had made them laugh at his witticisms, at his careless good nature, at his never ending adventures with women.

When James left soon for Oxford, Mary missed him sadly, discovering that she loved him better than anyone in the world—better than her mother, better than cousin Jemmy, better even than Anne.

Each day Mary hoped to hear that her father would be with them; she worked hard at her lessons, wishing to surprise him, and her mother was proud of her, but Mary knew that secretly she loved Anne best, although the child never made any effort to win affection; she smiled placidly at everybody, and grew fatter every day.

There were occasions when the Duke paid a visit to York and they were the happiest days for Mary. She would be at his side all through the day; and even when important people came to see him she was not dismissed. He would hold her on his knee while he talked; and she listened because she knew that was what he wanted her to do. Thus she learned a little about the wicked Dutchmen who were threatening England on the high seas; she also heard news of the terrible plague.

One day her mother sent for the little girls and taking Anne on her lap and drawing Mary into the crook of her arm, she said: “How would you like to go back home?”

Home? But this was home. Home was where her mother was, where her father came when he could escape from his duties.

“You are going to have a very happy time,” explained the Duchess, popping a sweet into Anne’s mouth. “You are going to live in Richmond Palace, where a nursery is being prepared for you, and you will have a lady governess and other little girls to be your companions.”

Mary was a little puzzled; but her mother was smiling while Anne contentedly crunched, and later when she heard the servants talking about it and understood how happy they were to be going, as they said, “home,” she was happy too.

Lady Frances Villiers, the youngest daughter of the Earl of Suffolk who had married Colonel Edward Villiers and given him a family, was congratulating herself on her appointment.

“For,” she told her husband, “it seems clear that the King will never have an heir; and in that case the most important children in the country will be under my care.”

The Colonel agreed that the position looked promising for the future.

“Edward and Henry are well placed at Court,” went on Lady Frances, “and the girls will now have their opportunity. They will be close companions of the Lady Mary and the Lady Anne, and I shall impress upon them the importance of making that friendship firm.”

“I am sure you will, my dear,” her husband answered.

“In fact,” went on Lady Frances, “I shall speak to Elizabeth without delay.”

She sent one of her maids to find her eldest daughter and when Elizabeth stood before her she surveyed her with a certain uneasiness. Elizabeth was disquieting. Although only ten years old, she seemed already wise; she would be the eldest in the royal nursery and for that reason, as well as because of her character, would attempt to take charge.

“Elizabeth,” said her mother somewhat peevishly. “Stand up straight. Don’t slouch.”

Elizabeth obeyed. She was graceful, but there was a cast in her eyes which gave her a sharp yet sly look.

“The Lady Mary and the Lady Anne will soon be arriving. I trust you realize the honor which the Duke and Duchess are bestowing on you by allowing you to be their companion.”

“Is it an honor?” asked Elizabeth.

Yes, she was sharp, alert, and a little insolent.

“You are foolish. It is a great honor as you know well. You know the position of the Lady Mary.”

“She is only a little girl … years younger than I.”

“Now you are indeed talking like a child. The King is without heirs; the Lady Mary is the Duke’s eldest daughter and he has no son. If the King has no children and the Duke no son, the Lady Mary could be Queen.”

“But the King has sons, and they say …”

“Have done,” said Lady Frances sharply. “You must remember that you are in the royal service.”

“But I do not understand. We are the Villiers.”

“Then you are more foolish than I thought. Even a child of your age should know that every family however important must take second place to royalty.”

“Yet they say that my cousin Barbara Villiers is more important than Queen Catherine.”

She was indeed sly? And how old? Not eleven yet. Lady Frances thought that a whipping might be good for Miss Elizabeth. She would see.

“You may go now,” she said. “But remember what I have said. I should like you and the Lady Mary to be friends. Friendships made in childhood can last a lifetime. It is a good thing to remember.”

“I will remember it,” Elizabeth assured her.

Lady Frances, her daughters ranged about her, greeted the Princesses as they entered the Palace.

She knelt and put her arms about them. “Let us forget ceremony for this occasion,” she cried. “Welcome, my Lady Mary and my Lady Anne. I think we are going to be very happy together as one big family.”

Mary thought they would be a very large family. There were six daughters of Lady Frances: Elizabeth, Katherine, Barbara, Anne, Henrietta, and Mary. Barbara Villiers was a name Mary had often heard whispered; but she did not believe that this little girl was that Barbara whose name could make people lower their voices and smile secretively.

Lady Frances took her by the hand and showed her her apartments. Anne’s she was relieved to find were next to her own. Lady Frances seemed kind but Mary wanted to be back in York with her own mother and the possibility of her father’s coming any day; she was disturbed because she sensed change, and she did not like it. Anne was not in the least worried; she believed that she would be petted and pampered in Richmond as she had been in York.

Mary was not so sure. She was constantly aware of Elizabeth Villiers, who was so much older than she was, seemed so much wiser, and was continually watching her, she was sure, in a critical manner.

Those days became faintly uneasy; and it was mainly due to Elizabeth Villiers.

Supper was being prepared in the King’s apartments. Barbara Villiers, Lady Castlemaine, would be his chief guest; Rochester, Sedley, and the rest would be present; and it would be one of those occasions on which the King could indulge his wit, and afterward they would all leave except Barbara with whom he would spend the night. A pleasant prospect, particularly for a man who had known exile.

It had been said that “Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown,” he ruminated, which was true enough. Not that he was a man to worry unduly. He had had enough of cares and intended to enjoy life, but there was one anxiety which haunted him; he had made a declaration never, if he could help it, to go a-wandering again, and there had been more determination and sincerity behind that declaration than there often was in his utterances.

He could laugh at himself—seeing in the King of England a sinful man. I should be a good King, he thought, if women were not so important to me. But his need of them had been born in him, as it was in James. James would be a contented and happy man, if it were not for women.

We are as we are because we must be, mused Charles. And he tried to remember the stories he had heard of his maternal grandfather, who it had been said was the greatest King the French had ever known; yet he too had had this failing.

It was well enough to love a woman—even if she were not one’s wife. Another French King, Henri Deux, had proved that in a most sober relationship with Diane de Poitiers. But this was different. This was not a woman; it was women. And while he was entertaining Barbara he was thinking of Frances Stuart and the pretty little actresses of Drury Lane—and others. He was thinking too of his poor sad little wife Catherine who had had the misfortune to fall in love with him before she had given herself time to discover the kind of man her husband was.

The trouble was that he was so fond of them all; he hated hurting them or displeasing them; he would promise anything to make them smile, unfortunately promises should be redeemed. Perhaps one of the reasons why he clung to Barbara was that she was ready to rage and scream rather than weep and plead.

These were frivolous thoughts at such a time. His reign had been far from peaceful; what if the people decided that kings brought a country no better luck than parliaments? There was war with the Dutch and it was but a short time ago that his capital city had been devastated by the great plague, when death had stalked the streets of London, putting an end to that commerce on which he had relied to bring prosperity to the land. It had been one of the greatest disasters the country had known; and the following year another—almost as terrible: the great fire.

He knew the people asked themselves: “Is this a warning from heaven because of the profligate life led by the King and his Court?” In the beginning they had loved the pageants, the play, and the magnificence of gallants and ladies. They had said: “Away dull care! Away prim puritans! Now we have a King who knows how to live and if he makes love to many women that is the new fashion.” What amorous squire, what voluptuous lady, was not amused and delighted by such a fashion? “Take your lovers! It is no crime. Look at the King and his Court. It is the fashionable way of life.”

But no one had laughed at the plague and fire and these disasters had revived the puritan spirit. There were still many puritans in England.

But when they had seen the King and the Duke of York working together during the great fire—going among the people, giving orders, they had loved them. It was comforting to contemplate that one only had to appear to win the people’s cheers. In secret they might deplore his way of life but when he was there with his smiles, his wit and, most of all, his cameraderie, he was theirs. To the men he implied: “I am the King, but I am only a man and you are a man also.” To the women: “I am the King, but always ready to do homage to beauty in the humblest.” They adored him, and it was due to that quality known as the Stuart charm.

Poor James, he had missed it. James was too serious. In some ways a pale shadow of brother Charles; in others quite different. James lacked the light touch.