Courting Her Highness

IN THE PRINCESS’S APARTMENTS

Having married Henrietta satisfactorily, Sarah was looking round for a suitable bridegroom for Anne. There was one family whom she considered worthy to join the triumvirate she had decided on; and that was the Spencers.

Robert Spencer, the second Earl of Sunderland, was a wily politician, a slippery statesman; Marlborough himself did not like him; Sarah had at one time hated him, had maligned him and his wife and persuaded the Princess Anne to do the same in her letters to her sister Mary when the latter was in Holland. But there could be no doubt in Sarah’s mind that Sunderland was a man they could not afford to have against them.

The Earl had a son Charles who had married Lady Arabella Cavendish some years before; shortly after Henrietta’s marriage Lady Arabella died and Charles, Sarah decided, would need a wife. Why not Anne?

The Spencers were wealthy; Charles was a Whig, it was true, and Marlborough was a Tory; but Sarah was a little more inclined to Whiggery than her husband and she did not regard this as an obstacle. Charles Spencer had already made a name for himself with his democratic notions when he had declared that he would, when the time came refuse the title of Lord and be known as Charles Spencer; he was, according to Sarah, a prig of a Whig, disapproving of his father whose conduct had at times been quite scandalous. But Sarah believed herself capable of directing her son-in-law in the way he would have to go.

Perhaps she was more interested in his colourful father. Robert Spencer, the second earl of Sunderland, had had an exciting career. Feigning fidelity to James II, he had even gone so far as to pose as a Catholic in order to find a way into his favours, while at the same time corresponding through his wife—as wild a character as himself—with the Orange Court supporting the plan to bring William and Mary to England.

Sunderland had been the object of scandal more than once in his life. A young man, with a gay past behind him, deciding to settle down and marry, he chose Anne Digby daughter of the Earl of Bristol, a match which seemed doubly advantageous, for the young lady was not only beautiful but rich. But before the marriage could take place Sunderland had disappeared, having, he afterwards explained, no stomach for matrimony; but he was brought back and the ceremony took place. His wife was an intriguer who, far from being put out by her bridegroom’s conduct, welcomed it, for it gave her an opportunity of pursuing her own colourful life. Very soon she formed an attachment to Henry Sidney, her husband’s uncle and one of the most attractive men at Court, who had earned for himself the title of The Terror of Husbands. He was even suspected by the Duke of York of making love to the first Duchess, Anne Hyde, and dismissed from Court for a period because of this.

Sunderland however bore no grudges on account of his wife’s infidelity. She and he had agreed that one of the ways to favours in those days was the courting of the King’s mistresses and this they did by providing lavish entertainments which, since they were given in honour of the King’s mistresses, obviously brought the King to their table. When Charles was enamoured of Louise de Keroualle and she wanted a guarantee of security before she succumbed, it was Lady Sunderland who arranged what she called a “wedding” for King Charles and the French woman and this was celebrated at the Sunderlands’ house.

But with the passing of Charles and the coming to the throne of James it was necessary to decide where it was necessary to bestow one’s allegiance. Sunderland was an opportunist—so while he pretended to support James he was in league with William of Orange that he might be ready to leap whichever way would bring him most advantage.

William was shrewd; he did not trust Sunderland; in fact no one trusted Sunderland. Yet he was a man whom no one could ignore. When Queen Mary had died and William was disturbed as to whether his subjects would continue to accept him as King, it was Sunderland who had shrewdly arranged a reconciliation between the King and the Princess Anne, which William had realized afterwards was the best method of placating those who were against him.

Sunderland was a man of brilliance and William could not afford to do without him—nor, decided Sarah, could the Marlboroughs.

Sarah considered the possibilities of alliance. His son, Charles Spencer, in himself would be an excellent parti. Robert Spencer, Sunderland’s eldest son, had led a profligate life and died some ten years before; thus Charles was the heir. There had been a third son who had died as a child, and four daughters, two of whom were dead. The vast Spencer wealth would be at Charles’s disposal; Charles was a brilliant politician, and Sunderland was one of the most influential men in the country. So union with the Spencers was necessary.

When Sarah told her husband this he was disturbed.

“Charles Spencer for our young Anne,” he demanded.

“Young Anne! Really, Marl, what are you thinking? You still see her as a child. She is not I assure you. She will soon be as old as Henrietta was when she married; and look what a success that marriage was.”

“I don’t like Charles Spencer.”

“Why should you? You don’t have to marry him.”

“But our little girl …”

“She has been brought up to look after herself. Have no fear she will do that.”

“No,” said Marlborough, “I don’t like it.”

Sarah sighed. Not only had she to arrange this difficult match, but she must make her husband see that it was necessary.

She set to work in her usual indefatigable manner.

Since Marlborough was not eager for the match Sarah herself sounded Sunderland, who at once grasped the importance of what she was trying to do.

By God, thought Sunderland, they already have Godolphin. With Marlborough and myself, the three of us would be invincible.

To Sarah’s delight he was wholeheartedly enthusiastic.

“My daughter is a very beautiful and charming girl,” said Sarah.

“I am sure, having such a mother, she could be nothing else,” was Sunderland’s reply.

Sarah waved such flattery aside impatiently. “My Lord Marlborough, however, is not in great favour of the match.”

“And why not, I pray you tell me.”

“Oh, Lord Spencer is a Whig and my lord is a staunch Tory.”

“My son would be guided by me in all matters of importance.”

Would he? wondered Sarah. She remembered how the Whiggish prig had denounced his father’s conduct. But that was of no great concern. If Sunderland could not manage his son, she would manage her son-in-law. The important point was to have the three most powerful families together.

“I will tell Lord Marlborough what you say,” she replied; “it might influence him.”

She was elated. Sunderland seemed so eager for the alliance with the Churchills that she believed he would do her work for her. How much better if he would persuade dear sentimental Marl of the advantages. Far better to come from him than from her.

“Perhaps you should see my lord Marlborough,” she told Sunderland. “He would be interested to hear what you have to say on this matter. As for myself, I must hurry to the Princess. I see I am overdue.”

Sunderland took his leave of her and she thought how much she would have liked to have been present when he talked to her husband. But she had her duties. Always her duties. Those trivial little tasks for which she was always having to hurry back to the Princess’s bedchamber.

How much more time she would have to do useful things if she could delegate these simple homely tasks to someone whom she could trust. What she wanted was some colourless person whom the Princess would not notice about the apartment; someone who would do what had to be done quietly and efficiently and call no attention to herself.

Abigail Hill!

Why had she not thought of that before? Abigail was just the one she needed. And what advancement for Abigail! From Mother of the Maids to chamber woman in the Princess’s own bedchamber. The girl would be grateful to her kind benefactress to the end of her days. She would want to repay her kindness in the only way she could; and that would be to work for the benefit of Lady Marlborough for the rest of her life.

“Abigail Hill!” said Lady Marlborough aloud. “Why of course. Abigail Hill!”

As Mother of the Maids Abigail had opportunities of seeing her brother and sister. Alice was delighted with her position which brought her two hundred pounds a year—a vast sum—and plenty of entertainment besides.

Abigail soon gathered that, like everyone else in the Duke of Gloucester’s household, she adored him. He was an extraordinary boy with his frail body and active mind, his great interest in military matters, his army of ninety boys whom he drilled and inspected daily, his droll sayings, his ability to foretell events, for, declared Alice, he had assuredly foretold the death of his old nurse Mrs. Pack, and that was years ago, before the death of Queen Mary.

“Often,” said Alice, “the Princess comes to visit him and cousin Sarah is sometimes with her. It is true, you know Abigail, the Princess does adore our cousin; and they say she is ruled by her in all things.”

“How strange that she should be,” mused Abigail. “She … a Princess!”

“Well, our cousin is handsome, bold and clever.”

“Brazen, I should say,” mused Abigail. “I never knew anyone with such effrontery.”

“We at least have to be grateful for it. Remember that.”

“Have no fear, Alice. We shall never be allowed to forget.”

“Do you know, Abby, I feel proud to be connected with her.”

Abigail nodded and said nothing.

When she saw her brother John he talked excitedly about the household of the Prince of Denmark.

“He’s kind,” was John’s verdict, “and always on the point of falling asleep. Someone said of him that it is only the fact that he breathes which makes you know he’s alive—in all else he is dead. It’s true he says little; but you should see him eat—and drink. And his answer to everything is ‘Est il possible?’ In the household they call him Old Est il Possible? But he is rarely annoyed and everyone likes working for him as they do for the Princess.”

“Is he often with the Princess?”

“Yes. But when he visits her he falls asleep. Then she talks to our cousin who is always in attendance.”

It was remarkable how the conversation always came back to Sarah.

“How does he feel about cousin Sarah? He must be put out by her influence over his wife.”

“He is never put out. He has the sweetest temper in the world. Besides, the Princess dotes on our cousin and for that reason he too is fond of Cousin Sarah.”

Abigail considered this and believed she would never understand how one who was as overbearing and took no pains to be pleasant should be so admired.

But when she was face to face with her cousin she was conscious of Sarah’s power. This happened one day when a message was brought to her that Lady Marlborough wished to speak to her without delay.

Abigail went at once to Sarah’s apartment which was connected with the Princess’s by a staircase; and there Sarah was impatiently waiting her.

“Ah, Abigail Hill.”

Yes, she was magnificent; her handsome looks, her vitality, her strident voice; her laughter sudden and coarse; her presence commanding.

“You sent for me, Lady Marlborough?”

Sarah nodded. “I have good news for you. You have done well at your post and I am going to see that you are rewarded.”

“Your ladyship is good to me.” Abigail gave no indication of her apprehension. What would be her reward? Not to return to St. Albans!

“I know that I can trust you. I am going to put you closer to the Princess.”

“I … I see.” Abigail’s face had become faintly pink; it would show, she was aware, in her nose and she would look even more unattractive than usual.

“Yes,” went on Sarah, “I know that you are well aware how to be discreet. You will be a chambermaid and you will do small tasks for the Princess … fetching and carrying when necessary. It is a pleasant post; in fact it is close to my own. You will not only be near the Princess but near me.”

“I don’t know how to thank you, Lady Marlborough.”

“You will please me if you do your work well. The Princess needs you to bring what she wants without her asking. You must anticipate her needs. See that her dish of sweetmeats is replenished, that her cards are always at hand and that none is lost and that they are replaced when necessary; you will see that her clothes are in order, that when she needs gloves you have them. At the same time you must behave as though you are not there. Her Highness would not wish you to intrude. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Lady Marlborough.”

“I am glad. You will take over tasks which I once performed and for which I now have not the time. Your duty in fact is to let it seem that I am there when I am not. Speak only to the Princess when spoken to. I doubt she will speak to you. You will discover what is needed of you as time goes on. I am going to take you to Her Highness now and explain that you will be there to perform the more menial tasks of the bedchamber. Don’t forget. Don’t speak unless you are spoken to. You will have to remember that you are in the presence of Royalty. Do you think you can?”

“Yes, I think so.”

“Very good. Then come with me.”

Sarah swept imperiously into the Princess’s apartments where Anne was at her table writing a letter.

“My dear, dear Mrs. Freeman,” she said, looking up and smiling. She peered past Abigail as though she were not there. “How pleasant it is to see you. You can seal this letter for me.”

“Abigail Hill will do it, Mrs. Morley. I have brought her along that she may be of use to you.”

“Abigail Hill,” murmured the Princess.

“The poor relation I told you about. She is the one who is going to have the bedchamber post. You’ll find her a good modest creature.”

“I am so glad, dear Mrs. Freeman.”

“I have schooled her thoroughly so you will not have any trouble there. She will seal your letters. She will make herself useful without disturbing you in the least. That is what I have trained her to do.”

“How good of you, my dear.”

“As Mrs. Morley knows, she can always rely on Mrs. Freeman to look to her comfort.”

“I know, I know.”

Sarah signed to Abigail to seal the letter. Abigail’s fingers felt wooden; then she realized that neither Sarah nor the Princess were aware of her. How strange, thought Abigail, the letter was addressed to the King. She, homely Abigail Hill, was sealing a letter from the Princess to the King; and what was said in that letter could possibly have a bearing on history. She had never felt quite so important in the whole of her life as she did at that moment.

Sarah was telling the Princess about her newly married daughter Henrietta and that Anne would soon be of an age to marry. The Princess nodded and cooed and now and then spoke of “my boy” in such an affectionate way that Abigail thought how human she was, and how much less terrifying than Lady Marlborough. One would have thought that Sarah was the Queen and Anne the subject.

When she had sealed the letter she laid it on the table.

“Just make yourself useful,” said Sarah. “Mrs. Danvers will tell you anything you want to know. She has been with the Princess for years. But if there is anything you think she should need, you should ask me if she should have it. The great point is to remember not to disturb the Princess. She does not want to see you nor hear you.”

“Dear Mrs. Freeman,” murmured Anne, “what should I do without you?”

Sarah congratulated herself on a shrewd move when she put Abigail into the Princess’s bedchamber. Abigail would be recognized as one of Sarah’s women and it would be known that she would look out for her benefactress’s interests. Moreover, Abigail was efficient; that had been made obvious at St. Albans. And what was more important she was no pusher. She would keep her place and not attempt to curry favour with the Princess as some of the others did. She was so colourless (apart, thought Sarah with a snort of amusement, from her nose) and so quiet that one scarcely noticed she was there.

Sarah had tested this by asking the Princess what she thought of the new chamber woman.

“Oh,” Anne had replied, “is there one?”

“My dear Mrs. Morley, don’t you remember I presented her to you?”

“You have done me so many favours, Mrs. Freeman. Can you expect me to remember them all?”

“All that I hope is that she is not making herself offensive as some of these bold and brazen pieces do.”

“I am sure she has not, for I did not know that she was there.”

“And you have found nothing amiss? All that you have needed has been done?”

“My dear, dear Mrs. Freeman, I am so well tended … thanks to you. Oh yes, I know it is you I have to thank for the smooth running of my household.”

Nothing could have pleased Sarah better.

Abigail was pleased too. She took her orders from Mrs. Danvers, went about the apartment silent-footed and efficient, and she knew that although she was often in the presence of the Princess, perhaps because the latter was shortsighted, perhaps because Abigail was just another woman to her, she was not aware of her as an individual, although any personal service was always rewarded with a kindly smile.

But it was a pleasant life. The fact of being near the Court greatly appealed to Abigail. She listened to all that was said; she enjoyed hearing stories of the Court of King Charles II and the drama which had followed close on his death. There were many who remembered well how Monmouth had collected an army and calling himself King Monmouth—or perhaps others had called him that?—had attempted to take the crown from James. She heard how William had sailed to England from Holland because he had been invited to take the crown; and how Mary his wife had followed him and the two sisters Mary and Anne had, it was said, broken their father’s heart.

And this Princess whom she served was that same woman who had defied her father and helped to send him into exile, who had circulated stories about her own half brother not being her father’s child at all, but a spurious baby who had been introduced into her stepmother’s bed by means of a warming pan.

Abigail felt that she were living close to history; it could be said that people like the plump, lazy-looking woman whom she served made history. Perhaps her own cousin, Sarah Churchill, did, for she would tell Anne what to do if ever Anne became Queen and it seemed likely that she would. Why not Abigail Hill?

Life had become suddenly more exciting than she had ever dreamed possible. She even had a notion that she was not quite as unattractive as she had always been led to believe.

Alice sent a message to her telling her that the young Duke of Gloucester was parading his army in the gardens of Kensington Palace, and as the King was to inspect them this was a special occasion and there would be quite a little party going to see this. Why should not Abigail join in. John would be there and so would a friend of Alice’s. She would have an opportunity of seeing the King at closer quarters than she was ever likely to again.

So Abigail asked Mrs. Danvers for leave of absence which was readily given. It was rare, Mrs. Danvers had commented, that one found a chambermaid of Abigail Hill’s stamp, who moved about so quietly that you did not notice she was there, yet managed that everything that should be done was done. A little gaiety would not come amiss either, thought Mrs. Danvers; for although the girl was small and plain, she was also young.

Abigail neatly and very inconspicuously dressed in her discreet grey dress and short black cape found Alice in a red silk gown cut away to show a black satin petticoat with a white calico border; she also wore a black silk scarf and a black and red spotted hood.

Abigail scarcely recognized her and guessed that she was spending a great deal of her salary on her clothes instead of saving as she should. John too showed his love of finery in his brown frieze coat, breeches of the same colour and light drugged waistcoat; he wore a freshly curled wig and looked quite magnificent. Abigail would have seemed incongruous beside such fashionable people but for the fact that John had brought a friend with him, who was as soberly dressed as Abigail herself.

“This is Samuel Masham,” said John. “I wonder you and my sister haven’t met, Sam, for she is now in the Princess’s household.”

Samuel Masham bowed over Abigail’s hand. He already knew Alice, it seemed.

“I am in the household of the Prince of Denmark,” he said.

Abigail asked if he were satisfied with his post, and he replied that he was very well satisfied.

“One is fortunate to get into the royal household,” he said. “Particularly in my case. I’m the youngest of eight sons.”

“And I believe,” said Abigail, “that His Highness is an indulgent master.”

“The best in the world.”

“The Princess is kindly too.”

“Oh yes, we are fortunate indeed.”

“I should not care to be in the service of the King,” put in John.

“I should say not!” cried Alice. “I’m told he awakes in none too good a temper and lays about him with his cane on those who are unlucky enough to wait on him.”

The four of them laughed and John added: “The clever ones keep out of his way until the day wears on and he becomes more mellow.”

“It’s due to all that Hollands Gin he drinks in the Hampton Banqueting House,” Alice explained. “What a strange man he is! They say that he is filled with remorse because he was unfaithful to Queen Mary and she left a letter reproaching him. Who would have believed that he would ever have been anyone’s lover.”

“You’ve seen the Countess of Orkney, I’ll swear,” asked John.

“Yes,” said Alice. “She’s so odd looking. Her eyes are so peculiar. Squinting Betty they call her. Yet she was the only mistress he ever had, so they say; and there’s some that are sure he still meets her—but only when he goes to Holland.”

Abigail and Samuel Masham said nothing, but stood quietly listening to the conversation of the other two. There seemed to be an accord between them; and Abigail sensed that he was taking everything in, even as she was, but that he was not eager to let them know what he was thinking.

“We should get into our places,” said Samuel. “The display is about to begin.”

He did not touch Abigail but was close beside her. She sensed his interest and it seemed strange to her that a young man should be more interested in her than in Alice. It was something which had never happened before.

The King had arrived and was seated in a grandstand which had been erected for the purpose. No trouble, of course, was too much for the young Duke of Gloucester.

Abigail could not take her eyes from the King, William of Orange, that man of destiny, about whose head, so it was said, on the day of his birth had been seen the three crowns of light, meant to be the crowns of England, Scotland and Ireland which he was destined to inherit. He did not look like a hero. He stooped, and a curvature of the spine was obvious; he was small and thin, his legs like a bird’s, his nose large and hooked, his eyes small, his mouth unsmiling, his face pallid; and his great wig seemed top-heavy on such a little figure. It was small wonder that the people greeted him in a silence that was almost sullen. He was not the man to inspire cheers, for all his cleverness.

“I heard,” whispered Alice, “that he spits blood frequently. He looks like a corpse. He can’t be long for this world.”

“He dismissed Dr. Radcliffe for saying he wouldn’t have his two legs for his three kingdoms,” added John.

“It would seem to me,” Alice went on, “that we shall not long have a King William to rule us.”

Not long a King William, thought Abigail. Well, then there would be a Queen Anne. How strange to think of that mild fat woman ruling a great country. She would not rule in fact; it would be Sarah Churchill who ruled her—Abigail’s own cousin. She felt almost lightheaded to be so close to such important people.

“Here comes the young Duke with his army,” said Samuel quietly.

And there they were—the most unusual army which had ever marched into the park. Ninety boys of varying sizes, shouldering wooden muskets, swords at their sides, all in brilliant uniform.

There were cheers and laughter from the lookers-on as the Duke of Gloucester shouted orders to his company.

“Halt! Present arms!”

There he stood—as odd a figure as the King—in his sparkling uniform, his small frail body and enormous head, made more obvious by his white curled periwig. Beneath the wig his face was animated, his eyes alert, for although he suffered from water on the brain he was clever; and his sayings were quoted not only in the Princess’s Court but in the King’s.

His preoccupation with soldiers had begun in the days when he was driven through the park in the little carriage especially made for him; and it had never left him; and because he was indulged not only by his parents but by the King himself, he had been allowed to recruit his little army and to supply it with uniform and imitation weapons of war.

A small cannon was now being set off in honour of the King; and there was William, lending himself to the occasion with a tolerance he rarely displayed, walking down the ranks with little Gloucester beside him, inspecting the troops.

“I wouldn’t have missed this for the King’s crown,” said Alice.

Abigail did not answer; she was thinking of that frail King and the frail boy and marvelling at the strangeness of events.

How strange it would be if she became the servant of the Queen of England!

The display was over; the Duke of Gloucester had dispersed his army and was being conducted by the King into Kensington Palace. They were talking gravely as they went and the watchers even raised a small cheer for the King among the louder ones for young Gloucester.

Gloucester gravely acknowledged their acclaim, which was more than the King did; and all eyes were on the little figure in the dazzling uniform with the blue garter ribbon across his tunic. It was obvious that they would be very willing to accept him as Prince of Wales when the time came; and that would be on the death of William.

The crowd was breaking up and Abigail found that Samuel Masham was at her side. Alice and John had joined some of their friends from the royal household and were chatting and laughing together.

“You look grave,” said Samuel.

“I was thinking how ill the King looks.”

“He has been dying for many years,” Samuel told her.

“I can’t believe he will for many more.”

“There is a mighty spirit behind those sick looks.”

“Yes, but surely even that cannot keep him alive much longer.”

“You are satisfied with your post?” he asked.

“I am very fortunate to have it. Did you know that my cousin is Lady Marlborough?”

He nodded and smiled.

“Well, she decided to place us all … and she did.”

“She would always do everything she set out to.”

“It was very necessary to place us. I discovered this a few days ago. Someone had heard that her relations were in want, and she did not care that people should know that, hence we all have been provided for. One brother in the Custom House—another in the Prince’s household, Alice in that of the Duke of Gloucester and myself now with the Princess.”

“You have the most interesting post of them all.”

“I believe you are right.”

“We shall surely meet now and then; for the Prince and his wife live very amicably together and I am often taking messages to and from their apartments.”

“I hope we shall,” said Abigail; and she was surprised that she meant it.

Samuel Masham was not handsome, not gallant; but he was rather like she was herself.… Quiet, unassuming, eager to please, grateful for his place, determined to hold it through his own modesty rather than effrontery, and a little bewildered that such an important post could have fallen into his humble hands.

He was interested in her and asked her questions about herself; she told him frankly of her father’s bankruptcy and the desperate state of the family until Cousin Sarah came to rescue them.

“It was too late for my parents,” she said; her voice was quiet and he looked for a trace of bitterness and found none. He decided then that Abigail Hill was an extraordinary woman. One would never be entirely sure what she was thinking and she would be completely discreet.

She told him of those months at St. Albans, and although she did not say how humiliating they had been, he understood. Her lips were firmly set and he believed she would make a stand against going back to them.

She did not ask him questions but he told her something of his childhood.

“When you are the youngest of eight sons you cannot hope for very bright prospects,” he told her. “I think I was very lucky to get a post at Court at all.”

“How was it arranged?”

“My father is distantly related to the Princess Anne, because Margaret the Countess Salisbury is our kinswoman. That is why I was given the opportunity. It was pleasant to get away from home.”

“You were unhappy there?”

“Scarcely that. My mother died when I was very young and my father married again. Lady Damaris Masham is very clever. She writes on theology. We are all very proud of her, but it was difficult to live up to her. Then when she had a child of her own, naturally she devoted most of her attention to him.”

“I see,” said Abigail. “So here we are … both arrived at the same place but through very different routes.”

They had been walking sedately through the Park towards the Palace where Abigail must join the Princess’s household and Samuel that of Prince George.

But before they took leave of each other they had promised they would meet again.

Abigail found herself alone with the Princess Anne and it was rarely that this happened. She was setting the dish of sweetmeats by her couch when she noticed that the silk coverlet had slipped a little and she adjusted it.

For a few seconds the mild shortsighted eyes were concentrated on her as the beautiful white hands—plump and smooth with tapering fingers—grasped the edge of the coverlet.

“Thank you,” said the Princess.

“Your Highness is a little tired today,” ventured Abigail.

“I have been to the display. My boy looked splendid.”

“Your Highness, I … I had the honour to see him. I was there.”

The dull eyes brightened. “So you saw my boy? Did you not think he was magnificent?”

“Your Highness, I have never seen anyone quite like him. So young and in such command! I would not have missed it for a great deal.”

“I don’t think there ever was another boy like him.”

“I am sure Your Highness is right.”

“He is so clever. Sometimes I believe he simply must be older than I have always thought him.” The Princess smiled. “I think I must have made a mistake in his birth.”

Abigail smiled with the Princess.

“He is so very clever.… I must tell you what he said the other day.…”

Abigail had heard it before. It had been told to both cousin Sarah and Mrs. Danvers, besides several of the waiting women; but Abigail was delighted to have the whole of the Princess’s attention to herself and she listened as though she was hearing the story for the first time.

“Can it be really true, Your Highness!”

“Oh yes. I can tell you I would astonish you with my boy’s antics. I wish you could have seen him in his new camlet suit with the jewels glittering in it. I had let him wear my jewels for the occasion. Such a sight! And the Garter ribbon! He blessed us both … the Prince, his father, and myself … and the sweet child told us afterwards that he sincerely meant all that he had said and that it was not the formal greeting a Prince would be expected to give in public to his parents.”

“How proud Your Highness must be!”

“Proud, I can’t tell you … er …”

“Hill,” said Abigail. “Abigail Hill.”

“No, I cannot tell you. But he is a constant anxiety to us both … his father and me. We watch him. You see I have been unfortunate so often and he is so precious. He has been ill often and I can tell you, er …”

“Hill, Your Highness.”

“I can tell you, Hill, I nearly died of grief. And so did the Prince. If anything should happen to that boy …”

“It must not,” said Abigail quietly.

There were tears in the Princess’s eyes and Abigail handed her a kerchief.

“Thank you. So thoughtful,” murmured Anne; but Abigail knew that she was scarcely aware of her; her mind was at the bedside of her boy during one of his illnesses when she and her husband had experienced all the desolation which would be theirs if they lost this precious boy.

“He is surrounded by care,” said Abigail; “and he is so bright and interested in life.”

“Yes, you are right.”

The Princess was silent, a smile playing about her lips and Abigail had no excuse for remaining.

She said quietly: “Is there anything you need, Your Highness.”

Anne shook her head; she wanted to be alone to dream of her wonderful boy.

Abigail went away so quietly that Anne was unaware of her departure. It was some little time later when she awoke from her reverie and looked about for the woman.

She had discreetly retired, but everything she needed was at hand.

A nice creature, thought Anne. Now what did she say her name was?

Abigail was finding life full of interest. After that conversation with the Princess, Anne was aware of her. She could not always remember her name, but there was no doubt that she was not displeased by Abigail’s personality.

Her women were a vociferous crowd. They were ostentatiously sycophantish, but they could be careless. Often they forgot to perform some little duty which seemed important to the Princess and she had to ask for what she wanted; she had begun to notice that when Hill was on duty everything she needed was always at her side without her asking.

Once when Sarah had been amusing her and making her laugh with her imitations of some of the ministers, Sarah had made some references to Anne’s husband, the Prince of Denmark, which Anne although she smiled, did not quite like. But that was how it was with Sarah. No one was spared.

But it rankled a little, and after Sarah had left it was pleasant to talk to that quiet Hill about the virtues of the Prince.

Hill said that she had a friend who was a page in the Prince’s household and she had already heard from him of the wonderful kindness and extraordinary good qualities of the Prince.

Anne was pleased. Who was he? She would tell the Prince what a good and loyal servant he had.

“His name is Samuel Masham, Your Highness.”

“Is it then? You must remind me of that, Hill. For I shall never remember.”

Anne felt sleepy as she always did when talking to Abigail Hill. Abigail was so quiet and so restful. Just the kind of woman she liked to have about her after one of Sarah’s stormy visits. Of course she loved dear Mrs. Freeman as she would never love another woman; more than she loved dear George who was the kindest of husbands; Sarah came second only to her beloved boy; but it was pleasant to let the placid Hill soothe her now and then.

She dropped off to sleep when Abigail was talking.

Abigail stood looking at her and then tiptoed from the room.

She told Samuel Masham about this relationship with the Princess. He was very interested; in fact he was interested in anything that concerned Abigail, and Samuel interested Abigail; he was so like herself. He knew a great deal about what was going on and no one would have guessed it.

They often walked together in the Park or along the river. Abigail was glad that they were so inconspicuous in their dress and insignificant in their persons because this gave them an opportunity to do what other more notorious people never could. They could even walk through the streets of the city without attracting much attention, as few people attached to the Court could hope to do. They were once among a crowd and saw a pickpocket caught in the act and dragged to a nearby sewer to be ducked there. Ducking was a common enough event. Prostitutes were ducked if they lived in a respectable street and annoyed their neighbours; nagging wives were ducked; complacent husbands were treated to a serenade on iron pots and pans and old tin kettles; bailiffs, the enemies of all, if caught unaware, were taken to a trough and made to drink against their will until they were reduced to a state of great discomfort. Mob law ruled in the streets; and it was astonishing how self-righteous the people were in judging the sins of others. This way of life, which Abigail and Samuel were able to witness, was unknown to people such as Sarah Churchill whose lives were bounded by the Court and their own country houses.

Samuel and Abigail had been watching the fate of a quack doctor whose pills had failed to achieve what he had claimed for them; he was divested of his garments and tipped into a ditch and his clothes thrown in after him; and as they wandered away Samuel remarked on the great love in human nature to rule.

“Did you see their faces?” he asked. “Each one of those people enjoyed playing judge to that poor quack. There is very little difference in these people and those in high places.”

Abigail nodded. She and Samuel were in such accord that words between them were not always necessary.

“I heard,” went on Samuel, “that the Marlboroughs’ daughter Anne has been secretly married to the Earl of Sunderland’s son, Charles Spencer.”

“Is that so,” said Abigail. “I knew that Lady Marlborough was in favour of the match, but I did not think the Earl would agree to it.”

“It is Lady Marlborough who decides what shall be done in that household … and not only in that household.”

“I wonder if Anne married willingly. She is more gentle than her sisters but she has spirit, and I do not believe she would easily be forced to do anything that was very much against her inclination.”

“The marriage is a secret as yet but I heard it said that the Earl of Sunderland was very eager for an alliance between his family and the Churchills and that he promised them that he would guide his son in all things.”

“But Charles Spencer once denounced his father’s way of life. So it does not seem that the Earl will be very successful in guiding him.”

“I dare swear Lady Marlborough will succeed where the Earl of Sunderland fails. But Spencer is a Whig and Marlborough a Tory. I wonder how that will work. But you see the point, Abigail. They are waiting for William to die and Anne to take the crown. Then the rulers of this country will be the Marlboroughs, the Spencers and the Godolphins.”

“It’s very exciting to watch … like sitting in the stalls at the playhouse.”

“And in a way, Abigail, we play our part. Because we are on the stage after all.”

“In very small parts … the parts that don’t influence the play,” said Abigail with a smile. “Why I’m not even sure what all this fuss about Whigs and Tories means.”

“You should know, Abigail, for they are the people who rule us.”

“I believe Lady Marlborough to lean towards the Whigs although Lord Marlborough is a staunch Tory.”

“And Charles Spencer is a Whig and he has joined the Marlborough family. There will be fireworks, you see.”

“I don’t understand why there should be this conflict between the two parties.”

“But naturally there is for they stand for two opposing opinions. The Whigs are for William because they look upon him as a constitutional monarch; the Tories stand for the old rule—the rule of those Stuart Kings who believed in the Divine Right of Kings. We see where that led Charles I. Charles II had the same beliefs but he was far more clever. He did exactly what he wanted behind the backs of his ministers; but the belief in the Divine Right was there. Then there was James; he was determined to foist Catholicism on a nation which did not want it and you know what happened to him.”

“How clever you are, Samuel.”

“But these facts are common knowledge.”

“And William and Mary were the Whig Sovereigns. I have often heard them called that.”

“Yes, and William never forgets it. That is why he feels so insecure.”

“And when the Princess Anne is Queen, do you think she will be as her uncle and father?”

“I do not know. That is why it is necessary to watch these Whigs and Tories. I think it would depend a great deal on which party was elected.”

“How strange that the Earl of Marlborough should support the Tories.”

“Yes, but his wife is leaning towards the Whigs. She does not want an absolute monarch. What she is after is a Sovereign who is ruled, not by her Parliament, but by the Churchills. We shall have to watch very closely to see what her game is.”

We shall have to watch closely! It made an excitingly intriguing situation. A little plot between herself and Samuel. They were watchers in the wings while the players performed. Somewhere in the back of Abigail’s mind was the thought that one day she and Samuel might actually perform on that stage. But it would be a part that was not noticed by the audience; they would work in the shadows; but perhaps they would be none the less powerful for that.

What extraordinary thoughts for a chambermaid to have! But Abigail was beginning to believe that she was no ordinary chambermaid.

She wanted to know more of these Whigs and Tories, that she might understand all that Samuel had to tell her.

“The Tories?” he said. “It certainly is a strange name. It comes from Ireland. It was first used in Cromwell’s day and described those Irish who remained as outlaws on their own lands instead of immigrating to Connaught as they were commanded to do. Of course our present Tories have nothing to do with that. It is merely the name of the party which opposes the Whig attitude to the Church and State. They stood for the old order of things and many of them are Jacobites of course.”

“And the Whigs?” asked Abigail.

“That was the name first given to the Covenantors of south west Scotland who fought against the Restoration. Then the name was given to those who championed the Exclusion Bill which was to keep James II from the throne and prevent the risk of Popery. They are the country party, the commercial party, those with more liberal views, while the Tories stand for the old way of life.”

“Why, Samuel, you are very knowledgeable.”

They smiled at each other. Samuel found Abigail’s quiet concentration, her modesty, her willingness to learn extremely attractive. Her quiet personality suited his. They enjoyed their meetings and their friendship grew.

Tragedy came to St. James’s Place.

The young Duke of Gloucester had celebrated his eleventh birthday and there had been festivities to mark this occasion.

The Princess Anne had been in good spirits and almost animated. Sarah had been a little impatient with her as she could so easily be at the Princess’s excessive devotion to her son and Anne, sensing this, had sent for Abigail Hill. Abigail had a soothing manner; she agreed with the Princess; she listened to the monologues on the perfections of the boy and only spoke to express incredulity and wonder at his actions. This was just what the Princess needed at the time, even though her greatest joy was in listening to Sarah Churchill’s brilliant and often cruel conversations. With Sarah one listened; with Abigail one talked. Usually Anne preferred to listen; but there were occasions when she wanted to talk; and then she found herself enjoying the society of the meek little chambermaid.

“My boy reviewed his troops this morning. Did you see him? My poor Hill, I must see that you get out more. Remind me. He was so excited by his cannon. A new one, Hill, which the King gave to him. I am delighted that the King and my boy are such good friends. Of course even William cannot help being charmed by him. I know it astonishes everybody. Did you know, Hill, that my boy offered the King his troops and himself to fight for him in Flanders.”

“Really, Madam. What a boy he is!”

“You may well say so, Hill. ‘I would be proud to die in Your Majesty’s service.’ That is what he wrote to the King. Oh dear …”

“Your Highness is cold?” Abigail had put a shawl about Anne’s shoulders.

“Thank you, Hill. I always shiver when I hear the word ‘death’ in connection with my boy. If I lost him, Hill, I do not think I could bear it.”

“I thought he looked very healthy when I last saw him, Your Highness.”

“You did, Hill, did you? And you are an observant creature. Yes, I fancy he grows stronger as he grows older. But I have lost so many. Sometimes I despair of ever having another child. That is why …”

“Your Highness is such a devoted mother.”

“And who would not be, Hill, to such a boy?”

“Who would not indeed, Madam.”

Such pleasant conversations. So comforting!

But the next day the little Duke of Gloucester was taken ill, and the Princess was in despair. He was bled but this did nothing to relieve him. Anne threw off her lethargy; she was at his bedside night and morning; her grief was terrible, but it gave her a dignity she had not shown before.

Abigail remembered the day the little Duke died, for she believed it was a turning point in her life.

The Princess Anne came to her apartments, Prince George of Denmark was with her, and they held hands like two lost children from whom all the joy of living had been removed.

Afterwards Prince George went to his apartments and the Princess was alone.

She did not want to see anyone—not even Lady Marlborough. She sat rocking to and fro, her hands over her face to shut out the world which was so full of memories of her beloved boy.

“I cannot believe it,” she kept murmuring to herself. “It cannot be true.”

All day she sat alone, refusing food which she had never been known to do before; and when it was time to retire she shook her head and told her women to go away.

Then she caught sight of Abigail and she said: “Let Hill remain. She can give me all the help I need.”

So Abigail helped her to bed and she talked of her boy while the tears slowly ran down her cheeks.

“It is what I dreaded, Hill. I dreaded it more than anything that could happen … and now it has come. What can I say, Hill? What can I do now?”

“Talk of him, Madam. Perhaps it will help you.”

So she talked and to her surprise was soothed; and she looked at the young face of her chambermaid, itself stained with tears and she said: “You’re a good creature, Hill.”

When the Princess was in her bed, Abigail turned to go but the Princess said: “Stay, Hill.”

Abigail stayed and knelt by the bed while the Princess lay and wept silently.

The Princess seemed to have forgotten the chambermaid was kneeling there; but when her eyes did fall on the small figure she said: “Thank you, Hill. You are a good creature.”

And Abigail remained until the Princess slept.

She knew that the Princess would not quickly forget that at the peak of her suffering she had found comfort in Abigail Hill.

The Princess Anne was listless. Each day she sat dreaming of her lost boy. She confided to Abigail Hill that life would never again be the same for her.

Sarah came bustling into the apartment. “Come, dear Mrs. Morley, you must rouse yourself,” she commanded. “You must remember that although you are a bereaved mother you are also the heiress to the throne.”

“I do not think you can understand how I feel, Mrs. Freeman.”

“I! Not understand. Have I not lost a child … a boy? Have you forgotten my dear Charles.”

“No, I have not forgotten and I suffered my dearest Mrs. Freeman’s loss as my own, but this is my boy … my beloved boy.”

“There will be other little Morleys ere long.”

“I wish I could be sure of that.”

“You are certainly not sterile. You have given us good proof of that.”

Sometimes there was almost a sneer in Sarah’s voice; Anne, her feelings made raw by her recent loss, was hurt by it; and oddly enough she was reminded of the gentle sympathy of the chambermaid.

She said that she was tired and would sleep a little. Sarah, who nowadays always seemed to be seeking opportunities to leave her company, said at once that that was an excellent idea.

“Send for the chambermaid, Hill,” said Anne. “She will help me to my bed.”

“And I will see you when you are refreshed,” replied Sarah. “Then I am sure, Mrs. Morley, you will see that I am right when I implore you to stop showing your sorrow. I know you grieve. I still do for my darling Charles, but we have to be brave, Mrs. Morley. We have to hide our feelings from the world.”

When Sarah had left and Anne was alone with Abigail Hill, the Princess said: “Of course we cannot all hope to be as strong as dear Lady Marlborough.”

“No, Madam.”

“Although sometimes I think my dearest friend, being so admirable herself, has little patience with those who are weaker.”

“Your Highness is not weak.” Abigail spoke more fiercely than usual. “If I may offer my humble opinion Your Highness has shown the greatest fortitude.…”

“I have tried, Hill. But sometimes I think the loss of my darling …”

Anne began to weep and Abigail tenderly proffered the handkerchief. Anne did not seem to see it, so greatly daring Abigail wiped the tears from her cheeks.

“Thank you, Hill,” said Anne. “You are very different from … your cousin.”

“I fear so, Madam.”

“Do not fear, Hill. I find your quietness to my taste.”

“My cousin is a brilliant woman and I am just Your Highness’s chambermaid.”

“Do not fret with labels, Hill. There are times when I find your presence very comforting … very comforting indeed.” Anne’s face hardened suddenly. “And there are others when I find Lady Marlborough’s most … most … unkind.”

There was a silence which horrified Anne. At last she had spoken aloud a thought which had been at the back of her mind for some time; and spoken in the hearing of Abigail Hill, Sarah’s cousin, who had been given everything she had by Sarah and must therefore be her creature.

Now there will be trouble, thought Anne.

She felt so weary that she closed her eyes and rejected Abigail’s suggestion to soothe her forehead with unguents. She felt stricken with misery. Her boy was dead and she had spoken disloyally of a woman who for years she had regarded as her dearest friend. And in the hearing of Abigail Hill who certainly would be obliged to repeat everything she heard to her cousin.

“Leave me,” said Anne weakly.

And when she was alone she began to weep silently, partly for the loss of her son and partly for the loss of an illusion.

The next time Anne saw Sarah she waited for a reference to her disloyalty. It did not come. In fact Sarah behaved as though nothing had happened.

Was Sarah waiting for a telling moment to let fly her reproaches. No! There was one thing one could be sure of with Sarah; she was as she herself had said of a frank and free nature. She was unable to curb her feelings, particularly her anger.

If Sarah did not scold her for the words she had said in Abigail’s hearing there could be only one reason: Abigail had not told her.

How strange! She could not understand this; and her interest in the softly spoken chambermaid increased.

“Hill,” she said, some days later, “you must be very grateful to Lady Marlborough.”

“Oh yes, Madam.”

“I hear that she found your family in great distress and that she has placed your sister and brothers in good places.”

“It is true, Madam.”

“Then I suppose you feel that you must pay her back in some way.”

“I have nothing with which to pay her, Madam. I can only give her my gratitude.”

“Perhaps you feel that she is in a sense your mistress?”

Abigail’s eyes were filled with frank awe and respect. “Oh, Madam,” she said, “I have only one mistress. I do not think it would be possible for me to serve two at the same time.”

Anne nodded. Her lips framed words which she had used to Abigail several times before: “You are a good creature.”

But this time she said them with a new sincerity; and afterwards she began to look for Abigail among her women and was very contented that she should be in close attendance.

Now that her two elder daughters were so advantageously married, Sarah was becoming very interested in politics. She and her husband were often in the company of the Godolphins and she was wooing her rather difficult son-in-law, Charles Spencer. The time was fast approaching, she was sure, when Anne would be Queen of England. William simply could not live much longer; his body was a mass of disease; everyone said it was a miracle that he could have lived so long. But he seemed to have found a new reason for living since Louis XIV, his greatest enemy, had begun his plan to rule the whole of Europe. This had been made a possibility by the appointment of his grandson Philip of Anjou to the throne of Spain. If Philip could rule independently this would not be a major issue, but was le Roi Soleil the man to stand back and let that happen? No, he wanted to rule Spain, through his grandson, as well as France and that meant that the balance of European power would be in favour of the French. It was something William could not tolerate; and he was already preparing, with the aid of Austria to stand with Holland against this.

William was more at home with his armies than in the council chambers; and so was Marlborough. This war should prove a source of inspiration and profit to John Churchill; and Sarah wanted to see him exploit his talents.

If William were to die—and any normal man in his physical condition would have been dead years before—then Anne would be ruled by the Marlboroughs, for Sarah would see to that; and with his two influential sons-in-law they would be able to stand firm against any of their political enemies.

With such a dazzling prospect before her it was difficult for Sarah to listen with patience to the tittle-tattle of Anne’s conversation.

“I do declare,” she told her husband, “that I am beginning to loathe that woman.”

“For God’s sake, Sarah, have a care of what you say.”

“My dear Marl, there is no need for you to tell me how to behave. Is it not largely my doing that we are where we are today?”

Marlborough had to admit the truth of this. “But, Sarah,” he added, “when I think of your frankness I do not know why our enemies have not overthrown us long ago.”

“Old Morley knows me as I am and accepts me as such. I have always been free with her and she has raised no objection. I am not going to change now. But as I was saying she sometimes sickens me so that I feel I shall scream if she touches me. It was clever of me to give her Abigail Hill. That creature now has to do all the loathsome tasks. I hear she does them well too and Anne has no complaints. She says she is a good creature. ‘Good but dull,’ I said; and she replied ‘Dullness is sometimes a comfort.’ But I do declare that she is a trial, particularly since Gloucester’s death.”

“Well, I suppose I need not tell you to be careful. You know what you are doing.”

“And when have I ever failed you?”

“Never!” Marlborough assured her.

Sarah not only showed her growing impatience with Anne to her husband, but also to Abigail. The girl was so much her creature, Sarah believed, that she had no need to speak anything but freely in her presence.

On several occasions she spoke slightingly of the Princess and Abigail made no comment. She merely listened in that quiet way of hers as though she were not in the least surprised.

Sarah was behaving as though she were already the Sovereign.

Abigail continued surprised and startled at the effrontery of her relation; and she often wondered how Anne would feel if she knew how far Sarah went in her condemnation of her. Sarah was inclined to be what she would call frank, to Anne’s face, but of course she reserved the real abuse to be uttered behind her back.

Abigail did not speak of Sarah’s abuse of the Princess, even to Samuel Masham. She was by nature discreet and she was not sure what her position would be if Sarah fell out of favour. And she could not believe that Sarah would not fall out of favour if Anne heard some of the really wounding things which were said of her.

At the same time she dearly wanted to know what Anne would do if she knew how very disloyal Sarah could be.

One day she was helping the Princess to dress and Anne and she were alone together. Since her quarrel with her sister who had now been dead more than six years Anne had not stood on any great ceremony. For a time she had lived very humbly indeed at The Cockpit and Berkeley House and had even spent a month or so in the country at Twickenham, living the simple life of a noble lady. Now William realized that if he were to keep his throne he must treat Anne as the heiress and she had moved to St. James’s Palace and spent her summers at Windsor Castle, but she had not gone back to living in the state which would have been natural to her rank. Therefore there were many occasions when she allowed only one of her maids to assist at her toilet.

Abigail was looking for the Princess’s gloves when Anne said: “I remember, Hill, I left them in the adjoining room. Pray go and get them for me.”

Abigail at once obeyed, and as she opened the connecting door between the two rooms saw Lady Marlborough sitting at a table reading a letter while she absentmindedly drew on a pair of gloves which Abigail recognized as those of the Princess Anne.

For a second Abigail hesitated. She could shut the door so that whatever Sarah said would be unheard by the Princess; or she could leave it open and the words would be heard.

A fleeting temptation. Sarah would not know that Anne was within earshot, and Anne did not know that Sarah was in the next room.

Abigail held the door open for a second; then she made up her mind. Without shutting it she went to the table at which Lady Marlborough sat.

She did not speak for a second or two; then gave a discreet cough.

Sarah looked up. “Oh, it’s you, Abigail. How you creep about. You startled me.”

“I am sorry, Lady Marlborough.”

“What is it you want?”

“The Princess’s gloves. I believe you have mistaken them for your own.”

“What!” shrieked Sarah, staring down at the gloves on her hands.

“Those are the Princess’s, I believe.”

Sarah wrinkled her nose; she was aware of Abigail looking at her with astonishment, and could not resist the temptation to show this meek creature that she cared nothing for royalty, considering herself at least equal, if not above it. Certainly she felt above the foolish Princess Anne.

“That woman’s gloves!” she cried.

Abigail stepped back; and had Sarah been more observant she would have noticed that Abigail was betraying an emotion which was unusual with her, but Sarah believed the girl was admiring one who could speak so of a Princess. Well, Sarah would show her.

“You have put them on by mistake, Lady Marlborough,” said Abigail timidly.

“So I am wearing gloves which have touched the odious hands of that disagreeable woman!” shrieked Sarah.

Abigail stood still, trying to stop herself from looking over her shoulder at that open door. Anyone in the next room could not fail to hear that shrill, strident voice.

“Take them away. Take them quickly. Ugh! How unpleasant.”

Abigail picked up the gloves which Sarah had thrown on to the floor and hastily left the room closing the door quietly behind her.

Anne was seated where Abigail had left her, and one look at her face was enough to show that she had overheard every word Sarah had said.

As Abigail laid the gloves on the table beside her, Anne said nothing, but her eyes met those of Abigail and in that moment there was a flash of understanding between them. Sarah Churchill was a disloyal friend to the Princess and they both knew it; the subject was too painful to be mentioned, but neither of them would forget what had happened; and because of it their own relationship had advanced a step further.

The King was a very sick man. He was beset by anxieties which were aggravated by his weak physical condition and his conscience. He would never forget the letter his wife had received on the morning of their coronation which her father James, from his exile in St. Germains under the protection of Louis XIV, had sent to her. James had said that Mary could not expect anything but the curses of a father whose crown she had allowed to be snatched from him.

Now he was getting near to death and he was constantly concerned with the problem of who should succeed him.

There was one person to whom he could talk with absolute ease. This was Elizabeth Villiers, whom he had made the Countess of Orkney. Elizabeth was the cleverest woman he had ever known; although she was not a beauty, she was to him the most fascinating woman in the world. It had always been so, from the moment he had first seen her. Her quick clever brain and her extraordinary eyes with the slight cast in them which had earned her the name of Squint-eyed Betty, attracted him now as they ever had. She had shown him, in the early days of his marriage, that he was human, after all, when he had overcome his Calvinistic principles and made her his mistress. He had never had another. Mary his wife had seemed a foolish child in comparison; and often he had wished that Elizabeth had been the eligible Princess, Mary her maid of honour.

Mary had been an admirable wife; now that she was dead he realized that more than ever; but on the last night of her life she had sat up writing a letter to him in which she had implored him, for the sake of his soul, to give up his mistress. That had been disconcerting enough; but this document she had left in the care of the Archbishop of Canterbury with a covering letter to the Archbishop explaining its contents. Thus it was known that his wife’s last wish was that he should discontinue the liaison; and such a wish could not be ignored. During the months following Mary’s death he had refrained from seeing Elizabeth; he had married her to George Hamilton whom he had created Earl of Orkney and many had believed that this marked the end of a relationship with a suitable prize in appreciation of past services. But he had not been able to cast off Elizabeth as easily as that; and although in England she had ceased to be his mistress, when he was in Holland she joined him there and the old relationship was resumed. But there had been no expressed wish in Mary’s last letter that he should not continue to discuss his problems with Elizabeth; and since it was a custom of many years to do this he continued in it. Her wit and wisdom were invaluable to him.

He retired to his cabinet, and using a secret staircase which he had had put in and which led to the apartments of the Countess of Orkney, he went to her.

Elizabeth greeted her lover with great pleasure. At least, she could scarcely call him lover now; but she was not displeased with the change in her fortunes. She had as much influence as she had ever had and a great deal more prestige; she was delighted with her marriage and intended to do all in her power to enhance her husband’s career, and this she was effecting very satisfactorily.

She bade him to be seated and tell her his troubles.

“I am growing old, Elizabeth,” he said with his twisted smile. “And I believe my days are numbered.”

“You have said that often before, yet here you are.”

“I am disturbed about the succession. I would I had a son to follow me.”

Elizabeth nodded sadly.

“To think,” he said, “that that foolish fat sister-in-law of mine will be Queen of England on my death fills me with horror. When the boy was alive there was hope. He was a bright little fellow. It is a terrible tragedy that we have lost him.”

“The Princess is the complete dupe of the Marlborough woman,” said Elizabeth. “If she is Queen it will be Sarah Churchill who rules.”

“I should like to prevent that.” He looked at her cautiously and she knew that now he was coming to the object of his visit. “I am thinking of writing to James at St. Germains,” he said.

She waited for him to go on but he remained silent for some seconds; and it was clear to her that he had not yet made up his mind.

“I am thinking of suggesting that I adopt James’s son.”

“James would never allow it.”

“Not when he considers what is at stake? If he came over here as my son and was brought up to be a good Protestant he would be the natural heir to the throne.”

“It’s a brilliant idea,” said Elizabeth; “but I do not think you will be allowed to put it into practice. In the first place James would never entrust his son to you; and in the second Anne’s friends would be ready to start another revolution to ensure her succession.”

“I believe I could deal with that revolution.”

“Marlborough and Godolphin would stand together. There is Sunderland and his son Spencer, who would be with them. Don’t forget the diabolical Sarah has united them and they’ll stand together, particularly when the Marlboroughs’ grandchildren are Sunderland’s and Godolphin’s.”

“I have dealt with Marlborough before. I should do so again. I intend to broach James.”

“Well, that would be a good move,” agreed Elizabeth. “Even if James refuses, which he assuredly will, the Jacobites will be pleased.”

“If the boy is sent over, that will be good; and if he is not, at least I have done my best. Though the Jacobites may not be pleased when they know it is my intention to bring the boy up as a Protestant.”

“But even they will realize that only as such will he be acceptable to the English.”

“I feel it is my duty to make him acceptable, Elizabeth.”

She understood; and she was disturbed. William’s conscience was greatly troubled and he had the air of a man who wants to set his house in order before he leaves this life.

Sarah’s fury was uncontrollable. “Do you know what the Dutch Abortion plans now?” she demanded of Anne. “He is going to cheat you out of your inheritance! He is going to bring that warming-pan brat to England and foist him on the people! I shall not allow that to happen, Mrs. Morley. If you lie there on your couch and accept such abominations, I shall not.”

Anne shook her head. She could scarcely bring herself to look into the face of Sarah since the glove incident. Whenever Sarah came near her she felt cold with horror. She could not shut out the sound of the strident voice referring to her as that disagreeable woman. And Sarah had said her hands were odious. Her beautiful hands which she knew were lovely! They, with her voice which had been so carefully trained by Mrs. Betterton when she and Mary were in the nursery, were the only beauties she possessed. Her beautiful odious hands. How could she ever forget! How could she ever feel the same towards Mrs. Freeman again! Yet she could not bring herself to reproach her friend with what she had overheard. She was thankful that no one but herself and Abigail Hill knew of it; the secret was safe with that nice quiet creature.

Sarah went on, “Of course we shall never allow it to happen. I was talking to Mr. Freeman about it. He agrees with me that it is preposterous. Bring that little bastard to England! Why, if he is in truth the heir to the throne, what is William doing on it! No. It shall never be. Never, never, never!”

“My dear Mrs. Freeman is so vehement.”

“Always—on behalf of Mrs. Morley!”

“It is comforting to know you think so highly of me … always.”

Sarah was more than angry, she was alarmed. She might sneer at William, call him the Dutch Abortion, Caliban, and the Monster, but she had to admit that he was a brilliant leader. When he believed in something he went out to get it with such enthusiasm that he invariably succeeded; such vitality was not natural in one so frail, and Sarah was definitely disturbed.

In an attempt to make the people accept what he was doing William had engaged the brilliant and witty writer Thomas d’Urfey to produce a few ballads about the coming of the boy whom many called the Prince of Wales. William had never forgotten what a part the old Irish song of Lillibullero had played in the Irish battles. Many believed it was as responsible for victory as William’s tactics. This was an age which was becoming very susceptible to the written word. The pen was actually proving to be mightier than the sword. Those who could produce telling words must be cosseted and wooed; they must be on one’s side.

In the streets they were singing,

“Strange news, strange news! the Jacks of the city

Have got,” cried Joan. “But we mind not tales—

That our good King, through wonderful pity,

Will leave the crown to the Prince of Wales.

That peace may be the stronger still.

Here’s a health to our master Will.”

It was small wonder that Sarah was grinding her teeth in anguish. If this boy came over, Anne’s position would remain the same as it always had been. And if the boy was brought up as a Protestant who was going to quarrel with that?

But Sarah’s fears miraculously disappeared.

James declared that he absolutely refused to put his beloved son in the care of William.

William looked greyer every day; Sarah was more jubilant.

“Warming-pan babies! Who ever heard of such a thing!” cried Sarah gleefully. “The man is in his dotage, and if ever I saw a fellow with one foot in the grave that man is Dutch William.”

It was a marvel to everyone that Sarah Churchill was not sent to the Tower. She must have uttered twenty treasonable statements a day. The King loathed her, but was afraid of offending the people if he attempted to interfere with Anne’s freedom, so she remained.

It was noticed that her manner towards Anne was becoming more overbearing; but since Anne voiced no objection it was presumed that the Princess accepted her friend as she was. But Anne herself was thoughtful. She liked to talk to Abigail Hill when they were alone together; she had discovered the pleasure of talking instead of listening, which was what one was obliged to do with Sarah. Abigail rarely offered an opinion unless it was pressed out of her; and then it was not to be despised. But what was so comforting was to be able to talk as though thinking aloud, and to have her murmuring assent, never contradicting.

Anne was becoming more and more addicted to these monologues and looked forward to the time when they should be alone and she might indulge in them.

When news of her father’s death reached her she was glad to talk of it to Abigail. Sarah was so impatient if she mentioned it to her; and the matter was so much on the Princess’s conscience that she had to talk of it to someone. She went into mourning; and wept a little. She knew that he had wanted her to stand aside for her half brother. This distressed her; and although she had no intention of confiding her true feelings to a chambermaid, she liked to talk to Abigail who never probed into her innermost thoughts or tried to trap her into some admission she would regret later.

“Of course, Hill,” she mused, “the King invited that boy over here and his father would not allow him to come. I don’t blame him … after what William did to him.”

“No, Madam, no one could blame him.”

“So now that he will not come there can be no doubt of my accession. And perhaps soon, for I declare William looks most grievously ill.… His asthma is quite terrifying, Hill … or it would be if one were fond of him, which it is quite … quite impossible to be. You understand that?”

“Oh yes, Madam.”

“And then he has haemorrhoids … a most distressing complaint, Hill, which makes riding so painful for him, although it would be good for his asthma. He spits blood and I have never heard anyone lived long with that, have you, Hill?”

“Never, Madam.”

“Yet he has been doing it for years and still he goes on. Then he has this swelling in the legs. Dropsy, I should think. And Dr. Radcliffe was dismissed for being a little too frank about that. Yet he goes on. But one thing I know, Hill: he will not go on for ever and when he does die, Hill, and that boy is not here … but a Catholic in France … it will be my turn. Your mistress will be Queen of England. I often think about it and I am sometimes afraid that I shall not be a good Queen because I am not very clever, I fear, Hill. I wish that I were. I wanted children very much. I believe I was meant to be a mother. I cannot tell you, Hill, even though I know you understand me as few do … but even you cannot know what the loss of my boy meant to me. I should have been happy if all my children had lived. What a large family I should have, Hill, and the Prince says there is no reason why we should not have many more. A big family … yet. You see, he would be such a good father to them. The Prince is a kind, indulgent man, Hill. Never allow anyone to tell you otherwise. But sometimes I think that if God is to continue denying me children of my body He has a reason and it came to me last night, Hill, that I shall be the Mother of my people. When I see the crowds and they cheer me, I think they love me … more than they love William—but then of course they do not love him at all. I think they love me more than they loved my father. They see me as the Mother. Hill, if I am ever Queen of England I want to be a good Queen.”

“Your Highness will be a great Queen.”

“But I am a little ignorant, I fear. I never did my lessons as well as my sister Mary did. I would always make excuses. My eyes, you know, always troubled me and I would use that as an excuse not to study. I fear we were over-indulged as children. Perhaps we should have been forced to learn. Perhaps it is not too late.”

“It is never too late, they say, Madam.”

“You are right, Hill. I shall start preparing myself now. I shall study history because that is a subject above all others that a ruler should be conversant with. Tomorrow, Hill, you will bring me history books and I shall commence my studies.”

Abigail did as she was told and when Sarah came in and saw what was happening, she snorted her disgust. There was no need for Mrs. Morley to disturb herself. Marlborough would provide her with all the knowledge and advice she needed.

But Anne plodded on; she studied for a week or so, but confessed to Abigail that she found it all very dull and it really did give her headaches.

Abigail’s soothing fingers, massaging the brow, charmed away the headaches; and it was so much pleasanter to talk than to read.

“Sometimes I think,” said Anne, “that it is unwise to live in the past. Modern problems need modern solutions. Do you think that is right, Hill?”

“I am sure you are right, Madam.”

“Then take away these books, and bring out the cards. Call some of the others. I have a mind for a game.”

William was thoughtful as he rode in Bushey Park on his favourite mount, Sorrel. He was scarcely ever in London at this time, although occasionally he left Hampton for Kensington Palace to attend a meeting of the Council; but he was always glad to return. Sometimes he felt that it was only the need to prosecute the war in Europe which kept him going. He felt death very near at times. But there was comfort in the saddle, as there had been all his life; it was only when he was in the country that he could breathe with ease; but even riding was becoming exhausting.

Riding Sorrel, he wondered whether the horse was aware of the change of masters. Did he ever remember the man who had once ridden him? Sorrel had belonged to Sir John Fenwick, whose goods William had confiscated when Fenwick had been executed for treason. The most precious item had been this Sorrel, who had become William’s favourite companion. Horses grew to know their masters; what did Sorrel think of the change? Whimsical thoughts rarely came to William; he was a man of sound common sense; yet on this day he was thoughtful.

Fenwick had been a Jacobite and a plotter, a man who was determined to make trouble; and he had made it. Marlborough’s name had been mentioned in connection with Fenwick, and William wondered how deeply the Earl had been involved. One could never be sure with Marlborough; there was a man whom he would never trust, but whom he dared not banish.

What an uneasy reign his had been! Far better, he sometimes thought, if he had remained in Holland. He remembered happier days there, when he had subdued Mary and taken his troubles to Elizabeth Villiers, and planned the building of his beautiful Dutch Palaces. The people of Holland had loved their Stadtholder; they had cheered him when he rode through their towns and compared him with his great ancestor William the Silent who had delivered them from the cruelty of the Spaniard.

“Why, Sorrel, was I not content with my own country?” he murmured. He often talked to Sorrel, imagining the horse sympathized with him. He would never have done so within the hearing of any living person; but he fancied there was a sympathy between Sorrel and himself. “Why did I have to come to this land and rule it? It was a desire in me, Sorrel, which I could not suppress. It was because the midwife saw those three crowns at my birth. Suppose she had not seen them, would I have schemed and plotted, would I have taken the crown from James? Mary had no wish to do so. How reluctantly she came! How she used to attempt to defend her father in those early days; and how angry she made me! If I had not believed that I was destined to possess three crowns should I be in Holland now; should I be happier than I have been?”

He was not sure. What was happiness? He had never believed it to be the right of human beings to possess it. Such a belief would be in opposition to his puritanical outlook.

“No, Sorrel,” he said. “It was predestined. It had to be. But is that the more comforting doctrine? What has to be, is. Then no blame attaches to the individual.”

Happiness, he thought. When have I ever been happy? With Elizabeth? But then there was always the guilt. With those dear friends Bentinck and Keppel? With Mary?

“No, I was never meant to be happy, Sorrel. I think that perhaps I am more contented on my lonely rides with you than at any other time.”

He turned towards the Palace. He could see it now—the magnificent walls to which he had given a flavour of Holland. Hampton grew more and more Dutch each day.

“Come, Sorrel,” he said.

Sorrel broke into a gallop; and William remembered nothing more until some time after. Then he learned that Sorrel had trodden on a molehill.

He was in great pain, and when his physician was brought to him it was discovered that his right collar bone was broken.

The King was dying. The King was recovering. He was at Hampton. He was at Kensington.

The Jacobites were rejoicing and drinking to the mole who had made the hill which had thrown William’s horse—a toast to the Gentleman in Black Velvet.

“He was riding Sorrel,” it was whispered. “Sir John Fenwick’s horse.” And they remembered the day when Sir John had been beheaded on Tower Hill.

William had sentenced Sir John to death and Sir John’s favourite horse had not forgotten. It seemed significant.

Many people were calling on the Princess Anne. Some, who had recently neglected her, now came to pay their respects. Sarah Churchill was with her; she could not bear to tear herself from her dear friend’s side. This meant that Abigail Hill was almost completely banished, for naturally Sarah did not seek to share her mistress with a chambermaid.

But William was recovering. He declared it was nothing more than a broken collar bone and he would not remain at Hampton, but set out for Kensington, it being imperative, he said, that he should attend the meeting of his council.

The Bill for the attainder of James Stuart, the so-called Prince of Wales, which had been decided on when James had refused to allow him to come to England as William’s adopted son, had not been signed; and this was something which he declared he must put into effect, for if he did not, on his death, that boy would be proclaimed King; in fact the King of France, who had already acknowledged him as Prince of Wales, would most certainly bestow on him the title of James III.

But when William arrived at Kensington he was very ill, for the bones which had been set at Hampton needed re-setting. Nor was that all. The shock of the fall, in addition to his habitual ailments, was too much for his frail constitution.

Yet he was determined to sign the attainder and had it brought to him. It was unfortunate that at the very moment when the document was laid before him he was attacked by a spasm which made it quite impossible for him to put his pen to the paper. The Jacobites declared this was a sign that God refused to let him sign the document against the true Prince of Wales.

But there were many who had no wish to call the boy their King; they had decided that Anne should be their Queen. There was no doubt that she was the daughter of James II and she was a staunch Protestant.

William was dying. This time there could be no doubt. Few would mourn him; everyone was looking towards St. James’s Palace where the Princess Anne, with her friend Sarah Churchill beside her, was waiting for the news that she was Queen of England.