Royal Sisters: The Story of the Daughters of James II

“Sometimes,” said Anne apprehensively, “I do not think we are going to like Caliban as much as my father.”

“It will be your sister who is the Sovereign. Caliban is only her consort and we must remember that this is a religious cause and however hateful the Dutch Monster is, he is a Protestant.”

“Yes, I understand,” agreed Anne.

“You’ll see now,” went on Sarah, “how wise I was to have our private stairway made. We can use it and very few people know of its existence.”

“Oh, Sarah, you are clever! Had you something like this in mind when you had the staircase made?”

“I have always something like this in mind. As you know, my dear Mrs. Morley’s safety is always my first concern.”

Sarah did not think it necessary to point out that Anne was not in any danger for James would never allow his daughter to be harmed and this elaborate escape was for Sarah’s benefit.

But where Sarah was, Anne wanted to be, and she found herself caught up in the excitement.

Sarah’s eyes were brilliant with excitement. This was adventure such as she loved; and after it she and Anne were going to be closer than ever. She was certain of William’s victory for now he would have John on his side and they could not fail. This was going to be the end of Catholic James and his son; it would be William and Mary and afterward … Anne. And Anne meant Sarah. What a future would be hers as uncrowned Queen! The Kings of France were ruled by their mistresses, so shouldn’t Anne be ruled by Sarah? There should be no one in Anne’s life to compare with Sarah. Sarah had at times been a little anxious about the devotion between Anne and her husband. But George was a bore and Anne’s nature was to be more fond of her own sex than the opposite. She had married and as soon as she had borne one child—which unfortunately did not live—she was pregnant with another, and this order of things was becoming an expected pattern; not once during her married life had Anne looked at another man. There had been the abortive affair with Mulgrave, but that, Sarah told herself, had been Anne’s desire not so much for a man but to imitate her friend who was happily married. Anne was placid, accepting life as it came. She had married because that was expected of her; she loved her husband because it was impossible to dislike him; she lived a normal married life because it was planned for her. Had she made her own way it would have been to women she turned.

Sarah had no such love for her own sex. Sarah loved herself and her husband and children, and her love was the sort which expressed itself, not in tenderness or unselfish devotion but in getting the best in life for them all.

Sarah saw herself the strong and dominant figure with complete understanding of Anne who could not understand herself.

The plot was laid. Anne was to go to her chamber assisted by Mrs. Danvers and Mrs. Buss and afterward when she was alone Sarah would creep up the private stairway and help her dress; then they would join Lady Fitzharding by the same staircase and escape.

Anne could hear the rain beating against the windows of the Cockpit. It was a wild night, a night of adventure. She was trying to appear normal but she was very anxious; Mr. Freeman had gone over to William; so had Mr. Morley; and of course they had not gone alone but taken their men with them. The country was rising against her father; and she, lying comfortably on her couch, munching her sweetmeats, had helped to bring about this situation.

Of course he was a Catholic. He had imprisoned the Bishops which was a wicked thing to do; he had tried to force Catholicism on a country which did not want it; he had led a scandalous life—as scandalous as his brother Charles’s. Charles had loved beautiful and attractive women; James had seemed to choose the most unattractive. Charles had once said that James, in spite of being so devout, loved women even more than he did, but chose such women as his priests might have provided for his penances. Now he had a Queen who was a beautiful creature but he preferred plain Catherine Sedley and others. He was a most immoral man, Anne assured herself. Yet at the same time she did not wish to face him when he came back to London. He would know, of course, that she was with his enemies. There came a time when it was impossible not to show which side one was on; and for that reason she did not want to see him again because she would never be able to look him in the face.

All this she was thinking while she listened to the rain and thought of escape. All would be well because Sarah had planned it. Sarah would see that nothing went wrong.

All the same it was very difficult to hide how excited she was from Danvers and Buss.

Mrs. Buss, who had been her nurse as a child and regarded herself as a specially privileged person came bustling in.

“Oh, my dear Madam! Sitting by the window in the cold … and no shawl about your shoulders!”

“I’m not cold, Buss.”

“Not cold indeed! Why I saw you shiver.”

“Buss, I am not your baby now, you know.”

“You will always be my baby.”

“Buss, I should like to get to bed quickly. I am rather tired.”

“Come then, Madam dear. Let Buss take off your shoes. Danvers, Her Highness is tired. Has the bed been warmed?”

They fussed about her, divesting her of clothes which she would have to put on again. But Sarah would help her dress. It was all set for one o’clock, and it was not yet midnight, so there was plenty of time.

When they had covered her up she said: “Draw the curtains. I am tired.”

They obeyed and soon she was alone, lying there, awaiting the summons from Sarah.

At the appointed time the bed curtains parted and there was Sarah with her clothes. Hurriedly she dressed, and taking Sarah’s hand went to Sarah’s apartment by way of the secret stair so that Danvers and Buss sleeping in the anteroom did not hear them leave.

In a short time they were at the door of the Cockpit.

“Your Highness.” It was Lord Dorset whom Sarah had commissioned to conduct them to the hackney coach which Henry Compton, the ex-Bishop of London would have waiting for them. Compton had been the governor of the Princesses Mary and Anne in their childhood and had been chosen by King Charles when his brother was becoming so unpopular that it had been necessary to take his children’s education out of his hands. Compton had fallen out of favor with James when he came to the throne and lost his offices, for the Bishop was a sturdy Protestant, but he had kept in touch with his old pupil and heartily approved of her attitude toward her father.

Sarah said: “What a night! Let us make for the coach with all speed, my lord.”

“It means crossing the park,” Dorset replied.

Sarah made an impatient noise with her lips and Dorset turned away from her to offer his arm to the Princess.

“If Your Highness will honor me …”

Anne took his arm, hoping that he had, as she heard, reformed his ways. It was true he was no longer a young man; he had been a great favorite of King Charles, for in his youth he had been one of the wits of the Court; he had taken part in many disgraceful scenes which some members of Charles’s Court had seen fit to call frolics, but that was long ago in his wild youth and he must be fifty now. James had always disliked him and Dorset was not one to curb his exuberance to seek favor; he had written satires about Catherine Sedley; and when the Bishops had been imprisoned had openly declared his sympathy with them. This had necessitated his retirement from Court. So both Compton and Dorset were her father’s enemies.

More than ever Anne wanted to get away; she was afraid now that their flight would be discovered and they be brought back. “Yes,” she said, “and let us hurry.”

The rain which had been falling all day had turned the soft soil of the park to mud, and Anne was not equipped for walking—a pastime in which she never indulged if she could help it.

On Dorset’s arm with Sarah and Lady Fitzharding beside her they started across the park; but they had not gone far when Anne gave a cry of dismay; her high heeled shoe had slipped off, and she was up to her ankles in mud.

“Where is Her Highness’s shoe?” asked Sarah imperiously.

They all peered down into the mud for the delicate slipper, but the night was dark and they could not see it.

“I can only hop,” Anne suggested.

But Dorset had taken off his long leather gauntlet and begged leave to slip it on the Princess’s foot.

This was done and Anne was half carried by Dorset across the park to where Henry Compton was waiting for them as arranged.

“Now,” cried Compton, “to my house by St. Paul’s.” He turned to his old pupil who laughingly showed him her foot encased in Dorset’s gauntlet.

“We will take a little refreshment at my house,” said Compton, “and find shoes for Your Highness. But before dawn we must be away.”

Before dawn the party set off for Copt Hall, Dorset’s house at Waltham, but on his advice and that of the Bishop they did not rest there long. Nottingham was their goal; and there they were received by Compton’s brother, the Earl of Northampton.

In Nottingham, Compton dressed himself in a military uniform and riding through the town carried with him a banner.

He cried out: “All people who would preserve the laws and liberties of England, rally to the Princess Anne, the Protestant heiress to the throne.”

The people ran out of their houses; they stood in the streets and cheered.

“No popery!” they cried. “A Protestant Sovereign for a Protestant people.”

On the morning after Anne had made her way through the rain and mud from the Cockpit to the waiting hackney coach, Mrs. Danvers went to awaken her mistress.

She knocked at the door and, receiving no command to enter, was bewildered.

She went to call Mrs. Buss.

“Her Highness does not answer me,” she explained.

“She is fast asleep,” said Mrs. Buss. “Open the door and go in. I will come with you.”

But when they tried to open the door they found it locked.

“Locked!” cried Mrs. Buss. “I never heard the like of this. Anything might have happened to Her Highness. We must force the door.”

“Wait a moment,” cautioned Mrs. Danvers and called out: “Your Highness. Are you there?”

There was no answer. “I am going to force the door,” said Mrs. Buss. “I take full responsibility.”

With that she threw her weight against the door and with Mrs. Danvers to help her they soon had the door open. Dashing in they saw that the Princess’s bed was empty.

“She has been abducted,” cried Mrs. Danvers.

“Murdered more like.” Mrs. Buss began to tremble. “The Queen’s priests have done this. We must not delay. Go and tell my Lord Clarendon. He was her friend. Go and tell him at once.”

Mrs. Danvers ran to do her bidding; but Mrs. Buss, who looked upon the Princess as her baby, ran out of the Cockpit to Whitehall.

When the guards asked her business she cried: “I want the Princess Anne.” And they, astonished, stood aside and allowed her to force her way into the Queen’s apartments.

Mary Beatrice, who was living in hourly fear of what would happen next, could only stare at the distracted woman.

“Give me the Princess Anne,” demanded Mrs. Buss. “You have brought her here against her will.”

“The woman is mad,” said the Queen. “Pray take her away.”

Guards seized Mrs. Buss who shouted: “I tell you the Princess has been abducted. You will find her hidden here. Release me, if you value your lives. If you are for the Princess Anne, release me.”

“Take here away,” ordered the Queen distastefully. “Send her back where she came from.”

When she was ejected from the Palace Mrs. Buss began to shout: “You have taken the Princess Anne. What are you doing to her?”

And very soon a crowd had collected.

“The Queen has made a prisoner of the Princess!” was the comment.

“For what reason?”

“Because she is a wicked Catholic and knows the Princess is a good Protestant.”

“Shall we stand aside and allow this Italian to harm our English Princess?”

“By God no! We’ll pull Whitehall to pieces to find where she is hidden!”

The news spread through the City and soon people were verging on Whitehall from all quarters. The foreigner would have to be shown that she could not harm their Princess.

It was Mrs. Danvers who found the letter on Anne’s table. It was addressed to her stepmother and said:

Madam,

I beg your pardon if I am so deeply affected with the surprising news of my husband’s being gone, as not to be able to see you, but to leave this paper to express my humble duty to the King and yourself and to let you know that I am gone to absent myself to avoid the King’s displeasure, which I am not able to bear, either against the Prince or myself, and I shall stay at so great a distance as not to return until I hear the happy news of a reconcilement; and as I am confident that the Prince did not leave the King with any other design than to use all possible means for his preservation, so I hope you will do me the justice to believe that I am incapable of following him for any other end. Never was anyone in such an unhappy condition, so divided between duty to a father and to a husband, and therefore I know not what I must do but to follow one to preserve the other. I see the general falling off of the nobility and gentry who avow to have no other end than to prevail with the King to secure their religion, which they saw so much in danger from the violent councils of the priests, who, to promote their own religion, did not care to what dangers they exposed the King. I am fully persuaded that the Prince of Orange designs the King’s safety and preservation and hope all things may be composed without bloodshed by the calling of a Parliament.

God grant a happy end to these troubles and that the King’s reign may be prosperous and that I may shortly meet you in perfect peace and safety till when, let me beg of you to continue the same favorable opinion that you have hitherto had of your most obedient daughter and servant.

Anne.

This letter was immediately published that riots might be averted.

It was a letter, said the people, of a dutiful daughter and a devoted wife. How good was the Princess when compared with her dissolute father!

The mob dispersed. The Queen should not be molested.

But the people were more firmly than ever behind Protestant William, Mary and Anne.

James, a sick and disappointed man, came back to London. It had been necessary to bleed him in Salisbury and he felt not only sick at heart but in body. He was thinking of that dismal supper when the news had come to him that one by one his generals were deserting him. Churchill gone—Churchill whom he had believed was his man, Churchill whom he had favored because he had loved his sister Arabella; then George—not that he had a high opinion of George or that he considered him a great loss—but his own son-in-law! Anne’s husband!

Anne! His beloved daughter. She was the only one to whom he could turn for comfort. At least he had his younger daughter. He had been deeply wounded by Mary’s coolness; but he told himself it was understandable. She had been away from home for so long and was completely under her husband’s influence; her choice had been between husband and father and she had chosen her husband. Yet once she had been his favorite child.

But there was still Anne. He smiled lovingly. She would always remember the closeness of their relationship. To whom had she come when she needed help? Always to her father because she knew that there she would find it.

Her husband had deserted him—but he was a weak fellow and never of much account. It would be different with Anne. When he was with his daughter he would be rejuvenated; together they would stand against his enemies.

As he came near to London he said: “I shall go first to the Queen and then to the Cockpit.”

He found Mary Beatrice in a state of great anxiety and terror that the mob would rise against her as they had when they believed she had abducted the Princess.

Unceremoniously she threw herself into her husband’s arms and wept while she embraced him and told him how happy she was to see him alive.

“We are surrounded by traitors,” she informed him.

“All will be well,” he replied. “I am going to see Anne and we will talk of this together.”

“Anne!” cried Mary Beatrice. “Did you not know then?”

“Know?” The fear was obvious in his voice and eyes.

“She has gone, like all the others,” said Mary Beatrice passionately. “She like all the others is against you.” He stared at her and she went on passionately: “You don’t believe it. You have blinded yourself. She and Sarah Churchill have long been your enemies. They are for Mary and Orange. She has forgotten her father because she does not want my son to have the crown which she hopes one day will be hers.”

“It cannot be true,” whispered James.

“Is it not? She has flown from the Cockpit. She has gone to join her husband, she says. She has gone to join them. She is against us as Mary is … as William is.”

James sank on to a stool and looked at his boots; then slowly the tears began to form in his eyes.

“God help me,” he said, “my own children have forsaken me.”

The conflict was over; it had been a bloodless revolution. A victory for Protestant England against the intrusion of Catholicism.

William of Orange had ridden to St. James’s Palace in a closed carriage. It was true it was raining but crowds had gathered expecting a little display; and there was William, with his long twisted nose, his great periwig that seemed too big for his little body, his stooping shoulders, his pale cold face. Not a King to please the English. How different from his merry Uncle Charles who on his Restoration had seemed all that a merry monarch of a merry country should be. But William was a Protestant and religion was more important than merrymaking; and in any case it was his wife Mary who was to be their Queen.

Mary Beatrice had escaped to France with the little boy who was called the Prince of Wales by James’s supporters, known as the “Jacks,” or Jacobites; but there were many who preferred to believe that the child had been introduced into the Queen’s bed by means of a warming-pan.

Anne had joined Prince George in Oxford where the people made much of them and called Anne the heiress to the throne. James had left Whitehall by means of a secret passage and had made his way to Sheerness where he intended to take a boat to France and join his wife and son; but he was captured and brought back to Whitehall.

The position was a delicate one. James had friends in London and even those who had been against him were moved to pity because his daughters had deserted him. He was a prisoner but on the orders of Orange, who was eager to avoid direct conflict, many opportunities were given him to escape.

James took advantage of this.

Only when James was sent out of London did Anne return with Sarah and Prince George.

The people came out into the streets to welcome the Princess who was so much more to their liking than grim William. Having no idea of the intrigues which had gone on at the Cockpit they declared their pity for her—poor lady to be torn between her duty to her father and to her religion. She had chosen rightly though and they were glad of it. This was the end of James; and the fear of Catholicism was over.

James meanwhile had been taken to Rochester, but his guards had had secret instructions to allow him to escape if possible. His wife and son were in France; William of Orange would be pleased if he were to join them there because he foresaw awkward complications if James stayed in England.

James acted as William had believed he would; he left Rochester under cover of darkness and a few days later landed safely in France where Louis XIV, implacable enemy of William of Orange, was delighted to give him sanctuary.

Sarah stood beside her mistress and they gazed at their reflections in the mirror. Sarah looked handsome, her lovely golden hair, her best feature, was decked with orange ribbons.

“Now, Mrs. Morley,” she said, “I shall do the same for you.”

Anne, whose childish passion for sharing pleasures was one of her most pronounced characteristics, expressed her delight.

“These ribbons are most becoming,” went on Sarah.

“They are to my dear Mrs. Freeman, but I fear poor Morley is not as handsome.”

“Nonsense,” said Sarah, but she smiled complacently at her reflection.

Sarah was delighted. This was not the end of a campaign; it was only the beginning.

The first battle was won. There was no longer a King James II; there would soon be a Mary II; and Mary had no children, so this fat young woman with the mild expression was the heir presumptive to the throne.

“So you like that, Mrs. Morley? I think it most becoming.”

“Then I am sure my dear Mrs. Freeman is right.”

Indeed it was the beginning.

“Let us go to the coach, now,” said Sarah.

Anne rose obediently.

So while James II battled against the seas on his perilous escape to France, his daughter Anne, in the company of Sarah Churchill, attended the playhouse—both resplendent in orange ribbons.

THE UNEASY CORONATION

illiam of Orange, riding in his closed carriage through the streets of London, was disturbed. The conquest had been too simple. Perhaps if there had been battles to be faced and won he would not have felt this depression; but here he was, come to England to preserve the land for Protestantism, and he was not even sure that he would be accepted as its King.

William was a Stuart on his mother’s side, but he had inherited little of that family’s characteristics. The Stuarts were, on the whole, if not handsome, a fascinating family. William had none of those superficial attractions and he was well aware of it. Short, slightly deformed, a sufferer from asthma, tormented by a hacking cough which worried him at awkward moments, he was aware of his disabilities. He never felt happy except on horseback and when owing to the shortness of his legs he looked nearer to the normal size. His expression was sour, his nose long and crooked; and his huge periwig gave him the appearance of being top heavy. Not a figure likely to find favor with the English who remembered gay Charles, tall, dark, and ugly though he might be, possessed of such charm that he made his subjects love his faults more than they would have loved another’s virtues. James had been unpopular but he was personable; he had dignity, and his numerous love affairs had proved that he was a man.

How different was William. He would have brought an uneasy reminder of Oliver Cromwell but for the fact that he had a mistress. There had been a certain amount of gossip about Elizabeth Villiers to whom he had been faithful for years. When a man had one mistress for some odd reason that seemed a slight to his wife; it was different when, like Charles and James, he had many.

William was wondering what sort of a reception he would receive. He knew that the people had rejected James and were accepting him. But were they accepting him, or was it Mary?

He had long had his eyes on this crown: England, Scotland, and Ireland. To be ruler of these three kingdoms was a higher position than mere Stadtholder of Holland. But would they accept him as their King? They would have to if he were to remain, for he would be no Consort. But it was Mary who was heiress to the throne.

So he was uncertain about his future. He was uncertain too about his private life. His was a strange complex character and perhaps this was because of his physical disabilities. He longed to be a great hero, a fighter of causes, a worthy ancestor of William the Silent. He was a courageous soldier; he was an astute ruler; this he had proved. But he was lacking in the qualities he most longed to possess.

Beside him now was Bentinck—his dearest Bentinck—his first minister who had saved his life by nursing him through the small pox years ago before his marriage. When the disease had been at its most virulent Bentinck had slept in his bed because he believed—as many did—that by sleeping in the bed of a sufferer at such a time it was certain that one would catch the disease and so reduce the severity of the attack. Bentinck had caught the small pox, had come near to death himself; and by a mercy they had both recovered. That was devotion; that was love.

Love? He loved Bentinck and Bentinck loved him; and for neither of them would there be another love such as that they bore each other.

This was uneasy knowledge. Bentinck had married; his wife had died only a week or so ago, but Bentinck had not been at her bedside, because his first duty was to his master. She had left five children, and Bentinck was sad now, but a wife could not mean to him what his master did—nor could any woman take Bentinck’s place with William.

Bentinck had married Anne Villiers and William had taken for his mistress her elder sister Elizabeth. This made an odd kinship between them. For Elizabeth, William had a love he could not give to Mary, and this could be set beside Bentinck’s devotion to his wife. Anne had been docile, devoted to her husband and Bentinck would miss her. Elizabeth was shrewd and clever and the cast in her eyes seemed attractive to William because it was in a sense a deformity.

Their relationships were complicated; but at the center of it all was William’s love for Bentinck; his interest in members of his own sex which was always greater than what he felt for the opposite one, except in the case of Elizabeth.

His relationship with his wife had always been an uncomfortable one for him. Mary was different in every way from himself; she had been brought up in the merry wicked Court of England where people made no attempt to hide their affections. She had infuriated him at the beginning of their acquaintance by weeping copiously when she had heard he was to be her bridegroom—and not in secret either. She had received congratulations with red eyes and an expression of woe which had made him more sullen and uncouth than ever, so that the English had said what an unsatisfactory lover he was, and he knew that in some quarters he had been called Caliban and the Dutch Monster.

And it was Mary’s fault, for had she been gracious he would have been, and the people of England would have had an entirely different notion of him.

And all the years of their uneasy marriage he had wondered what her attitude would be when she were Queen of England. To what position would he be assigned? Recently, thanks to the tact of Dr. Burnet who had visited them in Holland, he had discovered that Mary had no intention of not sharing her crown with him. Like the dutiful wife he had forced her to become she had declared that it was always a wife’s duty to obey her husband.

Very gratifying, but what of the people of England?

In the Upper and Lower Houses of Parliament fierce debates were in progress.

William was aware of this and was angry. He had come from Holland to save this country from papist rule and because he had come James was deposed; yet they were asking themselves whether or not they would have him.

Some were suggesting that Mary should be proclaimed Regent because they did not care to see the line of succession tampered with. Mary Regent for how long? Until the Prince of Wales was of an age to return?

Others were for making Mary Queen of England and William Consort; and that was something to which William would never agree.

Some had suggested that William should be King, for after all he was the next male in the line of succession; but there was great opposition to this. In spite of his English mother he was a Dutchman, and there were two English princesses who came before him.

Lord Danby, who hoped that if he showed his support for Mary, she would make him her chief adviser when she arrived in England, wrote to her, giving her accounts of all that was happening.

“It is my desire,” he told her, “to set you on the throne alone and I do not doubt that I shall do this.”

So confident was Danby that the Queen would be delighted with his endeavors and so certain was he that he could persuade the rest of the ministers to follow him, that he summoned a further meeting to which he invited William.

On receiving the invitation William sent for Bentinck.

“What do you think of this?” he asked.

“They are going to put some proposition before you.”

“I have no intention of going to hear it. I find it most undignified. I shall remain aloof.”

Bentinck nodded. “It is better so. I believe Danby is going to suggest that the Princess of Orange shall be the sole sovereign.”

William’s lips tightened almost imperceptibly, but Bentinck who knew his beloved friend and master well was aware of the change of expression.

“I shall never be my wife’s gentleman usher!” said William furiously.

“You may rely on me to make that plain.”

So it was Bentinck who attended the meeting on behalf of his master and he made it clear to the assembly that their terms were unacceptable to William.

Danby was furious.

“The only proposition which would be acceptable to my master,” Bentinck explained, “would be a conjunctive sovereignty, and then there would be a condition that he should have sole administration of affairs.”

Danby said there was no point in continuing with the meeting.

But when he received Mary’s reply he was taken aback.

“I am the Prince’s wife,” she wrote, “and would never be other than what should be in conjunction with him; I shall take it extremely unkindly, if any, under pretence of their care for me, should set up a divided interest between me and the Prince.”

Mary sent a copy of this letter to William and when he read it he smiled in triumph. He had known he could rely on her; he had subdued her completely; he had made that shuddering bride into a docile wife.

He showed the letter to Bentinck. “Now I think,” he said, “we can afford to take the strong line and I will see them. Summon them and tell them that I will make my feelings clear to them.”

And when they came he looked at them coldly and there was disdain in his expression for that which they treasured so highly and for which they thought he yearned. He was going to show them the contrary.

“I think it proper to let you know,” he said, “that I will accept no dignity dependent on the life of another. I will not oppose the Princess’s right; I respect her virtues; none knows them better than I do. Crowns to others may have charms, but I will hold no power dependent on the will of a woman. Therefore if your schemes are adopted, I can give you no assistance in the settlement of the nation, but will return to my own country.”

They were dumbfounded. Was this a monstrous piece of bluff? They could not believe he was ready to throw away so much merely because he was not offered the supreme prize. But what would happen if he returned to Holland? Chaos! James’s friends might even ask him to return.

They talked together for a while and they dared not call his bluff because they had seen Mary’s reply to Danby’s suggestion. What if William returned to Holland, would Mary come to England? Would she leave a husband for whom she had such a regard? William of Orange had proved himself to be an astute ruler. He had strengthened his country and made her of importance in the world. England needed Dutch William unless they preferred to be saddled with Catholic James.

“Nobody knows what to do with him,” was the comment, “but nobody knows what to do without him.”

Danby said: “This is a sick man. He cannot live long. Let us give him what he wants. Then when he is dead Mary will be our Sovereign. She will not interfere, for if she is docile to him so will she be to us. This is the answer. A King and a Queen … until he is dead.”

The decision was made. King William III and Mary II should be joint sovereigns of England.

William’s reply was that this was a proposition which he could accept.

“There is one point to be settled,” pointed out Danby. “This concerns the Princess Anne. By right of succession she should be Queen on the death of her sister. This is unacceptable to William. Therefore we must get her consent. She will have to agree that William shall be King in his own right and that she and her heirs will inherit the throne if Mary and William were without heirs of their bodies.

Thus the matter was settled, but for the consent of the Princess Anne.

Sarah shouted in her rage: “The impudence! It would seem to me that Dutch William is coming very well out of this matter—and at whose expense? Yours, Mrs. Morley. King … King in his own right! How can that be when you are next to your sister Mary?”

“I have heard that he refuses to stay here if they do not agree.”

“Then let him go. We can do very well without him in Whitehall. Let him go back to his dykes and canals. He looks like a scarecrow. I am not surprised your sister wept day and night when she heard they were marrying her to that Dutch … abortion!”

“Dear Mrs. Freeman, you will be heard. What if tales were carried to him?”

“Let them be carried! I care not that he should know what I think of him.”

“Do not forget he will be the King.”

“Madam, do you think I care for Kings when I see my friend Mrs. Morley robbed of her rights?”

“But what must I do, dear Mrs. Freeman?”

“Refuse! The Princess Mary should be Queen and Caliban her Consort; and when Mary dies then it should be your turn.”

“It seems that the Parliaments are prepared to give him what he wants.”

“Parliaments! Who cares for Parliaments?”

“Oh, dear,” sighed Anne. “How tiresome life has become.”

There were many separations in the married life of John and Sarah Churchill and whenever they could be together they took advantage of it.

John was now at Whitehall and able to see his wife frequently, and on this occasion he had something very serious to say to her. They went down to their home near St. Albans, there to spend a few days with their children. There were five of them now: Henrietta, Anne, Elizabeth, John, and Mary. Sarah counted herself lucky when she considered Princess Anne who had lost all hers.

John was thoughtful as they left London and, knowing him well, she sensed there was something on his mind.

“You had better tell me what it is,” said Sarah grimly.

He gave her a fond smile. There was little she missed.

“I have much to tell you,” he said.

“Good news?”

He nodded.

“Then tell me quickly. I like not to be kept in the dark.”

“We took the right road.”

“Of course we did.”

“Bentinck has talked with me … made me promises.”

“What, John, what? What a maddening creature you are! Don’t you know I am the most impatient woman in the world when there is news of my family?”

“How would you like to be a Countess?”

“John! Stop this teasing. I will not have it, I tell you.”

“You may well be ere long.”

“An Earldom. Is it true then?”

“Not yet, there is a condition. Bentinck has implied that titles and honors can be ours. Oh, my dear Sarah, what a clever woman you are! Already they realize that you can do what you will with Anne.”

“And the condition is?”

“That she agrees to their conditions. Joint Sovereigns. This shall not be the reign of Mary and her Consort but of William and Mary. Not much to ask for an earldom.”

“But what if they should have a child?”

“William is impotent.”

“And cross-eyed Betty Villiers?”

“It is a blind. He would have the world think him a man when he is only half one.”

Sarah narrowed her eyes.

“An earldom,” she murmured.

“And that would not be all.”

Her smile was triumphant. “Why, John,” she said, “Do you think what I think?”

“The Churchills shape the future of England.”

She laughed and put her hand in his.

“I shall see that fat Morley agrees to stand aside for Caliban.”

She loved her children; the days spent with them in the country were something to look forward to; but all the time she was longing to be back at the Cockpit, for she could scarcely wait to take those steps which would lead her to that earldom.

Playing with the children, riding with John, they talked of nothing else.

“The Earl of …” Sarah said again and again, putting her head on one side and looking at him with pride.

“What say you of Marlborough?”

“Marlborough.” Sarah tried it on her tongue. “It is a grand sounding name.”

“It was a name which was once in my family. The Leys were Earls of Marlborough.”

“Marlborough!” cried Sarah. “Oh, I like it.” She threw her arms about him. “Oh, my Lord Marlborough, what a happy day this is!”

John cautiously reminded her that the title was not yet theirs. There was work to do first.

So during those days which should have been completely contented, Sarah yearned to be back at the Cockpit.

The Princess Mary of Orange was growing more and more anxious as she drew near to her native land. This was not the best motive for returning; and in any case she had no wish to return. She remembered how, when she had last looked at the receding coast of England she had seen it through a mist of tears and had believed that to throw herself overboard would have given her greater pleasure than anything else. It seemed incredible that now she should be wishing that the boat would turn and take her back to Holland.

But she had changed since the days when she had been a weeping bride. She had come to love William, to think only of William’s good and William’s desires, and to make them her own.

She had wanted the perfect marriage and she assured herself she had found it. Oh, she would be ready to admit that others might not realize the worth of William. He was a great leader, a great hero; and if he was at times brusque—even uncouth—that was because he hated hypocrisy and pretence of any sort; also he suffered acutely and that everyone knew could make the temper short. William was the most wonderful man in the world; the perfect husband, and Mary would not allow herself to think otherwise.

Obediently she had hated her father when William wished her to although James had always been kind to her; sometimes now she remembered those occasions when he had taken her on his knee and made her talk to the people who came to see him on business, declaring that she understood all that was said. She had believed the evil reports she had heard of him; and when Anne and others had told her of the wicked lengths to which he was ready to go to bring Catholicism back to England—even so far as to introduce a spurious baby in a warming-pan into his wife’s bed—she was ready to believe that too. She knew that Elizabeth Villiers was William’s mistress and she tried not to believe that. Elizabeth was with her now and she was wondering whether his friendship with her would continue when they were in England.

What pleasure it would give her if she could go back to the quiet life in the Palace in the Wood, at Loo and Honselaarsdijk where William had built and planned gardens. She could visualize such a delightful existence. Planning gardens with William, listening respectfully while he talked of state affairs, playing cards in the evening or dancing. Oh, how she loved to dance, but of course there had been little dancing in Holland. Perhaps in London … but William would not want a gay court. That would be too reminiscent of her Uncles Charles and William. Never were two men less alike.

Mary would see her old friend Frances Apsley. “Aurelia” as she had called her, and “dear husband.” A foolish fantasy, but the love between them had been painfully passionate and Mary had continued to think of herself as wife to Frances even after the marriage to William. There must be no return of that when she reached England. There was no room in Mary’s life but to be a dutiful wife to one person—and that person was her own dear husband William.

She frowned thinking of Anne’s friendship with Sarah Churchill, Unwise! she thought. And I do not believe Sarah Churchill to be the best friend Anne could have.

Perhaps when they were together again she would break that dominance. Anne was like herself in that she found pleasure in these passionate friendships with her own sex. She, Mary, had grown out of that habit which was not only foolish but dangerous. Perhaps when she reached England she would not see a great deal of Frances. Now that she had such a perfect husband she had no need and no desire to have women friends and had in fact, though she would not admit that this was to protect herself, rigidly refrained from making them.

The land was in sight and she must compose herself. This was going to be one of the most difficult periods of her life. It was no normal homecoming. She was returning to England because her husband had driven her father away. She had not told William, but she had long been praying in Holland that there might be a reconciliation between her father and husband. Mary hated conflict of any sort. She knew so well what she wanted and that was to be on good terms with those about her; to chat incessantly—not of great matters, but of cards and dancing and gardens and fine needlework, although her eyes were too weak nowadays to indulge in the latter. She wanted to hear laughter about her; and although she was devout and her religion, the Protestant religion, was one of the two great passions in her life—the other being her husband—that did not mean that she did not like to be gay.

But William had frowned on levity, although now she had her special instructions not to be melancholy on arrival. He knew that she had felt melancholy when she contemplated the fate of her father; this, he had warned her, must not be shown to the English. They must not have the impression that she came among them as a penitent. She must show no grief for her father’s downfall, which he so richly deserved. She must smile and appear happy to be with them. Graciously she must accept the crown; he wanted smiles from her when she landed in England.

How strange! So often in Holland she had been forced to curb her levity; now she must feign gaiety, for the truth was that the nearer she came to England the less gay she felt. She could not get out of her mind the memory of childhood days, of her father’s coming into the nursery and picking her up, calling her his dearest daughter. She could not stop thinking of her beautiful Italian stepmother who had shown her nothing but kindness, and had laughingly called her her “Dear Lemon” because she was married to the Prince of Orange.

Instead of this she must remember her father’s follies, his promiscuity, his disgraceful rule when he had ousted Protestants from the principal posts and tried to replace them with Catholics, his cruelty after Sedgemoor, for although Jeffreys was blamed James was the King and therefore mainly responsible; she must not forget the wickedness of the warming-pan incident. It was thoughts of Sedgemoor which hardened her heart; it had always been so. After that William had had little difficulty in turning her against her father. When she thought of Jemmy, holding her hand in the dance, his dark eyes aflame with … not passionate love, but could she say passionate friendship? … when she thought of that charming head being severed from that handsome body, at the command of her father, then she could hate him. James, Duke of Monmouth, the most handsome man in the world (for admirable as William was even she could not call him handsome) had come to The Hague, had danced as only he could dance, had taught her to skate … and those had been days which seemed apart from all others. But Jemmy was dead and James had killed him.

My father killed Jemmy. That was what she had to keep saying; and then a fierce anger destroyed her calmness and she knew that she would walk into the palace where her father and stepmother had recently lived and she could laugh and be gay and say to herself: He deserves his misery … for what he did to beautiful Jemmy.

“Your Highness, we should be preparing to land.”

Elizabeth Villiers stood beside her, smiling her discreet smile, those peculiar eyes, with what some called a squint, downcast.

Mary bowed her head and wondered whether when they stepped ashore William would be more aware of Elizabeth than of her. Oh, no, he would be watching his wife, making sure that her expression was what he had commanded it to be, that she gave no sign of uneasiness because she was coming to take her father’s crown. Matters of state would come before any mistress.

But Elizabeth was there and Mary believed in that moment that she always would be. Why? she asked herself passionately. What can she give that I cannot? But who could probe the strange powers of attraction?

A crowd was gathered at the landing stairs, but William was not among them. That was characteristic. He could make no gracious gestures. He would wait and receive her formally at the Palace of Whitehall, to remind her perhaps that although she was the Queen of England, he was the King.

Elizabeth had slipped the cloak from her shoulders and handed it to a page; it seemed to weigh the boy down so voluminous was it with its hanging sleeves and its vivid orange color. The people wanted to see her and she was a handsome sight, for she would have been a very beautiful woman had she not grown so fat. She removed her hood that they might see her face and she stood, tall, stately, and smiling. Her bodice, low cut partly exposing a magnificent bosom, was draped with fine muslin looped with pearls; beneath her purple velvet gown was an orange petticoat which, as she lifted her skirts, showed its flamboyantly symbolic color. Her dark hair was piled high and adorned with agraffes of pearls and ribbons in the same color as the petticoat. She was a magnificent sight: a queen in her glory. Those watching thought: She will be decorative enough to make up for dull William.

Formally she was greeted by the officials of the Court; then she was led to her waiting horse by her Master of Horse, Sir Edward Villiers, as young girls strewed flowers in her path.

A colorful homecoming.

Anne was waiting with Sarah at Greenwich Palace.

Anne was excited at the prospect of meeting her sister. Sarah was alert. Mary had already shown signs of animosity and Sarah felt she would need to be careful. Anne looked enormous, she was pregnant again, but quite attractive in her excitement apart from her bulk, and beside her was her husband, fat and genial.

Sarah was thinking that life would be more complicated now that the two sisters would be together.

As the Queen approached her eyes immediately sought her sister and when she did so, she could not restrain her pleasure.

There could be no ceremony at such a meeting. Mary dismounted and held out her arms and they embraced.

“My dearest Anne!”

“Oh … Your Majesty … you are that now, are you not, now that our father is gone …”

Mary said: “It is wonderful to see you. This meeting is something I have been anticipating for so long.”

“To think you will be home again! It is quite wonderful.”

“And you have been good, dear sister. William appreciates your goodness.”

“Does he?” said Anne vaguely; the mention of William’s name had curbed her exuberance temporarily; and Mary was reminded of her duties.

She received her brother-in-law and all those who were waiting to greet her and with Anne beside her they went into the Palace of Greenwich to refresh themselves before going on to Whitehall.

To Whitehall! There would be too many memories for comfort, thought Mary. She could not forget that a very short time ago her father and stepmother had held Court here. It was here that Mary Beatrice had very recently waited for her apartments at St. James’s to be made ready that she might give birth to a prince—or pretend to.

As yet Mary had not seen William; she believed that he would be waiting for her at Whitehall and together they would enter the Palace. She hoped so, for she would feel happier if he were at her side.

But when she reached Whitehall William was not there, and she must enter the Palace alone, knowing that everyone was watching her, asking themselves how a daughter would feel who had driven her father from his home.

She must forget she was James’s daughter and remember only that she was William’s wife. So she smiled gaily.

“Whitehall,” she said. “I have thought of it so often. But it does not bear comparison with some of our Dutch Palaces.”

“Your Majesty will wish to go to your apartments without delay.”

She agreed that she would.

To the royal apartment then. Here was the bedchamber in which Mary Beatrice had lain. It was prepared for her, Mary, now. There were the chairs on which her father had sat; his hands had touched those hangings.

Jemmy’s murderer, she murmured; then it was easier.

She laughed gaily.

“It is pleasant to be home in Whitehall,” she said.

She could not sleep that night—alone in the royal bed. There were too many memories. She dreamed of her father; she was a child and he had taken her on his knee and was looking at her with mournful reproachful eyes from which tears flowed. And there was Mary Beatrice crying: “I cannot believe it … not of our dear Lemon.”

“It had to be, it had to be.…” She was talking in her sleep. “William said so and William is always right. It was the Papists against the Protestants. It was your own fault, father. And there was Monmouth.… How could you. He called himself the King I know, but he was a King’s son, and he was your nephew. How could you?”

She awoke and heard herself say: “It had to be. It had to be.”

Where was she? In her room in the Palace in the Wood, waiting for William, who would not come because he was spending the night with Elizabeth Villiers? No. She was in Whitehall, in the bed which had been used by her father and stepmother.

This was nonsense. It had to be. He had brought this on himself. William had had no wish for it. It was only because it was his duty to come that he came.

In the morning she chatted gaily as she was dressed.

William would want to hear how she had behaved on her arrival and she must please William. Moreover, it was pleasant to chat. How she loved to gossip; and being back in England reminded her of those carefree gossiping days of childhood.

“I want to go into all the rooms,” she announced. “I want to see how much things have changed.”

So as soon as she was dressed she went from room to room, opening cupboard doors, turning down the quilts on the bed, laughing and chatting all the time.

Even her friends were a little shocked. They said: “She seems to be quite insensible of her father’s tragedy.”

Her enemies talked freely to each other. “What unbecoming conduct!” they said. “What an ungrateful daughter, for however misguided he was, he was always a good father to her.”

As for Mary, she was thinking of him all the time as she went from room to room; she was resisting with all her might the desire to burst into tears, to ask these men to help her plead with her husband to bring her father back. Let them rule together, let William modify James’s policy; surely that could have been done.

But William had said: “Smile and be gay. Show no remorse, for that would do ill to our cause.”

So she smiled and was gay; and Sarah Churchill watching said to herself: “She is a woman of stone. She shows no remorse for her father. This is most unbecoming. She is behaving like a woman in an inn, peering into cupboards, spying into the beds.…”

Sarah disliked keeping her opinions to herself, but on this occasion she would. William and Mary would reward those who helped them and the glorious Marlborough title was not yet won.

Only when Mary was installed in Whitehall Palace did William come to her.

She returned his cool greeting with suppressed exuberance. After the long separation she had forgotten how withdrawn he could be.

“William,” she said, “I am so happy to be with you. But you look ill. I fear this has been a great strain on your health.”

He shook his head impatiently. Had she not learned yet how he hated references to his infirmities?

“You appear to be in good health,” he said shortly. “As for myself, I am well enough. The sooner we are recognized as joint sovereigns the better; and I have arranged for the ceremony to take place in the Banqueting room.”

“Yes, William. Tell me, are you happy now that all is well?”

“We cannot be sure that all is well. It is early yet.”

“But the people want us, William. They have shown that clearly.” She laid her hand on his arm. “Your fame is known throughout the world,” she went on. “The English know that you will rule them well.”

“They were not eager to accept me in the beginning, suggesting that you should rule as Queen and I as Consort.”

“I would never have allowed that, William. I would have made them understand that I could not tolerate such a position. You are my husband and I regard it my duty to obey you.”

She was looking at him almost piteously, begging for some affection. He felt angry because she was taller than he was and had to look down at him; he was angry because these people wanted her and grudgingly accepted him. There were always these considerations between them. With Elizabeth it was different. With her he could discuss state affairs, make a little play at lovemaking; and he could feel the superior male all the time.

He was eager for the ceremonies to go forward with all speed, for he would not feel safe until he had been publicly proclaimed and crowned King of England.

“I wish the ceremony to be performed with all speed,” he said.

“But of course, William.”

“I have a great desire to get out of this city. I like not the air and I have seen a palace at Hampton which I think would suit me better.”

“Hampton Court Palace! Ah, yes, I remember it so well.…”

“It is unsightly and needs alterations; the gardens are a disgrace.…”

She began to smile. “Oh, William,” she cried, “we must plan alterations. I lack your inspiration in these matters, but I hope you will allow me to help.”

She had clasped her hands about his arm; he stood rigid for a while. Then he twisted his lips into something like a smile.

“That might be so,” he said.

Then he shook her off and left the apartment.

Dear beloved husband! she thought. I had forgotten how dignified, how remote, how utterly noble he is!

The ceremonial recognition of the new King and Queen took place in the Banqueting room of Whitehall.

Mary, resplendent in state dress, took her place with William on the canopied chairs of state, their attendants ranged about them.

Lord Halifax then asked them if they would accept the crown, and they both declared their willingness to do so.

Were they a little too willing? Those watching thought so; for they did so without expressing the slightest regret at the unfortunate circumstances which had put them into this position.

Those watching had not wanted James but they did not like William’s coldness and Mary’s apparent indifference. For all his sins James was her father. Was not Mary’s blithe acceptance of the crown which could only be hers because of her father’s downfall, a little heartless? They would have liked a little reluctance, a little remorse. But there appeared to be none.

The ceremony in the Banqueting room was in February and the Coronation was fixed for April; but William had no intention of remaining at Whitehall until that time.

He said peevishly that he could not endure the London air and he saw no reason why there should be ceremonies and banquets; he considered them an extravagance.

He wanted to explore Hampton Court, and thither he went with the Queen.

The people were not pleased. This was going to be a very dull reign if there was no Court. They remembered Charles sauntering across the park with his dogs and ladies; they remembered him at the playhouse, or playing pell mell. Even James had kept a Court. But within a few days William had retired to Hampton Court; and the Queen had gone with him.

The Queen, however, had shown signs of gaiety, and they were certain that if she were in control there would be a gay Court. It was the Dutchman who was spoiling everything. Perhaps after the Coronation there would be a Court. In any case the Princess Anne would not wish to live in obscurity; she would surely continue with her card parties; and they had heard that the Queen was fond of dancing.

But during those weeks the King and Queen remained at Hampton Court and only came to London for necessary business. Mary felt happier at Hampton, where there were not so many memories; and William, who had already started to plan alterations to the Palace and gardens, was more friendly toward her when he was thus engaged than otherwise; he even allowed her to share his preoccupation.

It was the day of the Coronation and bright April sunshine streamed into the Palace of Whitehall and the Cockpit.

Outside the bells were ringing and the people were crowding into the streets; but this was no ordinary coronation, for it was rarely sovereigns were crowned while their predecessors lived. There were many who shook their heads and said no good would come of it. They had been against James; but when they saw his daughter and her husband calmly taking what was his, their sense of justice revolted. It was so unnatural, they declared.

Many of the Bishops would not take the oath of allegiance, declaring that they had sworn allegiance to a King who still lived. Even some of those Bishops whom James had sent to the Tower were among those who declined to take the oath; and the Archbishop of Canterbury refused to crown them.

The Coronation must not be delayed because of these obstinate men, declared William.

Mary was being dressed in her coronation robes; she looked very regal in purple velvet edged with ermine, a circlet of gold and precious stones gleaming on her dark hair.

Elizabeth Villiers was present, her eyes secretive; she was still William’s mistress, Mary knew.

William came into her apartment; he was already dressed and she would leave Whitehall for Westminster Hall an hour after him.

His face was white and set and he came to her and said without ceremony: “I have had bad news.”

“Oh, William!”

“Your father has landed in Ireland and taken possession of it. Only a few towns—among them Londonderry—are not in his hands.”

“Oh, William!” Her face was ashen and he looked at her with distaste, remembering her childish habit of repeating his name in moments of crisis.

“I have a letter for you. It is from your father.”

Mary took the letter in her shaking hands, and as she did so she pictured him sitting down to write to her, the tears streaming down his cheeks while he remembered how once he had loved his dear daughter.

“You should read it,” commanded William coldly.

The words danced before her eyes for she could not concentrate. Sentences seemed to leap from the page to wound her.

Hitherto I have made all fatherly excuses for what has been done. I attributed your part in the revolution to obedience to your husband, but the act of being crowned is in your power, and if you are crowned while I and the Prince of Wales are living, the curses of an outraged father will light upon you, as well as those of God who has commanded duty to parents …

The letter fluttered to the ground. Mary stood very still staring at it while William with a gesture of disgust picked it up and read it.

“It was well timed,” he said; but for once he was unable to hide the fact that he was shaken. James in Ireland—intending to fight for one of the three crowns—meant that his position was very insecure. The Archbishop and Bishops refusing to take the oath of allegiance! James calling down curses on them!

What had he done? He had driven his father-in-law from the throne, that he might take it. Had he not always—ever since the midwife, Mrs. Tanner, had declared she saw three crowns about his head at birth—had his gaze directed on his father-in-law’s throne?

He saw that some of those who had come with him into the chamber and those who had already been there were looking significantly at each other.

He said firmly: “This was brought about by the King’s ill conduct and what I and my wife have done was forced on us. I would say that I have done nothing which did not have my wife’s approval.”

This was one of those rare moments when Mary refused to be guided by her husband. It was the second of truth when she saw him not as the supreme being but as a man without charm, without love for her.

She said sharply: “If my father should gain his authority, you have none but yourself to thank for it. It was you who let him go as you did.”

For a few moments husband and wife stood staring at each other. William felt a coldness touch his heart. It was occasions like this—and there had been but a few in the course of their married life which brought home to him that he was unsure of his wife. He could never be certain when her docility might drop from her—like her great orange cloak—and she show clearly that she was a Stuart ruler.

It was for this very reason that he kept coldly aloof from her; it was the very pivot on which their strange relationship revolved.

He said: “It is time I left for Westminster Hall.”

And signing to his attendants he left the apartment.

In the Cockpit Anne was being dressed for the Coronation, though she could take no active part in it, being so heavily pregnant.

Sarah was given instructions as to how the Princess’s jewels should be worn when one of the women hurried in in some excitement.

“You have heard the news?” she asked.

“What news is this?” demanded Sarah.

“King James has landed in Ireland. They say the whole of that country is welcoming him.”

In the mirror Anne sought Sarah’s face and she saw it so transformed by fear that she trembled.

“I cannot believe this,” blurted out Sarah.

“It’s true, Lady Churchill. King James has written a letter to Queen Mary. I heard that she is mighty upset on receiving it and that she has even accused King William of letting her father go.”

“This is … terrible!” said Sarah, and wished that she could find John at once to discuss the matter with him. What of their fine title now? What would King James have to give the Earl of Marlborough who had deserted to the other side just at that moment when he could have been of greater help to him than ever before?

Anne was thinking: If he comes back, he will forgive me.… He always forgave me.

She turned to Mrs. Dawson and asked: “Do you believe the child they call the Prince of Wales is my brother?”

“I do, Madam,” said Mrs. Dawson rather sharply, for she had often assured Anne of the falseness of the warming-pan story. “I am as sure that he is your brother as I am that you are the daughter of the late Duchess of York.”

There was a deep silence in the apartment; and for once even Sarah had nothing to say.

The ceremony was late in starting. The people were restive. There was whispering in the streets. Was it true that James had landed in Ireland? What would happen next? Would there be a bloody civil war?

Queen Mary was being carried in her chair into the state room of Westminster Hall; she was pale and clearly shaken. What news to receive on the day of one’s coronation! How disquieting for a daughter to hear a father’s curses in her heart while she took the crown which had been stolen from him!

When they stood together—she and William—and the question was asked: “Will you accept William and Mary for your King and Queen?” It seemed to them both that there was too long a pause before the acclamation.

It was an uneasy coronation. When the offering should have been made William discovered that on account of the upset he had omitted to provide himself with the necessary money and Lord Danby had to count out twenty guineas which he would put into the gold basin on behalf of the King.

An evil omen? asked those who were only too eager to look for evil omens.

Mary and William were fervent in their promises to maintain the scripture and the Protestant religion, holding up their right hands as they did so; between them they carried the sword. It was unlike any other coronation and the absence of the most important figures of the Church—the Archbishop of Canterbury, the Bishops of Durham and of Bath and Wells—was constantly remarked on.

All the principal participators were relieved when it was over. But that was not the end, for later during the banquet in Westminster Hall the champion of the King and Queen failed to arrive to throw down his gauntlet and challenge any to a duel who would not accept the sovereigns. Uneasily they waited; and it was dark when Sir Charles Dymoke made his appearance.

“Why so late?” was the whisper.

“It is because he is the son of James II’s champion. He is unwilling to champion those who dethroned James.”

But the glove was thrown and a dark figure which looked like an old woman ran to it and picked it up. As she was allowed to disappear among the crowd there was a gasp of horror through the hall.

A challenge!

This threw a gloom on the banquet which the very presence of William in any circumstances would have prevented from being very gay.

The Coronation day was over. What next? asked the people. They would not have been surprised to hear that James had landed in England in order to defend his crown.

On the following day a tall man was seen pacing up and down in Hyde Park at a well known dueling spot. Many people saw him, but Sir Charles Dymoke did not go out to meet him.

There were no cries of “No popery” in the streets now, but were the people satisfied? If Mary had seemed a little contrite, if William had not been so dour, they would have been more ready to accept them.

What had they done? they asked themselves. It was true they wanted no popery; but was it going to be the days of Oliver Cromwell all over again? They did not like sour Dutchmen; they did not like ungrateful daughters. Someone produced a verse which appealed to many, and all over the city it was being quoted. It was written after the Coronation and ran:

There through the dusk-red towers—amidst his ring

Of Vans and Mynheers rode the Dutchman King;

And there did England’s Goneril thrill to hear,

The shouts that triumphed o’er her crownless Lear.

A DISH OF GREEN PEAS

here was little time now for dallying at Hampton Court and making exciting plans for its reconstruction. Ireland was almost entirely in the hands of James; and certain areas of Scotland had declared for him. There was discord in Parliament between Whigs and Tories; William was unpopular with the English who admired a colorful King like Charles II; France had taken the opportunity to increase activity against Holland.

“I wish,” said William to his dear friend Bentinck, “that I were a thousand miles away. I am not wanted here. The Queen is regarded as the ruler so I am of a mind to return to Holland and leave her here to govern.”

Bentinck regarded him sadly. William had greatly desired this crown and having married Mary for it, it seemed impossible that, now that he had attained it, he should return to Holland.

Bentinck himself would have been delighted to go home; but he did not believe that William would so lightly abandon a lifetime’s ambition.

Yet William summoned a Council of Ministers.

“I have made a mistake in accepting this crown,” he said. “I can do nothing more for you when you are warring with each other and resent me. The Queen pleases you, so I will leave the government in her hands and go to Holland.”

There was an immediate protest from the Council.

“I have been ill-used,” William reminded them, “and in such circumstances have no wish to remain. I told you when I took the crown that I did not attach such importance to it as some men did.”

So vehement were the protests that William saw how strong his position was.

“If I remained in control of this realm, I should depart at once for Ireland,” he said; but there was further protest at his suggestion, for they said they needed his services in England and begged him to remain.

He shrugged his shoulders. “I am a Protestant,” he said, “So I must do my duty, for this country could so easily be lost to the papists.”

When Mary heard that William had threatened to leave for Holland she was distraught, and went to William with tears in her eyes and begged him not to leave her.

“You have succeeded in making yourself popular with the people,” he told her. “They want you, but they are not inclined to accept me.”

“They are so foolish, William.”

“The Council of Ministers have begged me to stay. So they appear to think I may be of use to them.”

“Then I join my pleas with theirs, William.”

He looked at her coldly, remembering her outburst on the morning of the Coronation. Deep within her there was great pride, and occasionally it asserted itself. He could not forget the manner in which she had upbraided him for letting James go. What had she wanted? Him to murder her father? Hold him a prisoner? Have him brought to trial?

She had dared to criticize him! It was for this reason that he had threatened to return to Holland, although in his heart he had no intention of going. Marlborough had been sent to Flanders, and Marlborough was one of the most brilliant of his soldiers, although he was a man completely dominated by self-interest and one must, while making use of his services, never forget that fact and be wary of him.

There was no need for William to go to Holland therefore; and he had no intention of going. He wanted his wife to grovel in her desire to keep him at her side, to pay for her insolence on the Coronation morning; he wanted the ministers to acknowledge that he and he alone was the man to deliver their country from the threat of papistry. Once they admitted this he would give his untiring devotion to their Cause—which was his own. But there must be continual appreciation, because there were times when his physical disabilities were almost unbearable. It was bad enough to be smaller than most men, slightly hunchbacked, far from prepossessing, but when in addition he was cursed with asthma, which was improved by riding in the open air, and by hemorrhoids which made riding often an agony, he must remind those about him constantly that in matters of the mind he towered farther above them, in spite of their physical advantages.

He released himself from the Queen’s embraces. “Very well,” he said. “But I had thought that since you expressed your disapproval of the manner in which I was conducting affairs, you might wish to govern alone.”

“Oh, William, you are thinking of that stupid stupid remark of mine. I was so distressed. It was the letter from my father coming at such a time. I must implore you to forgive me. I must assure you that I could not endure to live here while you were in Holland. You know that I only live for you.”

It was enough.

He said coolly: “Very well, I shall remain. But pray remember in future that I do not care to be treated with disrespect at any time, more especially in the presence of my subjects.”

“I will remember, and I crave your forgiveness, William, on my knees.…”

“Have done. I shall remain.”

He left her and she wept quietly wondering whether he had gone to Elizabeth Villiers or to Bentinck.

The Princess Anne was growing discontented. Looking around her it seemed to her that everyone was benefiting from the new reign except herself.

Sarah and John Churchill had their new title and the revenues that went with it. Mary was Queen of England and William was King, for as long as he should live, which meant that Anne had been set back a place.

This she would have accepted if the new King and Queen had treated her more kindly. All during the years of separation she and Mary had corresponded and deplored their separation; but now that they were together again they found that over the years they had changed. They were not the inseparable companions they had been in childhood. Mary had become the complete slave of that Dutch Monster whom nobody could like because he was so bad tempered and uncouth; Mary was simply not herself. She wanted to talk incessantly and play cards and dance—which was all very well, but at the same time she had to do exactly what Dutch William wanted her to. Mary was, it seemed to Anne, like a shadow of Caliban in spite of her easy manners and love of pleasure. Everything he said was right in her opinion, whereas everything Anne said and did was wrong.

Anne loved cards more than anything; she loved to gossip too, but she found she had little to say to Mary, who did not seem to like Sarah.

Anne was pregnant and she was becoming uneasy because she had had so many disappointments. This time she desired to have a son even more fervently than usual so that she could score over her sister who quite clearly could not get one.

George was pleasant but dull; he provided no excitement. To everything one said, however exciting a piece of gossip, he would murmur: “Est-il possible?” and then nod drowsily. He was getting fatter and slept a great deal of the time, and although Anne was sure he was the best husband she could have, she did not find his company stimulating.

That left Sarah. What would she do without Sarah—dear, violent, amusing Sarah, who could always make her feel alive on her most sluggish days!

Sarah was always fomenting trouble; and now that she had her Marlborough title, she was showing quite clearly her dislike of the Queen.

She came into Anne’s apartments to find her mistress drowsing, but as soon as Anne saw her she felt alert. Something had happened to make Sarah indignant.

“My dear Mrs. Morley,” she cried. “What now do you think? I have had this straight from Dillon, who heard it from Keppel.”

Dillon was a page in the Marlborough household and Keppel one in attendance on the King.

“Pray sit down, dear Mrs. Freeman, and tell me what is agitating you.”

“As you can guess it concerns my dear Mrs. Morley, for it is when I see injustice done to her that I lose my temper.”

“Oh, dear,” sighed Anne. “What injustice?”

“Caliban has summoned Godolphin. He is a mean fellow, this King of ours. He cannot bear that money should be spent on anything but building and gardens and wars to set him more firmly on the throne. He asked Godolphin how it was possible for you to spend thirty thousand pounds a year.”

“How possible!” screamed Anne.

“Oh, yes, to mean William that seems a great deal of money.”

Anne’s face puckered. “But how can I manage on it?”

How could she indeed, Sarah wondered, when she gave such magnificent gifts to her friends and lost so much at cards. Wasting it on cards was folly, but it was well for Anne to have some outlet for spending money or there might be an inquiry as to where it all went. Gifts to the Churchills took care of quite a large portion of it; but the money was not wasted, Sarah assured herself; the Churchills were not people to fritter away their money. John was the most cautious of men—some might call him mean—and Sarah was no spendthrift. They wished to grow richer each year and Heaven knew they had begun poor enough.

No, Anne’s income must certainly not be cut for that would mean less gifts for the Churchills.

“One thing I will not endure,” said Sarah, “and that is to see my dear Mrs. Morley treated in this way. Where would they be if it were not for you? Who was it who kept them supplied with information? Who was it who made the way easy for them?”

“You, dear Mrs. Freeman.”

“Oh, no, no! It was my dear good kind Mrs. Morley. And how do they repay her? Have they forgotten that she stood aside to give him the sovereignty he was greedily demanding? Yes, they have forgotten. Depend upon it, Mrs. Morley, unless you stand firm, William will cut your income and that is something which I shall not allow you to accept.”

“Indeed not. My father was so good to me, was he not? Do you remember how when I was in debt he never failed to help me.”

“I remember.”

Anne looked tearfully at her friend. Life had really been more comfortable when her father had been on the throne. Mary and William were not nearly so affectionate. When Anne thought of the letter her father had sent to Mary which she had received on Coronation day and in which he had talked of curses, she wanted to weep, not so much with remorse but with terror, for she felt herself to be included in those curses. A father’s curse was a frightening thing to have hanging over one—particularly when one was expecting a child.

She began to wish that she had been a more dutiful daughter, that she had not allowed her fondness for gossip to embroil her in this affair which, from its beginnings as an exciting topic of conversation, had grown into a revolution.

Sarah following Anne’s thoughts put a stop to them immediately.

“All will be well as long as you stand up for your rights. They must not browbeat you, which is what they will do if they can.”

“Mary has changed so. She talks so much and I have nothing … simply nothing … to say to her.”

“I have thought of something you can say to her. This place is unfit for an heiress to the crown—and whatever they say you are that.”

“Unless they should have a child.”

Sarah gave a coarse laugh. “My dear Mrs. Morley expects the impossible. William would if he could but he can’t. That is why he pretends to spend so much time with his mistress. I tell you this, Bentinck is more to his taste than even Squint-eyed Betty, and between her and Bentinck he has no strength left for the Queen.”

Anne laughed. Sarah could always amuse.

“But Mrs. Morley, let us get back to important affairs. Is it right that the heiress to the throne should be housed in … squalor!”

Anne looked surprised. The Cockpit was a delightful place and she had always loved it; but for Sarah she would have gone on living contentedly there, never wanting to change.

“No, there are some wonderful apartments in Whitehall; those which your Uncle Charles had rebuilt for the Duchess of Portsmouth. They are the most magnificent in the palace, and if Charles thought only them good enough for Portsmouth, then I say that only they are good enough for the heiress to the Crown.”

“I know the apartments you mean, Mrs. Freeman. They are beautiful.”

“Then you must ask your sister for them without delay. This will show them that you are aware of your position, of all you have sacrificed for them, and that it is time they began to treat you with due respect. This will make them see that they cannot begin fiddle-faddling with the accounts.”

“I believe you are right, Sarah dear.”

“I know I am.”

The Queen looked coldly at her sister. How enormous she was! It must be a large child. Mary hoped it would be a boy for she longed to see a child who would one day carry on the line.

Anne ate too many sweets. Mary admitted that she herself was inclined to corpulence; it was a trait they had both inherited from their mother. Mary dearly loved a cup of chocolate and although she knew she was putting on weight every day, she could not resist that and other delicacies. But Anne was even fatter and even more devoted to her food.

Anne was a disappointment. That absurd infatuation with Sarah Churchill meant that Sarah Churchill was making important decisions which she should never have had the power to do. If they were not careful, these Churchills would be running the country. William had said that it was a matter they must watch and William was naturally right.

Even a foolish creature like Anne could have a great effect on the country’s affairs; it was a sobering thought.

We have grown far away from each other, thought Mary; although I always thought her foolish and greedy. She imitated me in everything; I wish she would now devote more of her time to George—though I have to admit he is a fool and not in the least like William—instead of giving way all the time to that Churchill woman.

“I wish to leave the Cockpit,” said Anne.

“Leave the Cockpit! But I thought you were so comfortable there.”

“Perhaps not leave it entirely but I believe that in view of my position I should have apartments in Whitehall.”

“If you wish … but being so close …”

“I think that the heiress to the throne is entitled to very fine apartments in Whitehall and I have made my choice.”

Sometimes, thought Mary, when Anne asserted herself it was as though Sarah Churchill were speaking.

“Oh, and which are these.”

“Those which were once the Duchess of Portsmouth’s.”

“It is strange that you should ask for these,” said Mary, “for the Earl of Devonshire had asked me for them and I have promised that he shall have them.”

“So then I must stand aside for Devonshire?”

“You know that is not so. But having promised him I must speak to him on this matter.”

Anne bowed her head. “I pray Your Majesty to give me leave to retire.”

Back to Sarah went Anne.

“So you must wait on Devonshire?”

“She had promised him.”

“And when the heiress to the throne asks for apartments she is denied them because Master Devonshire has put in a prior claim? I never heard the like!”

“Doubtless he will give them up when he knows I want them.”

“And so the heiress to the throne is to wait on his leavings? You must write at once to your sister and tell her this. It is the only way in which you can uphold your dignity.”

Mary was so disturbed by Anne’s letter that she went to William. He listened coldly to the problem.

“You see, William,” went on Mary, “I had promised them to Devonshire, and I find it difficult to withdraw that promise now.”

William narrowed his eyes. “Her income is enormous,” he said. “I have been looking into these matters. Why does she need so much money? Why should she keep a separate table? The royal family should eat together. We need money for more serious matters than cards and favorites. Anne will have to reform her way of life; and that very soon. But in the meantime let her have the apartments she covets and retain the Cockpit. Then I shall go into the subject of her income.”

“But Devonshire, William.…”

William looked surprised. “Naturally you will tell him to stand aside.”

Mary bowed her head. She would, as usual, do exactly as William ordered.

“You see,” said Sarah, “it is only necessary to stand firm. They have browbeaten you because they believe you will allow it. But let me tell you this, if my dear Mrs. Morley will let others take advantage of her goodness, Mrs. Freeman will not.”

“You are right, of course, Sarah.”

“And it seems to me that apartments in Whitehall, however fine, and a place like the Cockpit, are not enough for the future Queen of England. I shall never forget Richmond, shall you?”

“Never. We were so happy there and it was in Richmond Palace that I first grew to know my dear Mrs. Freeman.”

“It has always been a royal palace and I cannot for the life of me see why it should not be yours.”

“Richmond! Oh, how I should love to be there again. The air always agreed with me so well.”

“Then you should ask for it, because it is by right yours.”

“I believe the Villiers have a lease on it.”

“The Villiers! Squint-eyed Betty and her family! It is not enough that Caliban spends the night with Squint-Eye instead of the Queen, but other members of that odious family may snatch your rightful home from you, as their sister does the King from the Queen.”

“I think I should have Richmond.”

“Then ask for it.”

The Villiers were in higher favor than Devonshire, and William was not going to force Elizabeth’s family to give up what they wanted to keep. Lady Frances Villiers, the deceased governess of Mary and Anne, had had a lease on the Palace and this was passed to one of her daughters, Madame Puissars, who had no intention of giving it up because Sarah Churchill wanted the Princess Anne to have it.

“You know what this means,” Sarah pointed out to Anne. “It is Caliban’s decree and of course your sister obeys him slavishly even when it is for the sake of his mistress. I dislike the entire Villiers breed, and I cannot say that I think very highly of the Queen for allowing them to hold such an influence over her husband.”

“Mary is quite besotted with the King. And it is not as though he is even kind to her. I thank God I did not have to marry him. Sarah, do you know, I think I was happier when my father was on the throne.”

Anne looked plaintive. They must reconcile themselves to being without Richmond, but Anne did not greatly care and it was more Sarah’s defeat than hers. Moreover, Anne’s confinement was drawing near and her thoughts were occupied with the coming birth.

Sarah was thoughtful. Ever since the Coronation she had been uneasy. The revolution had occurred so easily and she had imagined that once James was deposed that would be an end of him; but it seemed this was not so. James had friends—among them the King of France who was one of the most powerful monarchs in Europe. James was in possession of almost the whole of Ireland and parts of Scotland; he had struck terror into the minds of his daughters by his timely letter; and it was not improbable that he might return.

William was not popular and never would be because he lacked charm, and, although he had his virtues, he was no saint. His manners were bad; he was uncouth; although he was calm and controlled there were occasions when he seemed deliberately to let loose his temper, as he had when he had struck a gentleman with his horsewhip for riding before him on the race ground. This was considered bad manners by the English; it was simply not done, and the story was repeated and enlarged on and those who loved to record such incidents with wise sayings declared that it was the only blow he had struck for supremacy in his kingdoms. It was the age of lampoons and the royal family was spied on and every failing noted to become the inspiration for some gibe.

William was so often ill that only his great spirit enabled him to continue; he could not conceal his terrible cough, and it was the common belief that he would not live long. And after he was gone, pondered Sarah, would Mary be able to hold the country together? In spite of her devotion to William she was gay, and quite clearly if she could escape from his stern eye there would have been dancing every night at one of the Palaces. As it was there was card playing. Card playing, William had said, was a safe occupation for his Queen because it prevented her talking. Mary was affable; she was beautiful, in spite of her growing bulky she was stately; and she had inherited some of her uncle’s charm. But her apparent lack of concern for her father’s fate had not pleased the people and continual comparisons were drawn to the tragedy of Lear and in some quarters she was known as Goneril.

It did not seem inconceivable to Sarah therefore that one day James might return. If he did Anne must be forgiven by him. Mary he would find it difficult to forgive for she had committed the great sin of allowing herself to be crowned. Not so Anne. It might be possible to convince James that Anne had been led astray by her wicked sister and brother-in-law. Anne was uneasy now; she could not rid herself of the sense of guilt which that Coronation letter had aroused in her. Mary felt the same but dared not admit it.

This was a situation which needed delicate handling and Sarah was not noted for her delicacy. She had always bludgeoned her way to victory and could use no other method. But subtlety was needed here. It was a fact that already certain people were beginning to drink to “The King over the Water”; there was a seemingly innocent trick of what was known as “Squeezing the Orange” but which had its significance.

The people were fickle. They had cried “No popery”; but if James would come back and promise there should be no popery would they welcome him? At least he was the rightful King; at least he was not a semi-hunchback with a Dutch accent, who, when standing, only came up to his wife’s shoulder, and had a perpetual sneer on his pale face.

Sarah had decided what must happen. There must be friction between Anne and the King and Queen. They could not disinherit her because there would be a revolution if they did. But at least strained relations between them would show the Jacobites and James, if he should return, that Anne was not in favor of the new King and Queen.

The best way of maddening them, Sarah decided, was to ask for an increase in her annual income.

Sarah was indefatigable; she had determined that the Princess’s income should be raised. Sarah had her friends in Parliament and they knew well what an important role the Marlboroughs played in the country’s affairs. Anne, pointed out Sarah, was heiress to the crown; yet she was treated like a pauper. Look at her husband. He was snubbed at every turn by the King and whatever the King did, the Queen agreed with. Did they forget that Prince George was the consort of the heiress to the throne? The only way these wrongs could be righted was by voting Anne an annual income of ninety thousand pounds. This was absurd, of course; but as Sarah had said to Anne if they aimed high they would get nearer to the mark than by aiming low.

William who had been contemplating cutting Anne’s allowance was not in Parliament when the commons voted Anne an income of forty thousand pounds a year.

William and Mary had not been consulted and when Mary heard what had happened, she was horrified; so was William, but he hid his chagrin and immediately dissolved Parliament before the matter could be settled, and Mary sent for Anne and demanded to know what part she had played in this affair.

Anne, without Sarah to advise, muttered that she believed her friends were of the opinion that she should have an income commensurate with her position.

“Your friends?” cried Mary bitterly. “What friends have you but the King and myself? Others may tell you they are your friends, but their actions belie this.”

Anne had nothing to say and, as quickly as she could, took her leave and went to Sarah. It was always such a pleasure to listen to Sarah, raving about her injustices. Anne enjoyed the feeling of self-pity and the pleasure of knowing that her much-loved friend could be so vehement on her behalf.

“Oh,” cried Sarah dramatically, “how you have been betrayed! Who gave them help when they needed it. Who invited him over to England? Who kept him informed of what was happening at the Court? Who defied her own father for his sake? For all this you are offered forty thousand pounds and not even that, for Parliament is dissolved before it can grant it to you.”

“They have been most unfair to me,” cried Anne.

“My poor Mrs. Morley! But there is one who would fight for you with all her might—against King against Queen against all the world for your sake.”

“Oh, dear Mrs. Freeman, it is worth being treated thus to know this.”

“Do not think I shall allow them to continue treating you like this. We will go on fighting until we win … something.”

When Mary and Anne met, the Queen was cold to her sister and Anne returned her coldness.

The beginning af Sarah’s rupture had started.

William detested Anne whom he thought vapid and ridiculous; he remarked to Elizabeth Villiers that he was delighted he had not had to marry her, for if he had he would surely have been the most miserable man on earth. But he realized that there must not be this trouble in the family and much as he deplored her extravagance he must do all in his power to prevent an open rift.

Elizabeth was a delight to him; she was serious when he wanted her to be and she had a grasp on affairs so that he did not have to explain in detail what was worrying him.

“Of course,” she said on this occasion, “it is the Marlboroughs who are behind this trouble. Sarah Churchill has persuaded Anne to ask for a bigger grant. And you know why—so that the bulk of it can go into the Marlborough purse. I know through my sister what goes on in that household.”

“We shall have to make a settlement—and with as little bother as possible. Although it is disconcerting to see good money thrown away I would agree to a grant of fifty thousand pounds to silence her, for silenced she must be.”

“Sarah knows this and I doubt if she will settle for fifty thousand pounds.”

“She must, because the country can afford no more.”

“I will get my sister Barbara to have a word with Sarah Churchill, telling her that she would be wise to settle for fifty thousand pounds and that if she does not, she will ruin her own chances. For if Anne will not accept fifty thousand pounds, she may well be forced to take much less, and if that is the case, grants to the Churchills will necessarily be clipped.”

“What a pass it is,” said William angrily, “when a man and his wife hold the country up to ransom in this way.”

“How did it ever happen?”

“A clever pair one has to admit. He the brilliant soldier-adventurer, she the controller of the heir presumptive.”

“Barbara shall speak to her without delay,” said Elizabeth, giving him her slow fascinating smile. “It is ridiculous that with all your responsibilities you should be troubled with such a matter.”

“So you see,” said Lady Fitzharding, “it would be folly not to take what is offered, for if it is withdrawn that amount might not be offered again.”

“A paltry fifty thousand pounds!” cried Sarah disgustedly.

“You call that paltry?”

“Yes, Barbara Fitzharding, I do, when it is offered to the heir of England.”

“Don’t be foolish, Sarah. Don’t you see what trouble you may be in if you persist in this quarrel, because we all know it is your quarrel rather than that of the Princess Anne. Do not forget that you are setting yourself against the King and Queen.”

“I would rather die than sacrifice the Princess!” declared Sarah.

Barbara smiled and although Sarah had a desire to slap the smile off that silly Villiers’ face, she desisted.

“Shrewsbury will come to the Princess to make the formal offer of fifty thousand pounds from the King,” went on Barbara.

“And I shall be with the Princess to offer her my support when he comes.”

She was true to her word, and when the Earl of Shrewsbury arrived was in her mistress’s company.

“It is a private matter, Your Highness.”

“All my affairs are known to the Countess of Marlborough,” replied Anne.

Shrewsbury had no alternative but to accept Sarah’s presence.

“His Majesty says that if Your Highness will refrain from soliciting Parliament he will personally guarantee you fifty thousand pounds a year.”

Anne looked at Sarah who burst out: “And what if the King should not keep his word?”

Shrewsbury looked at her in astonishment while Anne’s admiration for her friend’s boldness was apparent.

Anne knew what she had to say: and said it. “The affair is now before Parliament and events must take their course.”

When William heard the result of the interview he was furious with Anne, but did not show it. Instead he summoned his ministers and said he would be happy to accept their will in this matter of the Princess Anne’s allowance; at which Anne was voted her fifty thousand pounds.

“Let that be an end to this unfortunate matter,” said William.

Mary, who could not let the matter rest, sent for her sister.

When they were alone she burst out: “I cannot understand how you could have behaved so to the King!”

“What cannot you understand?” asked Anne.

“I know what took place at that interview with Shrewsbury. You implied that you would not trust William. I suppose that harpy of yours is behind this.”

“I know of no harpy.”

“Then it is a pity you cannot see more clearly what is obvious to everyone else. I would like to know when the King has ever shown anything but kindness to you.”

Anne was silent.

“Answer me,” insisted Mary.

“I do not know what you want me to say. All I know is that I have been less happy since our father went away.”

“You to talk like that! Have you forgotten what you used to write to me when I was in Holland?”

“I only know that I was not treated thus by our father.”

“I am ashamed of you … ashamed and surprised.”

Anne did not answer.

Her silence maddened Mary, but when Anne had gone the Queen wept a little. She had so looked forward to a return of the old friendship. What had happened to her dear little sister who had so looked up to her and admired her.

She thought angrily: Sarah Churchill has happened to her. How I loathe that woman!

Anne was dining at the royal table. This was one of William’s economies; he had ordained that the Princess Anne, the Queen and King must not keep separate tables; it was an extravagance.

It was no great pleasure to dine at the King’s table. He said little and never addressed a word even to those who served him. The Queen would have liked a little gaiety—some amusing conversation, a little music and afterward, dancing. But she conformed in every way to the King’s desire and was almost as silent as he was.

How different it had been in the days of Uncle Charles! thought Anne. And even in our father’s day.…

Then her eyes sparkled for a servant had set a dish of green peas on the table. Green peas! the first of the year which always tasted the best.

Anne’s mouth was watering. She loved her food and more especially during pregnancies.

She could not stop looking at the peas. Mary could not eat them; they were bad for her; and William was a poor eater. There were not a great many; she would eat the lot and it would be no use asking for more for it was too early yet and these would be all that were ready for serving.

The Queen had shaken her head at the dish. Now it was Anne’s turn. Anne leaned forward; but just as she did so William stretched out a hand and drew the dish toward him, and under Anne’s agonized eyes ate the lot without even asking her to have a few.

Beast! thought Anne. Uncouth swine! Dutch abortion. Caliban! Was there ever such a King? He belonged more in a swineherd’s hut than in a palace.

She was quaking with rage when she returned to her own apartments for although most things did not rouse her from her lethargy, food could.

Sarah came to her and demanded what fresh insult she had been forced to endure.

Anne told the story, her eyes glistening; she could see those peas, smell them, remember the flavor of past peas; she could see them now disappearing into that ugly twisted mouth.

“And he ate them as though he did not care what he was eating.”

“Of course he did not care. He only wanted to keep them from you.”

“I hate him!” said Anne vehemently.

“Oh, dear Mrs. Morley, he will not always be with us. Let us think of the bright future when he is gone. That will be the greatest day of my life when we crown Queen Anne.”

It was pleasant to contemplate but Anne’s mind was still clouded with the thought of green peas.

Sarah saw this and had the gardens and forcing houses searched in the hope of finding some that might be found and cooked for the Princess; but none were to be had.

Anne could only ease her disappointed palate by going over and over the list of his sins with Sarah, and from that day she hated him and was ready to follow wholeheartedly in any scheme against him.

AT THE PLAYHOUSE

arah Churchill, thought Elizabeth Villiers, had become one of the most important figures at Court and all because she had so fascinated the Princess Anne that she was allowed to manage her affairs completely. With anyone but Anne, Sarah would have had to use more subtle methods; that domineering know-all attitude would have had to be considerably subdued. But Anne was a stupid woman with an unnatural passion for the friend who was unlike her in every way. Sarah was not exactly beautiful, but was handsome with her magnificent fair hair and her extraordinary vitality. Anne had been pretty enough in an insipid way, but she was growing so fat that she looked much older than her years and of course the perpetual pregnancies had not helped her. She had turned to Sarah as one who was her opposite in every way; and even in their childhood days the sisters had had a great fondness for members of their own sex.

Sarah Churchill would have to be watched carefully.

Elizabeth Villiers’s own methods were quite different from Sarah’s; and yet there was a similarity, for as Sarah wished to influence Anne, so Elizabeth wished to influence William.

It had been a remarkable achievement to retain his attention all these years; he was a cold man, but between them there was a relationship which was enduring; they needed each other and to be the woman in William’s life who could give him exactly what he needed was a tribute to her brilliance.

She had wondered what her position would be in the household when she had accompanied Mary, as a reluctant bride, to Holland, for Mary had little love for her. They had spent much of their childhood together, but she had never been one of Mary’s selected friends. And then … she had seen the possibilities with William; and miraculously she had succeeded with him.

She must be ever watchful of rivals though; not that Mary was a rival. She would never be afraid of the Queen who was so quick to agree with her husband in every way—even though on one occasion she had, during William’s absence, sent her, Elizabeth, out of Holland with a letter addressed to the King, her father, asking him to keep her enemy there. Elizabeth had had some difficulty in returning to Holland, but she had; and after her spurt of independent action Mary had become the docile wife again.

Yet she need not be fearful of Mary when she was looking for a rival in William’s affection; she knew full well where the danger lay.

It was with Bentinck, William’s devoted friend and Elizabeth’s own brother-in-law, for he had married her sister Anne who had died just before they left Holland.

Elizabeth remembered now that deathbed scene with Mary attempting to reconcile the sisters. How characteristic of Mary, who must have everything comfortably rounded off.

Anne had been as docile a wife to Bentinck as Mary was to William—for in a way Bentinck and William were two of a kind, though Bentinck had a charm which William lacked; he was more polished in manners, more displomatic in his relations with others, but perhaps he could not afford to be as brusque as William was.

Two of a kind! thought Elizabeth; and women were not of great importance to either.

Bentinck had never been a great friend of Elizabeth’s; he had even pretended to be sorry for the Queen and had on one occasion dared criticize William for his treatment of Mary; that had meant a rift in that passionate friendship which had not lasted it was true; but it had been an attack on her, Elizabeth Villiers, the King’s mistress.

Elizabeth believed she knew why Bentinck had made that attack, why he did not like her. It had little to do with sympathy for the Queen. He was merely jealous of a woman who took up so much of his master’s time.

Elizabeth must be watchful of Bentinck. How did she know what he said of her when he and William were alone together. Bentinck was an ambitious man, but he also loved his Prince, even as William loved him; and since William had become King of England he had not forgotten his favorite.

Bentinck was now Baron Cirencester, Viscount Woodstock and Earl of Portland, First Gentleman of the Bedchamber, Groom of the Stole and a Privy Councillor, and William rarely made a decision without him. He was too important. It was not so easy to shower honors on Elizabeth, for William was not a man to flaunt his mistress. He preferred it to be believed that the relationship did not exist and Elizabeth was too clever to insist on recognition. So all that had come her way so far was a large portion of James’s Irish estates which was supposed to be worth some twenty-six thousand pounds a year; but because of difficulties in getting the money it was little more than five thousand pounds.

That was not important. Elizabeth would look after herself, but in doing that she must keep her eyes on Bentinck.

She was too clever to attempt to criticize Bentinck. She had held her place by the comfort she had been able to give William; she had never tried to involve him in intrigues for her own advantages. No, the only way of undermining Bentinck’s influence with the King was for him to have a rival in the King’s affection.

She had been watching that very personable young man Arnold Joost van Keppel who although as yet only a page in William’s service had already attracted his master’s attention. William could almost smile with pleasure when he looked at that fresh young face and it was already clear that he liked to have the boy near him.

Keppel was bright; it was certain that he was ambitious. Poor Bentinck was growing old and showed signs of strain, for he was as deeply involved in state matters as his master. It was not that Elizabeth hoped to oust Bentinck from William’s affections. That would be an impossibility; they would be friends until death parted them; but there was no reason why someone younger, gayer and more handsome, might not take up some of the King’s attention.

When she was next with the King she mentioned Keppel.

“A charming boy,” she commented, “and one I think who is very eager to serve you.”

“I have noticed him,” said William, and in spite of his attempt to hide it there was a gentle note in his voice.

“And of good family and breeding,” added Elizabeth. “Such a young man should hold a higher post than page of honor.”

“The thought had occurred to me,” admitted William.

“There will be a vacant place in the bedchamber soon.”

“He shall have it,” said William, and smiled affectionately at his mistress who had the fortunate knack of anticipating his wishes.

Shortly afterward Arnold Joost van Keppel became Groom of the Bedchamber and Master of the Robes.

During that early summer the city was full of rumors. In Ireland William’s army was fighting against that of James. There were constant reports that James had died; that he landed in England; that he was defeated; that he had beaten the King’s men.

There was frequent secret drinking to the “King over the Water”; the ominous “Squeezings of the Orange.”

William had taken up his headquarters at Hampton Court; he believed that he would soon have to go to Ireland, and he would have been there now but for the fact that his ministers had begged him to remain.

Mary yearned to have a little gaiety, and although this was not possible at Hampton Court when William had to come to London and stayed at St. James’s she accompanied him, and on these occasions made some attempt to make a Court there.

William turned his back on such frivolities, but he realized that it was no bad thing that they should take place. He was so unpopular largely because of his uncouth and retiring manners; the people—who would complain of the Court’s extravagance, yet wanted an extravagant Court—said he was a dullard and they might as well have no King as King William. But whenever the Queen appeared they cheered, for she obviously liked gaiety. She had been brought up in the right way, to laugh and dance and make merry.

Mary declared that during one of her sojourns at St. James’s she would see a play at the playhouse.

Now a play must be very carefully selected because many of them were historical and there must be no references which could apply to the present delicate situation. One which was definitely banned was of course King Lear. That was a play which would never be played during the reign of William and Mary.

Mary discussed the matter excitedly with her ladies of honor: the Countess of Derby, her first lady and Mistress of the Robes, mentioned a play which had been banned under James.

“One of Mr. Dryden’s,” she said. “I believe it is most enlivening.”

“And why was it banned?” asked Mrs. Mordaunt, another of the Queen’s women.

“It was thought to contain slighting references to the Catholics, I believe,” replied the Countess.

“Then,” said Mary, “it might be a good one to have. I have always admired Mr. Dryden’s work. What is it’s name?”

“The Spanish Friar, I think, Your Majesty. Shall I inquire?”

“Pray do,” said the Queen. “I can scarce wait to see it. I have always loved the play. I remember in my uncle’s time how he was constantly at the playhouse.”

They all looked a little wistful for the golden days of the merry Monarch. It was all so different now. So many people were comparing William with Oliver Cromwell, and if he had his way, they were sure there would be a return to puritanism.

But the Queen was different; everyone’s hopes were fixed on the Queen.

There were a hundred little irritations in Mary’s life. Anne who was aloof and rarely spoke to her; Sarah Churchill was as insolent as she dared be; Elizabeth Villiers, sly and retiring, was nevertheless keeping her hold on William’s affections, and as if that were not enough there had to be Catherine Sedley.

Mary had always disliked the woman—no beauty, but like her father, the rake and poet who had been a favorite of Uncle Charles, full of a wild joy in living and a desire to act in such a way as to call attention to herself.

She had been one of the most successful mistresses of James and although he had made several attempts to cast her off, he had never been able to do so. He had made her Countess of Dorchester and given her a fine town house which she now occupied, and she often came to Court which Mary thought was an affront to herself. Such people should have the decency to stay away. It was even said that she was working with the Jacobites to bring James back and that she cared not who knew it.

She was quick-witted and entertained a large company at her fashionable house. There she would talk in an affectionate and slighting way of her lover and drink the health of the King over the Water.

She was almost ugly and she knew it. “One of his penances,” she called herself. “He seemed to choose us for our ugliness,” she added. “Well, he liked us that way. As for wit, if any of us had any he had not enough to discover—so he did not choose us for that.”

These remarks were carried back to Mary. It shocked her sense of propriety that her father’s ex-mistress should be talking so openly of their relationship.

“The Countess of Dorchester indeed!” said Mary indignantly. “If she comes to Court I shall treat her as no higher than her father’s daughter.”

When this was reported to Catherine Sedley she laughed and said: “Then I shall treat the Queen as her mother’s.” An insult, for Mary’s mother, Anne Hyde, was of not such a high rank as Catherine’s father.

These were minor irritations to which one must submit; William’s advice as to how to deal with them could not be asked, for he would not allow himself to be drawn into such trivialities, and Mary must settle them herself.

On this evening she was happily preparing to go to the Theater Royal for Dryden’s Spanish Friar. To be carried to the theater in her chair, to sit in the royal box and receive the acclaim of the people, would make her feel contented, more as a Queen should feel; and perhaps in time she would persuade William to come to the play, to mingle more with the people. Then perhaps she would be able to make them see what a noble hero he was and him to understand how necessary it was to step down from one’s pedestal at times and be a popular hero.

Anne would be present, very far advanced in pregnancy. Surely the child must soon be born! And unfortunately with her would be that odious Churchill woman. Well, it was certainly a royal occasion, for fashionable London had turned out to see the play and it was like the old days. Mary, glittering with jewels, tall, stately, and plumply imposing looking as a Queen should look. The people cheered her, and she smiled her acknowledgment. She had to be doubly charming to make up for William’s moroseness. But William was not here tonight, and she must convey to them that he was engaged on the serious matters of kingship, planning how to win the war in Ireland. Oh, no, an unfortunate subject! He was working hard for the good of them all, to bring them peace and prosperity.

A dark thin woman was curtseying before her, and Mary was about to smile when she recognized Catherine Sedley; then she turned her head and looked the other way.

Catherine’s malicious face twisted into a smile. “Your Majesty is cool to me,” she said very audibly. “It is hard on me. For although I have broken one commandment with your father, you have broken another.”

As Catherine had passed on, Mary went white with anger that was touched with uneasiness. How dared the woman! And in a public place! That remark would be repeated all over the Court, all through the city, perhaps throughout the country.

It was true … cruelly true. Catherine Sedley had committed adultery—but at her father’s request.

“Honor thy father and thy mother: that thy days may be long upon the land which the Lord thy God givest thee.”

Was there no escape … even at the playhouse?

She turned to the Countess of Derby. “Come,” she said peevishly, “what are we waiting for?”

Mary took her place in the royal box and although she smiled graciously at the audience, all the time she was thinking of Catherine Sedley’s words; and instead of the stage and the players she saw James coming into the nursery, picking her up, sitting her on his knee; she could hear the whispers: “The Duke dotes on his daughters and his favorite is the Lady Mary.” She pictured his bewilderment when he learned that she was with his enemies, at the very core of the rebellion against him which had driven him from his throne and native land.

What were the players saying?

“How now! What means this show?”

“ ’Tis a procession.

The Queen is going to the great Cathedral,

To pray for our success against the Moors.”

“Very good; she usurps the throne; keeps the old King

In prison; and at the same time is praying for a blessing:

Oh religion and roguery, how they go together!”

Everyone was watching the royal box—not the stage. She was horribly aware of Catherine Sedley’s malicious eyes and she felt the hot color rushing into her cheeks. The Queen of England in her box unable to hide her embarrassment, her guilt, from the eyes of a playhouse audience! Tomorrow this would be the main topic of conversation all over the town.

Hastily she put up her fan. There was a slight murmur through the audience. Was it a titter of amusement?

What a fool she had been not to read this play before she came to see it. There was nothing to be done now; she must sit through it and pray that there would be no more such references. Mrs. Betterton had come on to the stage. Dear Mrs. Betterton who had taught her and Anne in their youth how to speak lines. She was back in the nurseries at Richmond. Jemmy was there to show them how to dance in the ballet Calista, which had been written for her that she might make her debut. Handsome Jemmy, who had wanted to be a King and had lost his head because of it … at her father’s command.

Would this play never end? The audience were far more interested in the drama in the royal box than on the stage. Her women were uneasy; they were listening intently for some other reference which could add to the tension in the theater.

It came:

“Can I seem pleased to see my master murdered

His crown usurped, a distaff on the throne?”

There was a hush in the audience. Recently there had been rumors that James had been killed in Ireland. Mary turned to the Countess of Derby.

“Your Majesty is a little cold?”

“My cloak.”

It was placed about her shoulders. The audience watched; Catherine Sedley was smiling: the Queen was uneasy and could not hide it.

“What title has this Queen but lawless force?” came from the stage.

She knew now how the guilty King and Queen in Hamlet had felt as they watched the play staged for their benefit. She was shivering, waiting, tense; and it seemed to her hours before the end.

When it came she rose thankfully. The audience was silent. It had no cheers to offer her. With as little fuss as possible she left the theater.

The next day everyone was talking of the Queen’s visit to The Spanish Friar and the playhouse looked forward to a run of good business. It would be crowded, and when the telling lines were delivered there would be cheers or boos according to the side the audience were inclined to take. A dull King, a Court that was more often non-existent did not appeal to a people who looked to its royalty to provide some excitement; it would be diverting therefore to have a little battle in the playhouse.

Mary, realizing what was happening, gave orders that The Spanish Friar was to be taken off and a new play put on which she would attend.

There was disappointment among those who had hoped to see some sport, but they would all crowd to the theater when the new play was on and when the Queen came it would be amusing to listen and hope for further references which might discomfort her, although it was certain that the script of the play would be well examined beforehand.

It was amazing how difficult it was to find a play in which there was no reference which could be applied to the present situation. But at last something was found and the Queen announced her intention of attending.

She was being dressed for the occasion when William came into her apartment. The very sight of him was enough to scatter her women so he did not have to order them to retire.

“I understand,” he said, “that you are going to the playhouse.”

“Yes, William.”

“I have just heard what happened at The Spanish Friar.”

“I did not tell you before William, not wishing to disturb you with a matter so trivial.”

“I do not think it trivial.”

“It was certainly very uncomfortable.”

“And so you propose to go again and possibly submit the crown to indignity?”

“I thought it best, William, not to show that I am afraid to go to the play for fear I hear something that discomforts me.”

“I do not think that you acted in a queenly manner. Hiding behind your fan, letting everyone see your discomfiture.”

Mary’s eyes filled with tears. “I … could not help it.”

“And now you propose to be a figure of fun once more, should it please them to make you one!”

“I think I should go to the play to show them I am not afraid.”

“You will not go to the play.”

“But William …”

He looked at her in astonishment. Was she going to disobey him? He was afraid; always it was the same. Docility which seemed as though it would be perpetual and then that sudden spark of rebellion for which he must always be on guard because he had to remember that she was the Queen and through her he ruled; and if there was a split between them—which of course there would never be—the people of this country would be with her whom they considered their rightful Queen.

The fear in him made him harden his expression.

“I repeat,” he said coldly, “you will not go to the playhouse. I forbid it.”

“William, I have said I will go. They are expecting me. I am ready.”

“It is the duty of a wife to obey her husband. You know that.”

“Yes, William, but …”

“Then pray remember it.”

The rebellion was there. It was coming. She believed that it was right for her to go to the playhouse. She was English; she had been brought up among these people and she understood them as he could not.

She had been discomfited in the playhouse and she could not refuse to go again because they would think she was afraid.

She was on the point of explaining; but he had turned. She watched him walk from the room—a little figure of a man, slightly hunchbacked, wheezing as he walked—yet a man, she knew, of brilliance, a great leader, the greatest hero alive.

What would she do? thought William. He wanted to be alone to think. A great deal depended on this. He believed that once she disobeyed him, she would continue to do so. The people liked her; they hated him. They did not want him. It was only the ministers who knew him for an astute ruler who had some notion of his genius, who had seen what he had done for Holland who believed he was necessary to them in this difficult time. Later when things were more settled at home, he would go to Ireland and deal with the troubles there. They wanted him for that. They wanted a working King who could lead them in battle, who would plan at the Council table. And they wanted a decorative Queen who could look regal and stately and move among the people as a symbol.

But it was the people who decided in the end—the mob that wanted to laugh and scream, to love or hate. They wanted Mary and not William.

She did not know—or did she—what power she held over him?

This was more than a visit to the playhouse.

What to do? Mary was bewildered. At the playhouse they would be waiting for her. The crowded audience had gone there to watch the royal box rather than the stage. They would try to read hidden meanings in any slightly ambiguous phrases; and she wanted to be there, calm and regal; she had to show them that she was not afraid. Her father had been deposed, true, but they had forgotten that they had helped to depose him. Had they not set their minds and hearts against Popery? She was merely a figurehead; she and William had been sent for. They had not come of their own desire—or she had not.

Her women had come back into the apartment; they would know what had taken place, for there was always someone to listen at doors and report.

He is the master, they would be saying. She must do as he says.

“Your Majesty, it is time we left?” said the Countess of Derby.

Mary hesitated; then she said: “I am in no mood for the theater tonight.”

She knew that behind her back they were exchanging glances. They would be saying: She dares not because he has forbidden it.

But she was the Queen and she wanted to bring some gaiety into her life. The spark of rebellion flared.

“I have heard,” she said, “that a certain Mrs. Wise has prophesied that my father will return. I have a fancy to go to her and have her tell my fortune.”

They were astonished. The Queen to visit a fortune teller! She laughed at them and her eyes sparkled with the thought of the coming adventure. She would not disobey William by going to the playhouse but at the same time she would do something far more daring.

There was excitement in the apartment, for her women, finding Court life dull, were ready enough to enter into the adventure.

She was reminded of the days of childhood when her Uncle Charles indulged in many an adventure incognito, usually concerned with a woman; but how the people had enjoyed those adventures of his! A King and Queen should go among the people; it was what the people wanted. It was not to be expected that every monarch should be a cold aloof hero, who thought of nothing but his country’s good … except of course when he was enjoying his mistress’s company, or that of his beloved Bentinck. Those were thoughts which Mary tried to avoid, but they were there at the back of her mind; just as was the knowledge that she was the Queen, the first heir; she was the reason why they had been accepted as King and Queen of England. In that case if she wished to have her fortune told, why should she not?

When the royal party arrived at Mrs. Wise’s house on the riverside, she somewhat reluctantly invited the party to enter. The Queen, in the rich gown she had intended to wear for the theater, and with her company of almost as splendidly attired ladies, looked incongruous in the small room.

Mrs. Wise, who seemed to think that her wisdom set her on a level with royalty, made a grudging curtsey and said gruffly that she could not understand the object of Her Majesty’s visit.

“But Mrs. Wise, I have heard of your prophecies. I want news of my father. I want to know if it is true that he has been killed. I want to know if he will return. I want to know what the future holds for me.”

“I will not read Your Majesty’s hand,” said the woman, “for I’d have naught good to tell you.”

“How can you know that until you tell my fortune?”

“The King was driven from his throne. I see nothing good for those who drove him away.”

Lady Derby whispered: “She is a well known Jacobite, Your Majesty.”

“And cares not who knows it,” added Mrs. Wise.

“Then read Her Majesty’s future. That is all she asks of you,” suggested one of the women.

But Mrs. Wise refused.

Mary, who admired the woman’s obvious loyalty to her father laughed lightly and said: “I see our visit is in vain. Come, let us look in at one of the curiosity shops. I hear they are worth a visit.”

So they left Mrs. Wise and went along to a notorious shop where extraordinary curiosities were sold; this was one of many which had sprung up since the Restoration. On the lower floor were the objects to be sold and upstairs were rooms where gallants could entertain ladies or vice versa. The laxity of morals which had become an accepted part of life after the years of Puritan rule had made these shops a commonplace; and the most notorious of them all was Mrs. Graden’s.

Here Mary was led and Mrs. Graden came out with great glee to welcome Her Majesty. It was rather pleasant to be so treated after the rudeness of Mrs. Wise; and when Mrs. Graden ordered her servants to prepare a supper and on her knees implored the Queen to partake of it, Mary agreed.

It was a merry little supper party with good food and music.

Mary felt soothed by the evening’s entertainment, particularly as, while not disobeying William, she had done something of which he would not approve.

That was the beginning of a new kind of entertainment.

The Queen’s visits to the bazaars pleased the people. They liked her to move among them, to show that although married to Dutch William, she was not like him.

Having visited Mrs. Graden’s, she must go to Mrs. Ferguson’s and to Mrs. De Vett’s; she would buy ribbons and headdresses and knickknacks which they had to sell. It was so good for business.

But it was not possible to please everyone, Mrs. Potter who had a house in Exeter Change wanted to know why the Queen did not come to her house. Being a garrulous woman she did not keep her observations to herself.

“Why am I not chosen?” she demanded one day as she stood at the door of her shop. “Is Mrs. Graden any better than I? Does she sell finer ribands? Do higher nobility entertain in her back rooms than in mine? I tell you this much. The Queen has more reason to come to me than to Mrs. Graden’s, because the plot to bring William and Mary to the throne and to send James off was hatched in my house.”

Lady Fitzharding who was buying silks for the Princess Anne at the time heard this tirade and went at once to her sister Elizabeth Villiers to report what was being said; and Elizabeth realized that it was a matter which should be passed at once to her lover.

When William heard he was furious. She had done this to defy him, of course. He had been pleased when she had refrained from visiting the playhouse, but he had not known then that she had committed the folly of visiting these low shops which were little more than bawdy houses. She might think little of that having been brought up in one of the most dissolute courts in Europe, with a reigning King who was not content with one—or even two—mistresses, but kept a dozen at a time. His Dutch soul was nauseated at the thought of those immoral houses; if he had his way, he would have them abolished. And to think that the Queen had been foolish enough to visit them was infuriating.

It was not enough to go to her and express his displeasure. He wanted the country to know that he deplored the existence of these places, so he waited until they were dining in public.

“I have heard,” he said, “that you make a custom of dining at houses of ill repute.”

Mary answered: “I have visited the houses of several women in The Hall.”

He knew that the name The Hall was applied to both Westminster Hall or Exeter Change where most of the bazaars of this kind were situated.

“It seems a strange choice of yours.”

“Do you think so? We found the visits amusing.”

He looked at her sardonically. “It is only proper,” he said, “that when you visit such places, I should accompany you.”

She hated to anger him and she knew that he was very angry, more so because he had chosen to reprove her in public. She knew why, of course. He would insist that she never went to such places again and he wanted everyone to know that it was his command and that she would obey it.

She said rather sullenly: “The last Queen visited these places.”

“I beg of you do not use her as an example,” retorted William sharply.

It was rare that he was so conversational at meals; usually he ate in silence, although Keppel had reported that when he was with his Dutch friends, drinking Holland gin, he talked often with abandon; and there was frequent laughter at the table.

This conversation was listened to eagerly. He talked of these places which in his opinion should not exist and expressed the view that it was strange indeed that the Queen should find pleasure in them.

Mary was ready to burst into tears, which always had come so readily to her.

She knew that William was very displeased and that this would be an end of her efforts to amuse herself in the gay old way.

She was right. Very soon she and William returned to Hampton Court; and there she was expected to live quietly, walking six or seven miles a day, planning the new building and gardens, praying a great deal, and sometimes listening to a little music while she played cards or knotted her fringe, a pastime which she had to take up since her eyes had become too weak for the fine needlework she had once so much enjoyed.

But for the pleasure of living closer to her husband, Hampton Court would have been dull after Whitehall. The news was neither good nor bad but remained undecisive; but at least at Hampton Mary was secure from criticism; there was less danger of hearing one of the scurrilous lampoons being sung; and since the night at the playhouse she had begun to listen for them.

Hampton was delightful in the summer and William was more healthy there; he could breathe more easily; and there was no doubt that he was delighted with the prospect of improving the place. This brought them closer together.

Mary had grown plumper since coming to England and her doctors had told her to take more exercise, so while she ate heartily of fattening foods, she attempted to lose weight by walking.

Often she would be seen stepping out with her women and since some of them came from Holland they liked to wear their native styles which caused some amusement among English spectators. To see Mary and her Dutch maids walking in the grounds at Hampton was one of the sights of the times. Mary would walk at some speed and the ladies would flutter after her and her favorite spot was the long walk close to the walls of the Palace. This became known as the Frow walk.

There were occasions when William would walk with her, discussing his plans for building and laying out the gardens; sometimes he even talked of state matters. She cherished these walks and was delighted to have his company, although he slowed her down by hanging on her arm and they made an incongruous pair—she so tall, fat, yet stately, he, small, pulling on her arm so that it seemed she almost had to drag him along while he wheezed uncomfortably, and she was always afraid that an attack of asthma was coming on.

One day he said to her: “Your sister will certainly soon be brought to bed.”

“I am expecting it in a week or so,” Mary answered.

“Then,” went on William, “as the child, if it lives, could be heir to the throne, it should be born under the roof we are occupying at the time. We should be present at the birth.”

“It is usual for the heirs to be born at St. James’s,” began Mary. “Perhaps we should go there.”

She thought of the feasting they would have if the child should live and prove healthy. A royal birth should be such a joyous occasion.

But William was frowning. “I do not wish to leave Hampton. The air suits me better than that of London—which I find most obnoxious.”

Mary looked contrite as though the contamination of the London air were due to some fault of hers.

“You should invite them to Hampton without delay,” commanded William. “The child must be born here.”

Toward the end of June Anne and George arrived at Hampton Court. Anne was so large that some anxiety was felt for her safety. But she herself was unperturbed. She had already given birth so many times that it seemed to be becoming less of an ordeal, and each time a natural optimism made her certain that the child would be a boy and that this one would live.

Sarah was with her, which did not please the Queen, but Mary was too kind to show her displeasure at such a time. Anne settled comfortably into her apartments and each day would sit and play cards with Sarah and Lady Fitzharding and others of her ladies, or gossip with them, and look out of the windows at the river or at Mary with her ladies in their Dutch costumes or at Mary herself, like a galleon in full sail with William hanging on to her like a fisherman’s barque, as Sarah said.

Anne indulged her fancies, usually for food; and whatever she asked for, Sarah managed to get for her. Mary came to see her and talked tenderly of her health, as though all enmity between them was forgotten.

The first weeks of July passed thus pleasantly and on the twenty-fourth of that month Anne’s pains started. Mary came into the apartment and said she would remain until the child was born. William and officials came too, but they retired after an hour or so, when the pains became more frequent.

After a three hour labor Anne’s child was born.

There was triumph in the lying-in chamber, for it was a boy.

Mary was almost as delighted as she would have been if the child were her own. She carried him about the apartment, marveling at him, while Anne lay back in bed smiling placidly.

Prince George could not suppress his delight. A son at last—and a son who looked as though he would live! He kept examining the baby’s hands and feet and murmuring “Est-il possible? Est-il possible?”

Even William expressed his approval.

Mary said to her husband: “I think he should be called William.”

Did Anne approve of the choice of name? Sarah was not in attendance at that moment and she smilingly agreed that she was happy in the choice.

He was to be baptized in the chapel and the King and Queen would proclaim him Duke of Gloucester without delay.

“I feel,” said Mary, “that he is my own little son.”

The sisters smiled at each other; it was as though all misunderstandings had been swept away by this child whom they both adored.

THE ARRIVAL OF MRS. PACK AND DEPARTURE OF WILLIAM

here was desperation at Hampton Court, for it appeared that little Gloucester, like his predecessors, was doomed to an early grave.

Mary and Anne would sit together by his cradle watching anxiously.

“Why is it?” cried Anne. “How can life be so cruel? Oh, Mary, I cannot bear it if he should die.”

Mary could not answer; she would burst into tears if she attempted to speak and she had to find some way of comforting poor Anne.

“I fancy he is a little better than he was yesterday.”

“Do you in truth, sister?”

“I feel it is so.”

But she did not; and they both knew she was saying it only to comfort.

Sarah was in the apartment, silently resenting the presence of the Queen. Anne had changed; she had forgotten the quarrels with her sister; and merely because the Queen could gurgle over the baby and prattle besottedly, she was ready to call her “dear sister” again. This state of affairs was not going to last, Sarah decided.

Meanwhile the baby did not thrive. He was pitiably thin, would take no nourishment, and lay silent in his cradle.

In the streets they said that it was due to a curse on ungrateful daughters. One was barren and the other, while constantly enduring the pain of childbirth, could only bear children who lived for a week or so.

They were waiting for the announcement of the death of the child.

One morning while Anne and Mary sat with the little boy, who looked more frail than ever, there were sounds of voices outside the apartment.

“I tell you, I will see the Princess.”

“You must ask first for an audience.”

“It is an urgent matter … a matter of life and death … for the baby.” The Queen had risen; so had Anne.

Mary threw open the door. “What is this …?” she began, and even as she spoke a big and buxom woman almost pushed her aside and came into the room.

“I wish to see the Princess Anne.”

“About my child …” began Anne.

The woman looked at her shrewdly and said: “You are she?” Then she strode to the cradle and looked at the child. “And this is the young Prince?”

Mary was beside her. “Who are you and what do you want here?”

“I am a mother,” answered the woman, “and I have never lost a child. I have enough milk in my breasts to feed two, and I have only one. I can save that child.”

The Queen and the Princess exchanged glances.

“How can you be sure?” asked Mary.

“I will answer to the child’s mother and no other.”

“You are speaking to the Queen,” Anne told her.

“Well, Madam,” said the woman, “I am Mrs. Pack—a Quaker woman—and I come to tell you that this child is dying through lack of good milk, of which I have plenty.”

The disturbance had brought Prince George into the room. He was pale through lack of sleep for he, with Anne, had been awake for almost the whole of the night watching the baby from time to time and discussing what they might do to save its life.

He looked at the woman, at her pink healthy face and full breasts.

He murmured: “Est-il possible?”

His eyes had begun to shine with tears as he put his arm about his wife. “We cannot afford to miss an opportunity, my dear,” he murmured.

“Pick up the child,” said Anne, “and see if he will take nourishment from you.”

So Mrs. Pack took the Prince in firm yet gentle hands and he did not whimper as he had when other nurses had handled him. She sat on a stool which George had placed for her and undoing her blouse placed the child’s lips to her breast.

For a second he whimpered; then he was sucking.

Anne had turned to George who put his arms about her. Mary was weeping silently. Perhaps it was not too late.

At last there was hope.

Mrs. Pack, the Quakeress, had saved the baby’s life. He was now taking nourishment regularly and screaming if he did not get it on time.

Anne was delighted; George would gloat over the baby and remind people of how he had looked a little while ago. “Est-il possible?” they would ask him smiling and he would smile with them for he did not know that he was nicknamed “Old Est-il possible.”

Mary was so happy, for she told Anne that she looked upon the baby as her adopted son; and Anne at this time was ready to share him. It was so pleasant to be on easy terms with Mary. She even found William tolerable.

As for Mrs. Pack, she was to be treated like a Queen. Nothing anyone could do would be too much for her. The Queen and the Princess could not express their gratitude sufficiently and declared they would never forget what they owed the young Quakeress.

Mrs. Pack cared nothing for rank and she deemed the baby the only person of importance in the nursery; therefore his nurse came before any lady-in-waiting.

It seemed as though there would be trouble when she ordered Sarah away from the baby’s cradle.

“If I wish to take up the baby, I shall,” said Sarah, her eyes glinting.

“You’ll do no such thing,” declared Mrs. Pack. “I think, nurse, you forget yourself.”

“It’s you who are forgetting that that child is in my charge and in my charge he shall remain.”

“My good woman, because you have fed the Duke of Gloucester you imagine yourself of some importance at Court.”

“Since what they wanted was this child’s life and I gave it to them, my good woman, I am of some importance at Court.”

“Insolence!” cried Sarah.

“You can use your tongue the way you fancy, but keep your hands off my baby.”

“I shall report your conduct to the Princess.”

“Do what you like; it means nothing to me.”

Sarah looked down at the baby and for a moment it seemed as though the two women were going to have a tussle over him. Sarah thought better of that and instead went to find Anne.

“Mrs. Morley,” she cried, “that nurse is an intolerable creature.”

“You mean our good Mrs. Pack?”

“Good Mrs. Pack! I verily believe she imagines herself worthy to be crowned because she happens to feed the Duke of Gloucester.”

“I can never be grateful enough to her; nor can Mr. Morley. He was recalling only the other night how sickly our little darling was and saying …”

“Est-il possible? I know. But really she is nothing but a wet nurse. We could have found one of those at any time.”

“But we couldn’t. We tried nurses and none was any good until Mrs. Pack came.”

“The Prince will soon be old enough to do without her.”

“Mr. Morley and I should be afraid to let her go. We feel she is a sort of talisman.”

“She has been very insolent to me.”

“To my dear Mrs. Freeman? Oh, I am sorry. But remember, she is not exactly a well-bred lady. She is brusque with the Queen who forgives her all because of what she has done for our little darling. And to me also … and to Mr. Morley.”

“I find it not easy to forgive slights to my dear Mrs. Morley.”

Anne smiled. “Have one of these sweetmeats, dear Mrs. Freeman. They are especially sweet. I must send for some more. Now sit down and forget about Mrs. Pack. Tell me something interesting.”

So she was weary of accusations against that woman. In fact she was on that woman’s side … against Sarah.

And what could Sarah do about it? It was clear that however much she schemed against Mrs. Pack she would never get her removed because the Queen and Anne believed that the child still needed her.

Sarah Churchill, Countess of Marlborough, insulted by a wet nurse!

And that was not all. The sisters were together again. “Dear Anne, how is my little darling today? I could not rest until I had seen him.”

“Dear Mary, I am sure he knows you. See how he is smiling?”

Bah!

“Now that you have given them the heir to the throne your allowance should be increased,” said Sarah firmly.

“Oh?” murmured Anne.

“It is disgraceful. Here you are at Hampton—dependent on the King and Queen. Should you not have your own establishment? Yet you are asked to live on a pitiable sum.”

Anne was not listening; she was dreamily reaching for one of the sweetmeats and thinking of going into the nursery and wondering if Mrs. Pack would allow her to hold the Duke of Gloucester for half an hour.

Sarah ground her teeth in anger.

One must be patient, she supposed, but it should not go on.

Because her child was thriving Anne was happy; all she wanted was to talk of him. She and Sarah would chat together of Sarah’s children and they decided that when the little Duke of Gloucester was older, Sarah’s son John should be his companion. But Sarah continued to talk of Anne’s wrongs and persuaded her that something should be done to right them; consequently with Anne’s permission Sarah sounded certain ministers as to methods of increasing Anne’s allowance.

When William discovered this he discussed it angrily with the Queen, and Mary went to see her sister to reproach her with her duplicity.

“And I thought that we had become good friends again,” complained Mary.

“So did I,” replied Anne.

“And all the time you were going behind our backs … trying to get more money. Don’t you realize how generously you have been treated?”

“There is my son now …” pointed out Anne.

“Anne, there is a war in Ireland which is draining our resources.”

Anne wiped a tear from her eyes. “A war against our own father,” she said.

“This is not the time to go into all that. You must be sensible. We are all together on one side.…”

Anne knew vaguely that that was just what Sarah did not want. Anne was not on their side; neither was she on her father’s; she was somewhere in between—ready to jump either way, depending on what happened.

“I think I should have the money,” she said.

“You are … stupid!” cried Mary.

And she left her.

Sarah who had been listening came into the room.

“Congratulations, Mrs. Morley. You dealt admirably with Mrs. Dutch Abortion.”

“Oh, Sarah, you’ll be the death of me. What a name for her.”

“I do not think we should stay here at Hampton Court,” went on Sarah. “The Duke of Gloucester, as heir to the throne, should have his own establishment. I was speaking to Lord Craven and he would be delighted to lend his house at Kensington Gravel Pits. It would make an excellent nursery for the Prince because it is a very fine house.”

“I must see Lord Craven at once.”

“I fancy Mrs. D-A will not be very pleased to have her little darling taken from her, but people who will not oblige us cannot expect to be obliged.”

Very shortly afterward the little Duke of Gloucester was set up in his nursery at Kensington Gravel Pits.

While Mary had been worrying about the health of her little nephew and rejoicing at Mrs. Pack’s success with him it had been becoming obvious that the conflict between the reigning sovereign and the Jacobites was not going to be easily settled.

The Battle of Bantry Bay had been fought against the French who were supporting the Jacobites and the result had been defeat for the British fleet.

Clarendon had come to William and Mary and begged to be allowed to go to Ireland where he believed he could be of service to them, but Anne had so poisoned her sister’s mind against their uncle in her letters that both William and Mary failed to see that the very fact that he had supported James pointed to his loyalty, and regarded him with suspicion.

Clarendon’s great desire was to save the Protestant community in Ireland who were in danger of elimination, and much as he disliked William, much as he abhorred the manner in which he—and he blamed him rather than his niece Mary—had treated James, he believed that this was not the time for partisanship. Peace in Ireland was necessary and he was sure that he, as a former Lord Lieutenant, could persuade the present Lord Lieutenant, Lord Tyrconnel, to declare for William.

But William and Mary turned their backs on him and looked about for some other ambassador whom they could trust. They favored Count Hamilton and when John Temple—son of Sir William—who had been made Secretary of War, recommended that Hamilton should be sent to Ireland, he was given the commission instead of Clarendon.

Hamilton was the brother of Frances Jennings’s first husband, and Tyrconnel was now that lady’s husband; so that the relationship should, it seemed, prove helpful.

The result however turned out to be disastrous, for Hamilton persuaded Tyrconnel to stand firm for James. They had sent the wrong man, but it was too late to alter that now.

The situation in Ireland was worsening; John Temple, having made such an error of judgment in advising the sending of Hamilton, filled his pockets with stones and jumped into the Thames near London Bridge. There was great public interest when his body was found and the reason known.

“We have nothing but ill luck,” said the people. “This is the curse of a father on his ungrateful daughter.”

“There is only one thing to be done,” said William. “I myself must go to Ireland.”

The little Duke of Gloucester, although frail, continued to survive. Crowds collected to see him taken out each day in his tiny carriage which had been made especially for him. Four of the smallest horses ever seen had been chosen to draw it; and Prince George’s coachman held the reins and drew it along. There were cheers as the baby with his little retinue passed by; and no matter how cold the weather he always went out. Mrs. Pack had brought her children up to face all weathers, so little Gloucester must do the same.

No matter what criticism was thrown at the King and Queen, and even the Princess Anne, royal babies were always assured of public acclaim; and this little one who had survived when so many of his brothers and sisters had failed to get a grasp on life was regarded as something of a phenomenon.

He was a good baby, rather solemn but very interested in everything and at an early age his eyes would light up at the sight of soldiers.

The Queen sent eager inquiries as to his health and there were presents too. Even William was interested in his progress. As for George and Anne they could think of nothing else; and Anne deserted even Sarah that she might be with the baby and marvel at his intelligence.

It was all most irritating to Sarah, and as Marlborough was away she could confide her rage to no one.

This, she thought, is the biggest trial of patience I was ever called upon to endure.

But it would not last. Soon the arrogant Pack would be told to do what her name implied and get out of Court. When she was no use she would soon be forgotten, and Sarah would come into her kingdom once more, ruler supreme of the Princess Anne’s household.

Mary was desolate. The thought of William’s going away terrified her. She was obsessed by the fear that her father and husband would meet and that one would kill the other.

He talked to her of his plans as they walked about the gardens of Hampton Court. He had bought the Earl of Nottingham’s house in Kensington and planned to build a palace there. It seemed astonishing to some that while he was so anxiously thinking of the war he must carry on in Ireland he could at the same time be planning Kensington Palace, but Mary understood that building was his hobby and relaxation and while in his mind he planned the apartments of Kensington Palace and the gardens he would have, he was giving his mind that rest which it needed if he were to succeed in the difficult tasks which lay ahead.

While he was away, the government of the country would be in her hands, he reminded her grimly.

“Oh, William, how can I govern without you?”

“It is something you will have to learn. If you have doubts of yourself the people have none. They have shown clearly that they prefer you to me.”

“Only because of their ignorance, dear William. Oh, this is a great tragedy. To be left here alone … unable to ask your help!”

“You are a Queen and must perforce shoulder your burdens.”

“If you could but stay at home …”

“I have stayed too long. Think of Bantry Bay. Of Hamilton and Tyrconnel. Who knows what next.”

She thought sadly of the days ahead when she would not have him beside her. Those who saw them smiled at the picture they made. She so large; he so small; and they quoted the lines which had caused so much amusement throughout the country.

Man and wife are all in one, in flesh and in bone,

From hence you may guess what they mean.

The Queen drinks chocolate to make the King fat

And the King hunts to make the Queen lean.

Neither of them knew what was written of them; and if they had they would not greatly have cared.

William saw himself as a great hero, and Mary saw through his eyes.

And all she could think of at this time was that soon she would have to be without him; and he could only turn over in his mind whether it was wiser for him to stay in England than to go to Ireland and settle the Jacobites once and for all. It must be done, he was sure of that; but to do so he must leave the reins of government in the plump white hands of his wife.

How would she fare without him? And even if he settled affairs in Ireland, what would happen in England during his absence?

Gilbert Burnet, Bishop of Salisbury, that staunch supporter of William and Mary who had enjoyed their hospitality in Holland before they had come to England and had so often given them the benefit of his wisdom, now called on the King and Queen.

The interview was for the three of them alone and as Mary greeted him there were tears in her eyes for the occasion recalled those happy ones in Holland when she and Burnet had chatted together, while she knotted her fringe close to the candles the better to see, and William sat a little apart listening to their conversation. Such happy days! thought Mary. Never perhaps to be equaled, for in those days her father had been King of England and although they had talked of deposing him, until the deed was accomplished the guilt did not have to be so acutely suffered.

“What I have to say is for our ears alone,” said Burnet, speaking lower than was his custom. “It must not go beyond these walls.”

“Speak on,” commanded William.

“There will never be peace while Ireland stands against us,” went on Burnet. “And when I think of the Protestants there I feel very melancholy. That is why I am bringing this to the attention of Your Majesties. A certain captain has approached me and I promised I would tell you what he suggests. He is a true and loyal subject. That I can vouch for.”

William nodded and Mary found that her heart was beating so fast that she feared it would be heard.

“What is his suggestion?” asked William coolly.

“That he takes a ship to Ireland. Aboard her will be men whom we can trust. They would have to be very carefully selected. No more Hamiltons. They will sail to Ireland and when they reach Dublin will declare for James. The captain will invite him aboard. He would go, not suspecting a trap …”

Mary gave an exclamation of dismay which made Burnet halt and William frown at her.

“Pray go on,” said William testily.

“When he is aboard, the ship sets sail and James is taken away from Ireland.”

“Where to?” demanded Mary sharply.

“To Spain perhaps.”

“And then?” said Mary.

“Then, Your Majesty, he would be put ashore with say twenty thousand pounds.”

William shook his head.

“Oh, William!” murmured Mary, and there was a sob in her voice.

“Your Majesty does not like the plan?” said Burnet.

“James was a misguided man, but he was a King and is my father-in-law. I could not agree to this.”

Burnet nodded slowly. “I understand, Your Majesty. I merely thought that to end this miserable war … to save lives and money and to restore the peace …”

“There is much in what you say,” said William. “I think the plan might well succeed. But I want no hand in treachery.”

“There was no harm to the King intended,” said Burnet.

“Picture it,” interrupted William. “James stepping aboard—perhaps with a few attendants. When he realized that he was to be a prisoner he would attempt to escape. What if he were killed in the struggle? No, no. I like that not.”

“I see that the scheme would not fit in with Your Majesty’s honor.”

“That is what I feel.”

“Then I will tell this captain of Your Majesty’s decision.”

“Yes,” said William. “But send him to me for I would compliment him. Although it is a plan I do not wish to follow yet this captain is a man who should be thanked for his services. Clearly he wishes to serve us well.”

“I will send him to Your Majesty.”

“Pray do so quickly, for soon I shall have little time to spare as the day of my departure grows nearer.”

When Burnet had left them Mary threw herself on to her knees and taking William’s hand kissed it.

William, who disliked dramatics, looked at her with distaste, but she did not notice, for her eyes were blinded with tears.

“William,” she cried, “it is small wonder that I adore you. You are the noblest man alive. Oh, how fortunate is my father that it is you who stand against him. Who else would have been so good and honorable as to reject such a proposition. We were right to come here. England needed you, William. Oh, how happy this has made me.”

“Get up,” said William. “You are too large to grope on the floor.”

She rose abashed and he looked at her sardonically.

“Spain!” he muttered. “Twenty thousand pounds! What nonsense! He should be delivered to the Dutch sailors. They will remember how often he has fought against them.” William almost smiled as he said softly, “Yes, to the Dutch sailors, to be disposed of as they think proper.”

Mary stared at him in horror, but he scarcely seemed to see her; he had seated himself at the table and begun to write.

William was on the point of departure. He was disappointed for the scheme to abduct James had come to nothing. James was too wary to be caught like that. He was evidently full of hope, for the campaign was going in his favor so far. The French were behind him as the battle of Bantry Bay had shown; but for the fact that he was sick in body for he was no longer young, and sick at heart because of the defection of the daughters he had loved, he would have been a very much more formidable adversary.

The Duke of Schomberg, William’s friend and favorite, had been sent to Ireland with a small army, inadequately armed, and inadequately fed; whereas James had one hundred thousand Irish Catholics behind him.

It had been decided that Prince George should accompany William to Ireland, and this pleased Anne, although she was constantly declaring how much she would miss her husband. Sarah and she discussed the campaign. Marlborough had returned to London yet he was not to go to Ireland, but would remain in England as a member of Mary’s Advisory Council and to be in command of the remnants of the army which would remain behind.

Sarah was pleased to have him at hand; and at the same time saw a further means of fermenting more trouble between Anne and Mary.

“Mr. Morley should have a high command in the Army,” she said. “Why, he should take precedence over everyone—under the King; and he should accompany William wherever he goes. It is his due.”

“It is, but I do not believe these privileges will be granted him.”

“Oh, no! Caliban will be surrounded by Dutchmen. You mark my words. Unless of course the King’s duty is pointed out to him.”

“Who would do that?”

“The Queen of course.”

“Do you think she would?”

“Dear Mrs. Morley, it is her duty, and if this were pointed out to her, she might well realize it.”

So there was a further estrangement between the sisters.

George to have a position of trust! cried William. Were they mad. Of what use was George to any campaign but to provide light relief with his perpetual bleating: “Est-il possible?”

Anne was sulky and refused to speak to the Queen except in public.

Sarah looked on, amused.

The day of William’s departure came.

Mary wept openly.

“You must take the greatest care of yourself,” she cried. “I fear the climate. They say it is very damp. It will be bad for your chest. I shall pray for you …”

“Pray rather for yourself,” suggested William. “You will need prayers, for you have a mighty task before you.”

“Oh, William, is it too late to beg you to stay behind?”

“Too late and quite foolish,” said William, but not unkindly for it pleased him to see her distress. “Going into a campaign is no unpleasant thing compared with governing this country, I do assure you. I pity you. Indeed I pity you.”

“William!” she threw herself into his arms and he kissed her almost gently.

He had an affection for her which increased as he grew older.

“Those who have some regard for you must help you all they can. I must speak to them … impress on them … the difficulties of your task.”

“William, I trust I shall act as you would have acted. That is what I shall try to do.”

“I am sure you will govern wisely.”

She was overcome with joy at such praise and almost immediately plunged into despair because of his departure.

“You will guard your dear person well, William. You will not expose yourself to danger. I trust that you … and my father … will never come face to face.”

“Pray for it,” he said.

BEACHY HEAD AND THE BOYNE

n the morning after William’s departure Mary awoke with a swollen face.

She called for a mirror and looked at herself with dismay. Her expression was dismal; she had a feeling of foreboding. William gone and herself swollen-faced and inadequate without him! She lay back on her pillows carefully touching her face. She hoped it did not mean a return of the ague. She must not, however, brood on her affliction, but call a meeting of the Council at once; and she would have to impress them with her knowledge of affairs; William had been so kind lately and had talked to her so carefully that she had a good grasp of what was going on. Dear William, he had been really concerned on her behalf. People did not understand that beneath that rather harsh exterior was great kindliness.

He is a great good man, the best in the world, she assured herself. And I must be worthy of him. That was what alarmed her—consciousness of her own unworthiness.

She thought of her nine councillors and wished that Shrewsbury was among them. Charming Shrewsbury, with the gentle voice and the noble air, reminded her of Monmouth; not that they were alike, but Shrewsbury was attractive, as Jemmy had been, and there was not one of the nine councillors whom she could really like. Four of them were Whigs and five Tories. How clever of William to assure a good division!

She would speak to them earnestly and sincerely and she would pray that no situation arose which would be too difficult for her to handle.

When the Countess of Derby came to her she exclaimed with horror at the sight of the Queen’s face.

“But Your Majesty is ill.”

“It will pass,” replied Mary.

“I must call the doctors while you rest in bed.”

“My dear friend,” insisted Mary firmly, “I cannot lie abed now. The King is on his way to Ireland and I have the sole responsibility of ruling in his absence. Why do you not know that almost always he is in pain. Do you not know that he is fighting a battle for his breath most of the time, but does he stay in bed? Does he complain?”

The Countess did not reply.

“There is one thing I know I have to do,” went on Mary, “and that is follow his example. Then I cannot fail.”

“I am sure no one ever performed royal duties more graciously than Your Majesty.”

Mary smiled a little sadly. She understood the implication. It was most perverse of those about her continually to defend her against William.

“Graciousness is not a necessary part of greatness,” she reproved gently.

And the Countess of Derby in sudden affection kissed her hand. She wanted to say that it was an asset when a sovereign knew how to win the love of the people. Mary had that asset—William never could.

“The first thing I shall do is to pray for the King’s safety and success,” said Mary. “And then that I may have the help I shall surely need.”

The Council meeting was held in Nottingham’s apartments in Whitehall. Mary sat at the head of the table with the nine members of the Council about her; the five Tories were Marlborough, Danby, Nottingham, Pembroke, and Lowther; and the four Whigs Dorset and Devonshire, Mordaunt and Russell.

They expressed their concern at the Queen’s appearance and she replied that she believed the swelling to have little significance.

“The King worked with greater disadvantages,” she told them smiling.

The Earl of Devonshire said that the strain of the last days had been great, and if Her Majesty wished to retire to bed they would work without her and have sent to her bedchamber any important documents which she would wish to see.

His voice was caressing. Devonshire was a courtier for ladies, she mentally commented; she considered him weak and unfit for the post he now held.

“I shall remain,” she told him pleasantly, “and I pray you cease to think about this ailment, which I know to be trivial.”

There was a touch of command in her voice which they were quick to note; Mary without William was a different woman from Mary with him. She had become a Queen overnight—not merely William’s shadow.

“We must be doubly alert now,” she said. “I trust that we are on the watch for a move which might come from France. Now that the King is away we should be very vulnerable.”

“The King in his wisdom has not taken all his best men, Your Majesty. We are few who remain but some of us do not lack experience.”

That was Mordaunt. She had never liked him, but thought him a little mad. He had visited William in Holland before the revolution and had declared himself willing to help rescue England from popery. He had put forward several plans for William to study. William had laughed at most of them and had said to Mary and Burnet: “This fellow wants to be at the heart of all the adventures which are planned not for the establishment of the Protestant religion in England but for the glorification of Mordaunt. Such a man would be setting himself up as King before long, I’ll swear.”

Marlborough was nodding approval of this speech. Marlborough, Sarah’s husband. The one she trusted least of all. How much was he in league with his wife to turn Anne against her and William? What was their idea? To rid themselves of William and Mary and set up Anne—as William and Mary had made away with James—that they might be the powers behind the throne?

He was a handsome man, this Marlborough—his features clearly cut; his eyes alert, his voice soft and gentle—very different from the somewhat strident tones of his wife—but of all these men who had been chosen for her councillors, Marlborough was the one of whom she must be most watchful.

“What we should look for,” said Marlborough, “is an attack from the French. They might well seize this opportunity while the King’s army is in Ireland.”

“Torrington will look after them,” said Nottingham complacently.

Mary glanced sharply at him. She was uncertain of Nottingham and had heard that he was a secret Jacobite. He certainly had a sinister look; was it because he was as dark as a Spaniard? He was aloof and his expression was melancholy; it was no wonder that he was nicknamed Don Dismallo.

“I believe the Earl of Torrington to be a good admiral and an experienced one, but I believe too that he is over-fond of soft living,” growled Danby.

Danby! thought Mary. He was growing old now; he looked almost like a corpse already; but he was experienced and he was one of the few around that table on whom she felt she could rely. Russell, Pembroke, and Lowther were decent men, she believed; but they were insignificant compared with eccentrics like Mordaunt and self-seekers like Marlborough.

“We will hope for a quick success in Ireland,” said Mary, “and a speedy return of the King. Now let us get to work.”

They were deep in discussion when a messenger arrived and because of the nature of the news he brought was taken immediately to the council chamber.

The French fleet had been sighted off Plymouth.

William on his way to Ireland! The French Fleet on its way to attack! And all about her men whom she was not sure she could trust. Within a few hours of taking her place as ruler—which William had never allowed her to do before—Mary was confronted with this dangerous situation.

Whom could she trust among all these people around her? Yet she must succeed for William’s sake. She would never be able to face him if she failed now. She must be suspicious of everyone.

She heard that her uncle Charles’s widow, Catherine, had refused to allow prayers for William’s safety to be said in her chapel. Therefore Catherine, a Catholic from birth, was suspect. What plots went on in her apartments? Her Chamberlain Feversham was a Frenchman, and the French were enemies.

Feversham was reprimanded. Oh, how easy it was to strike terror into the hearts of these people! In tears he assured her that he planned no harm to her or to William.

“Yet you said no prayers for the King’s safety,” retorted Mary. “I might forgive you for your insults to me, but I cannot forgive those to the King, who has sacrificed his health for this country.”

Catherine herself came and made tender inquiries as to the swelling of Mary’s face; it was difficult to believe that this gentle lady was an intrigant. She was getting old now and she had never been a fighter.

Mary accepted her condolences; but gave orders that she should be closely watched.

Her uncle, the Earl of Clarendon, was sent to the Tower. He was less self-seeking than many, she knew, but he had never approved of the revolution. He was a stern Protestant; but he had made his vows to James and he was not a man to easily break vows. She knew that he was the man of honor; but men of honor were as ready as others to make trouble if they believed they were in the right.

She had no wish to send her uncle to the Tower; but she must act as William would act if he were here; always she must think of William and do that which would win his approval.

She wote to William, assuring him of her devotion telling him of the danger. She trusted that she was acting as he would wish, which it was her intention to do at all times.

The news grew more alarming. The French fleet, consisting of over two hundred ships, was lying off the south coast.

Arthur Herbert, Lord Torrington, was dismayed. He was a man who, while a good sailor, loved his pleasure so much that in this age of parodying he had quickly earned the name of Lord Tarry-in-Town.

Some months before he had foreseen an attack by the French and believing himself inadequately prepared to meet it, had written to Nottingham begging for reinforcements, but Nottingham had merely replied that he need have no fear for he would be strong enough for the French.

He had replied then: “I am afraid now in winter while the danger may be remedied, and you will be afraid in summer when it is past remedy.”

Well now it was summer; and if Nottingham cared for the good of his country he must be taking Torrington’s words to heart.

The Battle of Bantry Bay had been a defeat; Torrington wanted at all costs to avoid another—and here were the French … waiting for the moment to open the battle.

“And here are we,” cried Torrington, “unprepared. I will not go into battle against them.”

But even as he made this declaration he received a note from the Queen, reminding him that he had a Dutch squadron at his disposal under Admiral Evertzen, and commanding him to go into action without delay.

Torrington disobeyed the order, because he believed to act on it would mean crushing defeat.

Around the Council table Mary presided. She felt ill yet stimulated at the thought of danger; she was facing a great crisis and William was not near to advise. She must succeed.

Nottingham was saying that Torrington had deliberately ignored orders, and that the French were still off the south coast though the battle had not yet begun. Torrington had done nothing, in spite of orders.

“This is mutinous,” cried Mordaunt.

“He should be court-martialed,” growled Danby.

“At this stage,” Mary intervened, “we should only be adding to our danger by a court-martial in such a high quarter. How do we know what effect this might have!”

Marlborough supported her in this.

“I will go to Portsmouth,” suggested Mordaunt. “There I will board the flagship, arrest Torrington and myself lead the fleet.”

Mary looked at him with a hint of scorn. How like Mordaunt to plan an action with himself as the hero set for glory!

“Impossible,” she said coldly.

Nottingham put in: “Before he left, the King commanded me to take command if Torrington should prove unfit.”

Mordaunt glared at Nottingham.

“My lord, would that be wise?”

“And why should you believe that you could lead the fleet to victory and I fail?”

Heaven help me, thought Mary, they are vying with each other for power. What good will this do us? We must all stand together.

“The King gave me no instructions that you should leave for the fleet, my lord,” she told Nottingham. “And I could not allow it. You are needed too badly here.”

Nottingham was mollified and graciously thanked Her Majesty for her compliments.

“Who then should go?” asked Danby sharply; and she saw the gleam in his eyes. Is he too looking for naval glory, wondered Mary, at his time of life?

“I need you all here,” she said after a moment’s hesitation. “I shall send a dispatch to Lord Torrington immediately telling him that I order him to attack.”

She was exhausted. If only William were here! It was not that she feared herself inadequate to deal with the situation, only that William might disapprove of what she had done. How could she know what he would do in similar circumstances?

Her women were helping her to bed and she was silent, which was unusual for her. Usually she liked to chat for, to her, talking was one of the pleasures of life and since she was never able to indulge in it to any great extent with William she did so whenever possible with everyone else.

“Your Majesty’s face is slightly less swollen,” said the Countess of Derby.

“Do you think so? I fancy it is less painful.”

Then silence. They were thinking of the change in her, for they had been hoping that once William was away there would be a little gaiety at Court. Dances perhaps, visits to the play; perhaps little jaunts to some of the houses in the bazaars.

But this was quite different. William’s absence had made of Mary a Queen with solemn duties.

Even at such an hour there was no respite. A messenger was at the door now with an urgent letter for the Queen.

Mary seized it and began to tremble as she read that the French were occupying the coast of the Isle of Wight.

The Council meeting was stormy.

What had Torrington done? Nothing! He ignored the Council in London, replying that his council upon the spot did not advise action as yet.

Devonshire was demanding action. “Does Torrington realize that the fate of three kingdoms is in his hands? Torrington must be replaced.”

“Make him a prisoner,” cried Russell.

“No, no,” interjected Marlborough. “That would please the enemy too much and put heart into them.”

Mordaunt said: “Let me go to him. I will engage the Frenchmen and drive them off … or die in the attempt.”

That someone should go was finally agreed by the Council and Mordaunt and Russell left.

In the privacy of her own apartment Mary awaited news with trepidation, feeling that disaster was very close indeed. She was unsure, and could only pray that the actions she took were the right ones.

She did not trust Mordaunt and wondered what he would do when he reached Torrington. Russell was the most outspoken of the ministers; he was coarse and crude but she believed trustworthy; and trustworthiness was a very desirable quality at such a time.

She could only find comfort in writing to William to tell him that she faced dire trouble at home as doubtless he did in Ireland. But she was far more anxious, she would have him know, for his dear person than for her own poor carcass.

“I can say nothing, but pray to God for you, and my impatience for a letter from you is as great as my love, which will not end but with my life.”

Before Mordaunt and Russell set out Mary had sent an order to Torrington to engage the enemy; and this he did, in his own way, before it was possible for the two ministers to reach him.

He attacked; or at least commanded the Dutch to do so, and this they did valiantly, but were so outnumbered that they could not hope for success. Many ships were disabled and Torrington’s contribution was to leave the Dutch to the enemy while he towed the damaged ships to the Thames mouth in order to blockade it.

There was utter defeat. The navy—Britain’s pride—had let her down shamefully; and England lay at the mercy of the invader. The French were at her coast. Torrington was locked up with the fleet in the estuary of the Thames; and while the King was in Ireland the Jacobites, who may well have been waiting for this opportunity, could now rise—and who knew who would support them?—and bring back James.

Marlborough, thank God, was at hand. He could, better than any man, protect his country should an invasion be attempted—if he would. But what of Marlborough, who could, Mary was sure, jump this way and that with agility? It would depend of course on which attitude would best serve Marlborough.

She felt that she had reached the very depth of despair, but two events, following closely on one another, brought fresh hope; and she believed them to be an answer to her prayer.

She was in her apartments writing a letter to William—for her only solace was in writing to him—when the Countess of Derby came to tell her that the Earl of Shrewsbury was asking to see her.

As Charles Talbot, Earl of Shrewsbury came into the room, Mary’s spirits lifted. He would have been extremely handsome—perhaps the handsomest man at Court, now Monmouth was gone—but for a blemish in one eye. Even so, he had been called “The King of Hearts”; it was said that women loved him on sight, but he had never taken advantage of that, being gentle and retiring. He would be faithful, Mary was sure, to a woman … or a cause.

His character had begun to show in his face for he was almost thirty now; gentleness blended well with the features which could almost be called beautiful; delicacy was there; his enemies might call it nervousness.

He did not enjoy good health, and this was the reason he had not been a member of the Council. Strange that an old man like Danby clung to office; and a young one like Shrewsbury pleaded ill health in order to stay out of it.

They had been children together for he was only a few years older than Mary, but there was a stronger bond than age and similar environment between them. When Mary had been a child she had constantly heard scandals about her father’s affairs with women and there was one—the case of Margaret Denham whose husband had murdered her because of her association with James—which had shocked her deeply. Shrewsbury had suffered a similar shock when his mother’s lover, the Duke of Buckingham had killed his father in a duel because of his mother; and then created a scandal by living openly with her.

Both Shrewsbury and Mary had been deeply affected by the adulterous intrigues of their parents. Mary had sought companions of her own sex until marriage with William had made her build up an ideal so that she convinced herself that she adored her husband. Shrewsbury wanted to shrink from the world of intrigue and responsibility, which was difficult for a man in his position. He had become abnormally interested in his health and whenever a situation from which he flinched arose he would invariably become ill and make this the excuse of his retirement from it.

This was what had happened when William announced his intention of leaving England for Ireland. Shrewsbury, contemplating those who would have been his fellow councillors, had no wish to be in office; and to the chagrin of William and the disappointment of Mary he had pleaded “the comfortless prospect of very ill health.”

And now here he was, looking serious but determined; and the most attractive man Mary had seen—since she last saw him.

“Charles!” she cried affectionately.

He knelt. “Your Majesty.”

“Rise and welcome. I am pleased to see you. You are in better health?”

“Your Majesty, I could not lie abed while you are in such straits. I have come to offer you my services in whatever capacity you wish to use them.”

She began to smile; she was beautiful when animated and as the strain of the last days dropped from her she was young again.

“That makes me very happy,” she said. “I have great need of friends whom I can trust.”

Meanwhile William had arrived in Ireland. He was more melancholy than usual, for the climate did not suit his health, being even more damp than that of England. He said grimly to the Earl of Portland, who had been Bentinck, that he would give much to be back in London, even Whitehall; and having tested this climate he wondered why he had ever cursed the other.

Portland replied that he must guard his health; it was all important that he should not be sick at this juncture.

William nodded grimly; his hemorrhoids were very painful after so many hours in the saddle, but riding was good for his asthma—or would have been in a better climate.

“You should rest more frequently,” chided Portland.

“There is no time for resting. You know that well, Bentinck. We must go with all speed to Belfast to take over from Schomberg. How long do you think the army can hold out with inadequate food, and with all the disease there is among them? What do you think they are saying of a King who stays in London while they fight his battles for him. They may not like me—these English; but to see me here, fighting with them, one of them, will put heart into them, I promise you.”

Portland smiled at him affectionately. Many would be astonished that William could be almost garrulous in his company when he merely snapped out a word or two with almost everyone else.

“You will do it,” he said. “More than that you’ll conquer Ireland.”

“I have to. If not, James will be back in England. There are many who won’t have him and many who will. That will mean bloodshed, Bentinck. We don’t want it. That is why I have come to Ireland to stop his chances of ever making a bridgehead from here to England. I may die in the attempt, but at least I am going to put everything I have into driving him right off this island.”

He began to cough and hastily put a kerchief to his mouth. He tried to hide it, but not before Portland had seen the blood. Portland snatched it from him and anger blazed from his eyes.

“Again?” he demanded.

“Come,” said William lightly, “you forget your manners, Portland.”

Portland looked at him, and the anger was there to hide the tears. All the love which was between them was visible in that moment and neither attempted to hide it, for it would have been useless. This was Bentinck, the friend of boyhood who would be the friend until death; who had nursed his Prince through small pox and caught the disease himself by sleeping in his bed in the hope that he would divert something from the Prince to himself, as he might have stood between him and an attacking lion.