Royal Sisters: The Story of the Daughters of James II

No wonder Sarah was gleeful.

In Gloucester’s apartments the servants were talking of the topic which was on everyone’s lips.

“Well, Mr. Jenkins, I have just had it from the Queen’s usher. It is not the small pox. It’s only measles.”

“Oh, be joyful!” cried Jenkins. “Dear lady, she will recover soon.”

“Oh, be joyful,” murmured Gloucester.

“What did you say, sir?” asked Jenkins.

“What you did, Lewis. You said ‘Oh, be joyful’ but soon you will be saying ‘Oh, be doleful’.”

He walked away from them with his strange gait, for he had never yet been able to walk straight on account of his affliction.

They looked after him and then looked fearfully at each other. He was such a strange boy.

The Queen was dying. There was no doubt of it now.

In her bedchamber it was stifling, for so many people came to see her die.

The scent of herbs and unguents filled the room; there were the sounds of whispering voices, of prayers and of weeping.

Mary was not aware of this; she did not see her doctors or her ministers and those who called themselves her friends gathered together to see her die.

The Princess Anne had sent a message by Lady Fitzharding who, determined to deliver it, forced her way to the Queen’s bed. She said in ringing tones that Her Highness the Princess Anne was deeply concerned for her sister.

Mary understood for she smiled faintly and whispered: “Thank her.” Then she closed her eyes.

William who had been told that her end was very near lost his indifference. She would have been astonished if she could have seen his grief. Never while she lived had he shown such feeling for her; but now that he was losing her he remembered all her goodness, all her affection; and he was struck with a sense of great desolation.

Bentinck was at his side—Bentinck who had grown away from him; but at such times it was to old friends whom one turned. “I must go to her,” he said,

“I must ask forgiveness …”

“Your Majesty yourself is ill,” said Bentinck.

As William rose he swayed and would have fallen had not Bentinck caught him.

The King had fainted.

Half an hour passed before, leaning on Bentinck for support, he was able to go to her sickroom. All calm deserted him, and as he stood by the bed he cried aloud: “Mary!”

But she did not answer him. She who had always longed for his affection could not respond now when it was given as never before.

The irony of the situation came home to him. He wanted to show her that he loved her, for now that he had lost her he understood her goodness to him, all that she had offered and he had rejected.

But she had gone. She would never speak to him again, never give him that fearful tremulous smile.

He covered his face with his hands; his body had begun to shake.

Those in the death chamber of Queen Mary saw the astonishing sight of William of Orange giving way to his grief.

TO BE DELIVERED AFTER DEATH

lowly recovering from the grief which surprised him no less than it did those about him, William began to consider his own position, and he was alarmed. He had threatened often to return to Holland, but the prospect of being forced to do this was not pleasing. At his christening the midwife had prophesied three crowns for him; he had won them and he intended to keep them.

He was a wise man; he was a brave man, and his somewhat sour outlook prepared him more for disadvantages than for advantages. He had never tried to gloss over the fact that he was unpopular and that he lacked those qualities to inspire affection. Even his enemies respected him as a great leader; but for the nature of his coming to England and its inevitable conflicts, his rule would have been beneficial. No one who lived close to him and realized what physical torments he suffered uncomplainingly could but admire him. But the fact remained that though he had virtues which bordered on greatness he was completely unlovable.

He turned now to Bentinck, who, like the true friend he was, forgot the estrangement of the past and was by his side in this crisis.

Bentinck, so like himself in many ways, lacked his powers of endurance, his calmness in adversity, his great leadership, but, in place of this lack, possessed a charm and an ability to inspire affection.

He knew that he could trust Bentinck as he could no one else now that Mary had gone.

“Well Bentinck, what news?”

“Some mourn the Queen, some rejoice.”

William nodded.

He wanted the worst so Bentinck would not hesitate to give it.

“In some of the taverns, they are singing Jacobite songs. They are shouting: ‘No foreigners. No taxes!’ ”

“Do they want James back?” said William wearily. “They will say ‘No popery’ then. What’s it to be, foreigners and taxes to keep him out or popery to bring him in? They can make their choice.”

“They have made their choice. If he came back they would be shouting ‘No popery’ through the streets again.”

“And the lampoons?”

Bentinck nodded.

William held out his hand.

“Do you want to look. They are so silly.”

William took the paper and read:

Is Willy’s wife now dead and gone?

I’m sorry he is left alone

Oh, Blundering Death, I do thee ban,

That took the wife and left the man!

Come, Atropos, come with thy knife,

And take the man to his good wife;

And when thou’st rid us of the knave,

A thousand thanks then thou shalt have.

William screwed it up in his hands with a wry smile.

“So foolish,” murmured Bentinck.

“Yet in these outpourings we have an indication of public feeling. We should never shut our eyes to that, my friend.”

“And you have thought how best to act?”

William nodded. “I have been considering the Princess Anne. You know how I loathe the woman.” Bentinck nodded and William gave a sharp laugh. “As much as she loathes me. But this estrangement should end, of course. They will all be looking to her, for now there can be no doubt that she is the heir to the throne.”

Bentinck knew his master well enough to understand what was passing in his mind. What was his position now that Mary was dead? Would the people allow him to keep the crown? Would they remember that in the direct line of succession, Anne came before him.

If this were so, a continuance of the estrangement between them could make great trouble. There was enough conflict abroad; William must have peace with Anne. Therefore a reconciliation was essential.

Thomas Tenison, Archbishop of Canterbury, was asking for an audience with the King on a matter of vital importance, and William ordered that he should be admitted without delay.

The Archbishop was surprised by the signs of grief in William’s face, for never before had he seen him betray any emotion. Never during his married life had he shown how much affection he had for his wife; and in view of the Archbishop’s mission the latter was doubly surprised.

“Your Majesty,” he said, “I come on an unpleasant duty and an indelicate mission. I pray you will forgive my frankness.”

William said coldly: “Pray proceed.”

“The Queen left me a casket which contains a letter addressed to you.”

“Left you a casket! With a letter for me! Why was it not left to me?”

“Because her late Majesty wished me to give this to you; there was also a letter for me in which she explains the contents of her letter to you. She wished me to remonstrate with you and to point out the evil of your conduct.”

William was startled out of his calm. “This seems to me both incredible and monstrous.”

The Archbishop’s eyes were as cold as those of the King. “Her Majesty suffered greatly from your infidelity and she fears that if you continue in your adultery you will not be received into heaven.”

“I do not understand how …”

The Archbishop held up a hand. William might be angry but Tenison was in command. The Queen had entrusted him with the saving of the King’s soul and he was going to perform his duty no matter how he offended him.

“The Queen was, of course, right to be anxious. You endanger your soul by continuing with this liaison.”

“I will be responsible for my soul,” retorted William.

“To God or to the Devil,” murmured the Archbishop. “I will leave the casket with you so that you may open your letter.”

“Pray do.”

“Then, Your Majesty, if there is anything you wish to discuss with me, if you wish my help in any way …”

“That is unlikely.”

The Archbishop bowed his head. “Then have I Your Majesty’s permission to broach a matter of a different nature, something which concerns the temporal position rather than the spiritual.”

William bowed his head.

“This concerns the Princess Anne. Your Majesty will be aware that many of those who have ignored her in the past are now flocking to pay their respects to her.”

“I know this.”

“And it is well that the people should know that she is recognized by Your Majesty as the heiress to the throne?”

“This is so.”

“The people would accept no other heir. Had you and her late Majesty been blessed with a child, that would have been different. But you were not.” The Archbishop looked reproachful as though suggesting that the barrenness of the late Queen was a punishment for her husband’s sins. It was an indication of how the people were feeling that the Archbishop should dare censure him in this way. He was now implying that if William married again and had issue, the child would not be accepted as heir to the throne.

He understood this, and of course Tenison was right.

“I propose,” went on the Archbishop, “that I speak to the Princess Anne and remind her of her duty. I believe that a reconciliation between Your Majesty and Her Highness should not be delayed.”

William answered: “Pray do this.” And in spite of the shock he had just received his spirits lifted a little. Tenison was an honest man. He disapproved of William’s relations with Elizabeth Villiers and said so; but at the same time he was anxious that there should be an end to the quarrel with Anne which was necessary if William’s reign was to continue in peace.

A good friend, this Archbishop, though an uncomfortable one. But William was wise enough to know that the best friends a King could have were often those who spoke their minds and made as little concession to royalty as possible.

He shut himself into his cabinet and opened the letter. He read it and as he did so he could scarcely stop the tears falling from his eyes. He understood her now as he never had when she had lived. She had been so constantly aware of his infidelity; and yet she had rarely given a sign of it, outwardly accepting it, behaving as though it did not exist, when all the time it was souring her existence. Poor, foolish Mary! Courageous, clever Mary! He had thought her more simple than she was. He remembered how she had sat knotting her fringe, close to the candlelight, because her eyes troubled her so; he could see her looking up at him smiling tenderly, radiantly, giving him the homage and humility he had demanded. And all the time she was thinking of him with Elizabeth.

Again he read her letter. He must give up Elizabeth. His immortal soul was in danger. She implored him to do so. Marry again if he must, but marry someone worthy to be a consort of a great King.

She was gone; he had lost her, never to see her again, to see her start at his entrance and flutter her hands in that helpless way which had so often exasperated him; and yet he had been annoyed when she had seemed more composed. Never to be able to talk to her, to have her give him all her attention, to let him see in a hundred ways how she adored him.

He had lost the best wife he could have had; she was all that he had needed in a wife; and he had never appreciated that when she was here with him. He had never thought of what he would do without her; in fact he had never believed he would have to be without her. He had been the delicate one, he had been the invalid.

But now she had gone. Mary, whom he had never quite understood.

Oh, there was the subtlety of his emotion. She had wanted to save his soul and that was the reason why she had left this last letter. But why had she thought fit to write to the Archbishop of Canterbury on this very private matter? Would it not have been enough to write to him? Now he was wondering about her motives as he constantly had during her lifetime, and he realized that he could never be sure of Mary—no more in death than in life. Perhaps she had believed that if she had not sent him the letter through the Archbishop he would not have taken it seriously. Now the Archbishop would remonstrate with him, for that was what Mary had asked him to do.

It was surprising that now he must be unsure of her, even as he had in life.

He touched his cheek and it was wet. He, cold stern William, was weeping. He wanted her back with him; there were so many questions he wanted to ask her. He wanted to know what was going on in her mind. Suddenly a sense of desolation swept over him. He understood that he had loved Mary; and he had lost her: he would never be able to tell her that he had loved her—in his way. Why had he not, when she was alive? Perhaps he had not known it.

He shut himself in his closet and gave orders that he was not to be disturbed. He opened a drawer and took out a lock of her hair. She had given it to him before one of his departures in what he had considered to be an excess of unnecessary sentimentality, and he had thrust it into this drawer, exasperated by her action.

Now he took it out and looked at it. It was beautiful hair, and he wished that he had appreciated it during her lifetime.

How odd that he felt no resentment toward her for writing that letter to him and worse still writing to the Archbishop. He would never feel resentment toward her again, and wished with all his heart that she were with him now.

He made a bracelet of the hair and tied it about his arm with a piece of black ribbon.

No one would see it; only he would know it was there; but he would wear it, in memory of her, until he died.

There was someone at the door of his cabinet. He cried out angrily: “Did I not say I did not wish to be disturbed?”

“The King will see me.”

He recognized the voice of the Archbishop and for the second time was too taken aback in the presence of this man to assert himself. The Archbishop shut the door and faced him.

“I see,” he said, “that Your Majesty suffers remorse. I come now to ask you for the promise as Her Majesty wished me to.”

“Promise?” demanded William.

“The promise that you will not see Elizabeth Villiers again.”

William was silent. The Archbishop had found him in the midst of his remorse; there were even traces of tears on his cheeks. Perhaps Tenison knew that what he felt today he would not feel next week: and that this was the time to complete the commission left to him by the dead Queen.

“It was her dying wish,” went on the Archbishop. “All her thoughts were for you. She died in fear that as an adulterer you would never enter the Kingdom of Heaven. Perhaps she is watching us now, waiting, praying for you to give the answer she wants.”

William was choked by emotions. It seemed to him that he could never miss anyone as he missed Mary. He longed for her meekness, her tender docility—all that he had lost.

“She is watching us,” said Tenison. “Do you not sense her near?”

William murmured: “I promise. Please leave me now.”

The Archbishop, smiling serenely, left him.

William sat down and covered his face with his hands.

Elizabeth Villiers was alarmed. It was long since she had seen her lover. There was so much to discuss; she had news for him of how the Queen’s death was affecting the Princess Anne’s household. But he did not come.

He would though, she was sure of it. He could not do without her. It might be that, knowing they were spied on he did not want to give his enemies the scandal they were hoping for.

It was only a matter of waiting, Elizabeth assured herself.

There was excitement in Berkeley House. Sarah had dismissed everyone so that she could have a private talk with Anne before she left.

This was a change in their fortunes, she assured her friend.

“His Majesty will graciously see you. He has changed his tune a little. And that does not surprise me, for I can tell you this, Mrs. Morley, the people are not so fond of William on his own as they were when your sister was Queen. They ask themselves what right he has to assume the crown. And what right has he? It is you, Mrs. Morley, who should be wearing it. You should be thinking of riding to your coronation instead of being carried in your chair to wait on Caliban!”

“It is true enough, Mrs. Freeman; but my sister would not have wished it so.”

“Oh, she was bemused and bewildered by that Dutch Abortion.”

“How I wish that we had been good friends! I was sitting here remembering, dear Mrs. Freeman, when we were little girls. I could not bear her out of my sight. I always wanted to do what she did, wear what she wore … I loved her, I think, more than anyone in my life at that time.”

“Children at play!” said Sarah sharply. “Well, now she is dead and gone.”

“Alas! I would I could have her with me for a while so that I could mend our quarrel.”

“You have another to consider, Mrs. Morley, and therefore little time to waste on regrets for the past. What of the young Duke of Gloucester. You must make sure of his future.”

“My precious boy! How right you are, Mrs. Freeman, as usual.”

“And,” went on Sarah, “when you talk to Caliban, you must make sure that he does not forget that he cannot thrust your son from his position.”

“He wouldn’t dare.”

“Caliban would dare anything, I do assure you. What if he married again? What if he had a son? Ah, Mrs. Morley, I can see that he would be very anxious then to make sure your boy did not have the throne.”

Anne’s lethargy dropped from her. “There would be a revolution if he ever attempted to take my boy’s rights from him.”

“Remember that and make sure he understands it. You need friends, Mrs. Morley, as you never did. And those who would be the best friends to you are languishing in exile. Banished from Court. It is something you can remedy now, I’ll warrant.”

“You are thinking of Mr. Freeman.”

“He is the best friend Mrs. Morley ever had, and if he were brought back to Court would be ready to defend your rights and those of the young Duke with all his skill, which I assure you, Mrs. Morley, is formidable; and it is for this reason that Dutch William has kept him from you. Ask him now to bring him back. Now is the time for you to ask favors. He wishes to show the people he is on good terms with you. Bring Mr. Freeman back and then Mrs. Morley will have two Freemans to protect her from whatever ill wind is likely to harm her and the precious little Duke.”

“My dear good friends!” murmured Anne.

“And here is Mrs. Morley’s chair.”

“I need it. I do not think I could walk a step.”

“You must save all your energies for facing that monster!” said Sarah.

Anne was lifted into her chair and carried from Berkeley House first to Campden House and from there to Kensington Palace, where William was waiting to receive her.

Anne was suffering so much from gout and obesity that her chair had to be carried right to the door of the King’s presence chamber, where William, making an unusually gracious concession, came out to receive her and himself opened the door of her chair.

Taking his hand, Anne hobbled out.

Anne said tremulously: “I am sorry for Your Majesty’s loss.”

William answered: “I am sorry for yours.”

For the first time in her life Anne saw that he was moved by his emotions and this let loose her own; she began to weep silently.

William said gently: “Pray come in and be seated.”

He closed the door and they were alone. He brought forward a chair that Anne might sit and then he brought another for himself and placed it close to hers. For a few seconds they remained silent as though to control their grief.

Anne said simply: “If we could have been friends before she died …”

William nodded. At one time he might have given her a sardonic look, but he too had his remorse to disturb him.

“It is too late,” he said. “We must forget the past for the future could be troublesome. I want to make that safe for our heir.” Anne was alert at once. William’s voice was dry as he went on: “In this we must stand together. Do not forget that your father calls himself the King of England, Scotland, and Ireland; and that his son in France is known as the Prince of Wales. We must not deceive ourselves. There are some here who drink secretly to the King over the Water and who insist that that young boy is the Prince of Wales.”

Anne nodded slowly. They disliked each other intensely, but they must be allies.

“We have to make sure that you are accepted as heir to the throne to be followed by your son. I think this is a matter in which we are in complete agreement. Therefore we must forget all other differences. Are you of my opinion?”

“Your Majesty is most kind and gracious.”

“Then … we must show the people that we have settled our differences and are … friends.”

“Your Majesty will remember that the cause of my quarrel with my sister was that she wished me to dismiss my best friends.”

William was alert. “The Marlboroughs?” he muttered.

“Marlborough has been long in exile. He desires above all things to serve Your Majesty.”

“You mean to serve himself?”

“He is an ambitious man, but then so are most men. He would serve himself through serving his King.”

“Which King?” asked William drily.

“For me and for my Lord Marlborough, there is only one King of England.”

“It did not always seem so.”

“I can assure Your Majesty that if you would allow him to return he would serve you faithfully. He is too brilliant a man to be left in banishment.”

Too brilliant a man, thought William. There was something in that. Too dangerous a man. What was Marlborough plotting in his retirement? There was no doubt of his great ability.

Moreover Anne was making a condition. Peace between us providing you bring Marlborough back into favor.

He must have peace with Anne. Without that his crown was unsafe.

It might well be that Marlborough at Court was safer than Marlborough in banishment.

William knew that in this he must grant the Princess’s request.

Marlborough should come back to Court.

Through England the bells were tolling for the state funeral of the Queen. Although she had died at the end of December, this ceremony did not take place until the following 5th of March.

A wax effigy of the Queen was placed over her coffin, and in the royal robes of state it looked lifelike. Following as mourners were all the members of the House of Commons; but Anne was not present and the Duchess of Somerset took her place as chief mourner.

Anne in her apartments was too dropsical to be able to leave her bed; in addition she was pregnant once more.

Sarah sat beside her, bubbling with vitality, her head full of plans that she would not disclose to the Princess.

Anne was melancholy listening to the tolling of bells, overcome by memories of the past. Not so Sarah. This was the great opportunity. The Dutch monster spitting blood, growing more sick every day. How long could he last? Six months? Surely not more. And then … then … it would be Anne’s turn and that meant the turn of the Marlboroughs.

Elizabeth Villiers listening to the tolling bells was as apprehensive of the future as Sarah was hopeful.

So long and he had not sought her out! What did it mean? Surely he needed her now, as always?

He would come to her. Perhaps he was waiting until after the funeral. They would have to be more careful even than before, but he would come.

THE TWICKENHAM INTERLUDE

nne was completely absorbed in her son. She was looking forward to having a child and as usual she was praying this one would survive; the little Duke of Gloucester was the living proof that she could bear a child that could live and although his health gave cause for great alarm no one could deny that he was not extremely intelligent. Dr. Radcliffe, that blunt man who had little respect for rank yet was reckoned to be one of the best doctors at Court, had said the little Duke’s affliction—he had water on the brain—could mean that his brain was consequently more agile than was normal. In any case the young Duke was the delight and terror of Anne’s life. This was a cause of irritation to Sarah who again and again found herself and her affairs relegated to second place on account of the boy.

Mary’s death and her interview with William had made Anne feel the need to rouse herself from her customary lethargy. There was her boy’s future to protect and as a poor invalid unable to move she felt she could not do all that might be required of her.

Therefore she decided that she must recover the use of her limbs; one of the reasons why she found walking so exhausting was because of her size so she decided to take cold baths to help reduce her weight, to eat a little less—although this was torture to her—and to hunt more frequently. She had always hunted from childhood so this was no hardship.

In her condition she was, of course, unable to ride on horseback and she had had a chair made which was just big enough to hold herself and this was set on high wheels and drawn by one horse. In this she followed the chase indefatigably.

These efforts combined with her determination to improve her health for the sake of her son, had their effects. She was able to walk when her gout and dropsy were not too painful.

She and George would sit together for hours discussing their boy. The child was often with them and was fond of them. They watched him anxiously and were very concerned because of his difficulty in walking straight; it was a perpetual topic between them.

One day Anne said to George: “Something must be done. He is still walking as though he were first learning. He is like a child of two in this respect.”

“I know, I know,” murmured George.

“It grieves me. Do you think there is anything we can do about it.”

“That we can do?” repeated George.

“Do you think that he is not making enough effort to walk?” George was thoughtful, his head on one side. “It might be possible.”

“Then, George, we must make him walk straight. We must make him walk without the aid of his attendants.”

“How so?”

“By …” Anne winced … “punishing him if he does not.”

“Punishing our boy?”

“It is going to be more painful for us than for him, but if it is the only way …”

“If it is the only way …” murmured George.

“George, you are his father. You must do it. You must take your cane and beat him if he will not walk alone.”

“I … beat our boy!”

“I shall feel every stroke, but if it is the only way …”

George looked as though he were about to burst into tears but he murmured: “If it is the only way …”

Anne was determined. She sent for the boy. He came to them, kissed their hands in his grown-up way, but with him were two attendants who walked beside him to steady him and to keep him from swaying from one side to another.

“My dear boy,” said Anne. “Papa and I want you to walk without help. You are old now, you know.”

“Mama, I cannot.” A fear came into the boy’s face. He wanted to explain to them that when he tried to walk alone he was so giddy that he feared he would fall; and when an attendant walked on either side of him, that kept him straight and prevented the giddiness.

“You must, my son.”

“But I cannot, Mama.”

“Papa and I think you could if you tried.”

The boy was for once unable to explain what was in his mind. How could he tell these people who had normal heads what it felt like to carry one which was top heavy and would not allow him to walk as they did.

His face was set in obstinate lines, but all he said was: “No.”

Anne ordered the attendants to stand back. “Now walk,” she said.

“No,” said the boy.

“Papa,” said Anne signing to George.

The boy saw the cane in his father’s hands and looked at it in some astonishment. He could not believe it was intended for him, for never before had he experienced anything but kindness and indulgence from his parents.

“Walk,” said Anne.

He stood there looking at her.

Then he felt the cane across his shoulders. He started with horror that they should do this to him. He could not understand it.

“Walk,” said his father. “Walk alone.”

The cane descended again and again across his shoulders; and suddenly he was aware of the pain it inflicted.

He cried out and began to run … straight out of the room … alone.

George and Anne looked at each other.

“My poor, poor darling!” cried Anne. “But you see, George, it was effective.”

They were both trembling and on the verge of tears. Only they could know what pain it had caused them to inflict suffering on their beloved boy; they could only bring themselves to do it because they earnestly believed it was for his own good.

A gentle scratching on the door of Elizabeth Villiers’ chamber made her start up in delight. It was the well-remembered signal of happier days.

She ran to the door and flung it open.

“William!” she whispered.

He stepped into the room and shut the door behind him before throwing off the cloak which had completely concealed him.

“I knew you would come,” she cried, almost hysterically. “I knew it.”

“It must not be known that I am here,” he said.

Her spirits sank; he was different—changed toward her. He had surely come to tell her that this was an end of their relationship. How incongruous! The end … now that his wife was dead! All those years they had met clandestinely and he, the stern Calanist, had imperiled his soul by committing adultery for her sake; and now that there would no longer be the need for such sin, he had come to tell her that the relationship was over.

“It has been so long,” she murmured. “I have been so unhappy.”

“I found it long,” he repeated. “I too have been unhappy.”

“And now?”

“I have given a promise to Tenison.”

“But … why?”

“There was a letter she wrote—two letters, one to me, one to the Archbishop. It concerned us. She asked me to end our relationship; and she asked Tenison to extract the promise from me.”

“She would rule you from the grave as she never could in life,” said Elizabeth bitterly.

“I will not be ruled.”

Her smile had become radiant, but he would not look at her.

“Do not imagine,” he went on, “that I have not thought of you over this long time.”

“This long, long time,” she murmured.

“I have thought of ways … and means … and this is what I plan. We must not meet …”

He saw the despair in her face and he was as delighted with her as he had been when he had first discovered the nature of her feeling for him.

“… in England,” he went on. “I will keep my promise. But there is Holland.”

She looked puzzled and he took a step toward her as though to lay his hands on her, but he stopped himself.

“I have decided that you shall have a husband, a husband will give you a position worthy of you.”

“And you?” she asked.

“I shall be often in Holland; you and your husband shall accompany me there; and there it shall be as it was in the past.”

“I see.”

“This pleases you?”

“I accept as always Your Majesty’s commands,” she answered.

How like her! So clever, and yet so amenable. It had always been so; she had always given him what he needed. He was not a sensual man and the sexual act would never be of the utmost importance to him. He could contemplate this separation without despair; but he would not have her believe that he had deserted her.

He said swiftly: “I am bestowing on you the private estates of James II in Ireland.”

She caught her breath; she would be a rich woman in her own right.

“And,” went on William, “when we have decided on your husband, rest assured I shall give him an earldom.”

She lowered her eyes so that he might not see her exultation.

All her efforts had not been in vain.

Lewis Jenkins stood by the bed of his little master and he was smiling broadly.

“This is the best day of the year,” he announced.

Gloucester sat up in bed and demanded to know why.

“St. David’s day, the day of the Welsh, and I hope Your Highness will wear the leek in his hat today.”

“Well, Jenkins, as I should be the Prince of Wales if I had my rights I will certainly wear the leek.”

Jenkins put into the boy’s hands one of the ornaments which were made of silk and silver in the shape of a leek and which were worn at Court on St. David’s day by the Welsh.

“So this,” said Gloucester, “is the leek. But of course it is not a real leek.”

“Certainly not, but it is a fair imitation.”

“I like not imitations.”

“Then we will go down to the gardens and I will show you the real leek growing there.”

“I will then compare it with this bauble. Help me dress, Lewis.”

When he was dressed he said: “Do not call any of the others to walk beside me. I must walk alone. Papa beat me for not walking straight. It hurt a great deal. But he did not wish to do it. It was only for my good. And although, Lewis, it is not easy for me to walk straight, I do walk straighter since Papa caned me.”

“I trust it was not too painful, Your Highness.”

“I could see that it was for Papa and Mama,” answered the boy gravely.

In the gardens he examined the leeks. “But these are far more interesting than the silk ones, Lewis. There are layers and layers, and smell them.”

“I am pleased that the leek finds favor with Your Highness.”

The gardener gathered several of the finest leeks and with a bow presented them to the boy.

“I am pleased to accept them, and as I cannot wear them all in my hat, I shall decorate my cannon with them, or perhaps my ship. Lewis, summon my men. It is only fitting that there should be a parade on St. David’s day.”

The boys were summoned and the parade begun, and, the leek in his hat, Gloucester shouted orders and reviewed his men.

When the parade was over he was very tired and Mrs. Buss, who had been his mother’s nurse and was still attached to the royal nursery, said that he should rest for a while.

Gloucester did not care to take orders from his mother’s old nurse but he was exhausted and allowed himself to be led to his bed where he very soon fell into a deep sleep; and when he awoke began to shout orders to his men. His attendants rushing in saw at once that he had a fever.

The alarm spread through Campden House. The little Prince had been poisoned by handling leeks.

Sarah was sitting by Anne’s bed and her voice went on and on.

“It is a marvelous thing indeed that Marlborough should be allowed to return to Court, should be allowed to kiss those Dutch fingers, should be allowed to declare his loyalty … Oh, a marvelous thing indeed, but Marlborough has a better mission in life than to slobber over that Abortion’s fingers. What of Marlborough, I say? What position is he going to have at Court? None it seems. Is this the way Caliban keeps his promise?”

Anne answered: “It is a scandal, dear Mrs. Freeman. But I don’t trust Caliban, you know. So much and no more, is his way. He has offered me St. James’s Palace and for that I am grateful, but there is no suggestion that I should move in.”

“He offers it because he must. He is giving nothing away.”

“I am sure you are right, but it would be pleasant to be in St. James’s once more.”

“But to return to my Lord Marlborough. He should be given a chance to use his great talents.”

There was a knock at the door, and Sarah swept to it in indignation. “Do you not know that the Princess and I wish to be alone together. What disturbance is this? Go away.”

“My lady, there is news from Campden House.”

“I have told you …”

Anne’s voice broke in imperiously. “News from Campden House! Pray bring the messenger in. I trust my boy is well.”

“Your Highness, the Duke is in a fever. We fear he has been poisoned by the smell of leeks.”

“Poisoned!” cried Anne. “Call my chair, Lady Marlborough. Send for Dr. Radcliffe. Quickly … without delay. I must go to Campden House.”

“Radcliffe is in Oxford,” began Sarah coldly.

“Send to Oxford. I know Radcliffe to be the best man. My chair. Send for it at once and tell my bearers that I must be carried without delay to Campden House.”

Sarah obeyed, fuming. How maddening these delays were. When, oh when, would she be able to get her John where he deserved to be!

Dr. Radcliffe arrived in due course, and pronounced that the little Duke was suffering from a fever. The boy was bled and in a few days began to recover.

Dr. Radcliffe, however, recommended rest for a week or more, for the little patient after the first recovery developed a slight fever again.

“Keep him in bed,” said Radcliffe, “and keep him amused there.”

When Anne, at the bedside of her son, asked what her darling wanted most, the answer was prompt: “My soldiers. Let them guard the bedchamber. Let Harry Scull come to me. I wish him to do a tattoo on his drum and I will select those who shall build the fortifications about my bed.”

“My dearest boy, should you not rest?”

“How can I, Mama, when I have to be protected by my men.”

“There is nothing to protect you from.”

The boy’s face crumpled then brightened. “Those who will one day wear the crown are always in need of protection.”

Dr. Radcliffe said in his brusque way: “These amusements will do no harm, if he stays in bed.”

“Send my men,” said the Prince, “and I promise to stay in bed.”

So at the Prince’s door were posted his guards, who marched back and forth and challenged all those who would enter. Enough, said Mrs. Buss, to drive you mad, when you came along with a posset to find a wooden sword flourishing under your nose and the basin all but knocked out of your hands.

“Halt! Who goes there? Friend or foe?”

“Friend, you silly boy. I’ve a posset for His Highness.”

“Pass, but you will have to make your way through the fortifications.”

“Drat the fortifications!” said Mrs. Buss.

She and others would have complained, but they knew it was no use. Dr. Radcliffe had wanted the patient to be amused and so they had rowdy boys, playing soldiers all over the place.

Not content with his soldiers, Gloucester called in his attendants and coachmen to take messages as he said through the lines. Lewis Jenkins was always ready to throw himself into the game; Mr. Pratt, Gloucester’s tutor, was pressed into service; and the two that amused Gloucester most were coachmen Dick Drury and Robin Church.

The language of these two was full-blooded and Gloucester liking it, learned it quickly.

“Confound you!” Gloucester would cry. “God damn you, man, can’t you see that gap in the fortifications? By God, I damn you to hell.”

All the young soldiers took up such cries to the concern of Lady Fitzharding, Mrs. Buss, and others.

Mrs. Buss remembered that a short time ago the Duke had delighted to receive wooden figures of great soldiers in battle-dress; and she believed that if he were presented with a very fine specimen, he might play with this and be lured from his rougher games.

She bought a magnificent figure of a soldier and summoned one of the Duke’s coachmen, a man named Wetherby, to take it to the sickroom with her compliments.

When Wetherby arrived, the Duke was sitting up in bed surrounded by a dozen or so of his “men.”

The Duke heard his guards outside his door halting the arrival, demanding to know whether he was friend or foe and what his mission was.

Wetherby said in a voice which was audible in the sickroom: “I’ve brought His Highness a toy from Mrs. Buss.”

All the young soldiers clambered off the bed and stood at attention.

“Bring him in,” ordered the Duke.

Wetherby came in and laid the doll on the bed. “Mrs. Buss thought Your Highness would like this to play with.”

Gloucester lay back on his pillows and closed his eyes. “Escort the messenger from my apartments,” he said coldly.

Wetherby, agreeing with Mrs. Buss that these boys’ games were enough to drive you mad, left as soon as he could.

As soon as he had gone, Gloucester said: “This is an insult from the enemy. Call a Council of War without delay. Confound it, this is an insult which shall not pass unheeded. A toy to play with! I gave up toys last year!”

The Council was held about the bed, and the order for execution given; the doll was immediately torn to pieces with shouts which echoed through the Palace.

“The bearer was insolent,” said the Duke, thinking regretfully that he dared not punish Mrs. Buss. “He should not go unpunished. Let us decide on his sentence.”

It was decreed that Wetherby should undergo the water torture; and the next day when he appeared at the Palace he was seized by some fifty small boys. They dragged him to the floor, clambered all over him, and bound his feet and hands together. Then they brought water with which they doused him until, breathless and panting, he begged them to desist.

They then tied him on the great wooden horse which they wheeled into the Duke’s bedroom, headed by Harry Scull’s drumbeats.

“Your Highness’s orders have been carried out,” announced the herald. “Here is the prisoner for your inspection.”

Gloucester sat up in bed, shaking with laughter—a supreme commander.

Dr. Radcliffe was anxiously questioned by the Princess.

“He is recovering,” said the doctor, “but I think what he needs most is a change of air. Get him away from Kensington and his noisy friends for a while. Keep him interested and occupied, but these soldier games are too rough for him.”

The Princess was thoughtful. She knew how he hated to be separated from his “army”; but she did see that horseplay in the sickroom, although much to her son’s taste, was not what was needed for his convalescence.

She thought longingly of Richmond—the home of her childhood. It would be pleasant to return there; but she remembered how she had once asked for Richmond and been refused. Perhaps Epsom or Hampstead? And she had always been very fond of Twickenham.

The news that the Princess was seeking a house in Twickenham where her son might recuperate in the salubrious air, was circulated and several people, remembering the change in the Princess Anne’s position, begged her to make use of their houses.

Anne hesitated; and one day Lord Fitzharding, who with his wife shared the governorship of young Gloucester, came to her and told her that his great-aunt, Mrs. Davies, who had long retired from Court life, had heard of the Princess’s need and would welcome her, the little Duke, and a few of their attendants to stay with her.

It would be a quiet life in the country and his aunt, who was then eighty years old, lived on fruit and vegetables which she grew herself, and was certain that these would be of great benefit to the little Prince.

It was comforting to receive this offer, for Anne remembered the old lady, who was related to the Berkeleys, was gentle, devoted, strong-minded, and she was certain that this was the place to which she should go, so she accepted the invitation without telling Sarah; and for once Sarah made no protest, deciding that she would spend the time with her own family.

So while Sarah went to St. Albans to plan earnestly with her husband, Anne, her son, and very few of their servants and attendants set out for Twickenham.

“What shall I do?” asked the Duke, “without my soldiers to command?”

“You will eat fruit and herbs and vegetables.”

“But, Mama, one does not eat all day.”

“You have to get strong and well.”

“But to be right away in the country!”

“You cannot command your soldiers forever from your sickbed. Whoever heard of a general doing that? No, if generals are ill they take care to grow well quickly … and then they are welcomed back with a guard of honor and …”

“A guard of honor,” said Gloucester and he was silent, planning the great occasion of his return.

In the meantime for four weeks—or perhaps more—he must eat fruit, vegetables, and herbs; he must live quietly and grow strong because it seemed that was what a general must do to get well quickly.

She was an old, old woman. Gloucester had never seen anyone so old; her face was rosy and wrinkled and her eyes bright blue; she was quiet, but she would answer questions if one caught her alone. She would sit in her garden on her rocking chair and the sun shining on her white hair made it seem like the halo on the heads of saints if you half closed your eyes and imagined it was there.

Her estate was large and it was given over almost entirely to the cultivation of fruit trees, vegetables, and herbs. When Gloucester arrived with his mother and her retinue some of the trees were laden with red cherries. He had never seen so many before.

The old lady stood in the hall when they arrived to receive them; he had stared up at her curiously, wondering what it was like to be so old. Perhaps he would ask her one day.

She smiled at him and told him that he would soon be well and strong enough to return to his army. Meanwhile he could eat as much fruit as he liked from her trees but he must always remember that trees were living things and must not be harmed.

It was an interesting thought. He liked the old woman.

He was put to bed in a room smelling of lavender and herbs which seemed small after his apartments at Campden House. Lewis was with him and asked how he liked the place.

“It is early to say yet, Lewis,” he answered. “But I feel like an ordinary boy, not a Prince.”

“Then Your Highness won’t like that.”

“But I do like it, Lewis. I like it for now.”

He fell asleep quickly, wondering about the old lady.

There was little ceremony at Twickenham. The Princess Anne’s servants joined those belonging to the house; Anne, herself, spent much of her time in the rooms which had been allotted to her; and the little Duke liked to explore the house and grounds.

When he saw the old lady gathering fruit or herbs or sitting in her rocking chair he would go and stand by her, watching. She would smile at him, but not always speak. He found this refreshing; she seemed to understand that he did not always want to ask or be asked questions. Sometimes she would show him the herbs she was gathering and tell him what uses they could be put to, how they cured this and that. He listened intently and sometimes he himself would pick a leaf and hold it out to her. She always had something interesting to say about it.

He looked for her every day; and when he found her on her rocking chair he would sit at her feet.

Sometimes they would talk and sometimes be silent. He enjoyed both moods.

He asked her one day what it felt like to be so old, and she answered that it felt very much the same as being very young; the young thought highly of some things, the old of others.

“Like battles,” he said, “and gathering herbs.”

She nodded and went on rocking.

Then he told her about his soldiers and the wonderful battles they fought; and she told him how when she had been at Court his great-grandfather had been King.

“Tell me about him.”

“He quarreled with the Parliament and had to go away.”

“Where?”

“Far away where he could not come back.”

“My grandfather has gone far away where he can’t come back. At least not while William has the crown. But they are not supposed to tell me that.”

“Then how do you know?”

“I listen. I am always listening. You see, I always want to know … everything. Is that wrong?”

“I think it is good to want to know.”

“Well I want to know everything … except Scripture. I don’t want Scripture. I won’t listen when Mr. Pratt tries to teach me.”

“Why don’t you like it.”

“Because I don’t like going to church.”

“Oh,” said Mrs. Davies and was silent for a long time.

Soon it seemed to Gloucester that he had always lived at Twickenham; it seemed that the sun shone every day and strangely enough he could always find something to do. His chief pleasure was the company of the old lady. The affection between them was noticed and it was remarked how strange it was that the very old woman should attract the young boy.

When she talked she told him of the Court of his great-grandfather who had been gentle and of his French great-grandmother who had been fiery; she told him of the wars between the King and Parliament; and he listened avidly.

She talked to him of the Bible and told him stories from it; he had never heard the stories told in such a way before. She could quote from the New Testament and she told him that she loved the Bible which had been a great comfort to her.

“It has never been a comfort to me,” he said. “I will tell you something: I do not like going to church and I have sworn never to say the psalms which I do not like.”

“But they are so beautiful.”

“Beautiful?”

“Yes,” she said. “Listen. ‘I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills, from whence cometh my help. My help cometh from the Lord which made Heaven and Earth.’ ”

“Go on,” said Gloucester.

He watched her mouth as she spoke the words; and although he had heard them before they had never seemed beautiful until then.

“It is you,” he said, “who make them beautiful.”

“I only repeat what is in the book.”

“You love them; you believe them and you make them good.”

“They comfort me. There is much in the book that comforts me.”

“It does not comfort me.”

“But it could.”

“You mean if I loved it … and believed it as you do?”

“You can. Say it with me.”

He did, and he found that the words were beautiful. He wanted to know them so well that he would be able to say them when he was alone without her to prompt him.

He learned quickly. Then he learned other psalms and to say the Lord’s Prayer.

And each day he was more and more with the old lady.

The Princess Anne liked him to be present while she was at her toilette. She was delighted to see the fair skin, which he had inherited from his Danish father, tanned with the sun and air. There was a sprinkling of freckles across his nose; and his eyes seemed several shades more blue than before: but for the fact that his head was so large he would have been extremely handsome, for he had the Stuart features which matched up charmingly with his fairness of skin.

“So my boy is happy at Twickenham?” asked Anne.

He smiled. “Very, very happy, Mama.”

“Come here,” she said. He came and she kissed him and held him tightly for a moment. He endured the embrace with fortitude. He knew that out of many, he was the only child who had survived, and that made him very precious.

“Confound it, Mama!” he said. “You are not old like Mrs. Davies. You will have many children yet; then you will not have to watch over me with such care.”

Anne wanted to say that however many children she had he would always be infinitely precious to her, but to hide her emotion she said: “And pray where do you learn such language?”

“What language, Mama?”

“ ‘Confound it’, you said.”

“Oh, that is nothing. It is not like ‘God damn you to hell, sir.’ ”

Anne was truly shocked.

“I demand to know where you heard such talk,” she said.

“It was Lewis, I think …”

“Lewis! Then he shall be dismissed.”

“Oh, Mama, no … it was not Lewis. I am remembering now.”

“I want to know where you learned such talk.”

He hesitated then, “Why, Mama, I remember now. I invented it myself.”

He smiled at her disarmingly and once more she had to fight to resist the temptation to embrace him and cover him with kisses.

Anne sent for her treasurer, Sir Benjamin Bathurst, the husband of her great friend, Frances Apsley, whom her sister Mary had loved so dearly. Frances had remained Anne’s dear friend and naturally Anne had wanted to honor her husband and this she did by bestowing on him the post of treasurer of her household.

“Sir Benjamin,” said Anne, “we have been here some four or five weeks and all this time we have enjoyed the hospitality of Mrs. Davies. I want you to pay her a hundred guineas, for although she is a wealthy woman, I and my son and our servants must have been a great drain on her.”

Sir Benjamin said that he would see to the matter without delay and the next day he returned to the house with a hundred gold guineas.

Gloucester was with the old lady when Bathurst came in and when he saw that the treasurer wished to speak to her he retired to a corner, and both seemed to forget that he was present.

“Her Highness wishes to recompense you for your hospitality during the last weeks,” began Sir Benjamin.

“To recompense me? I need no recompense.”

“Her Highness believes that to feed so many people must have been costly.”

“I am not in need. I have plenty here for my use and for that of my friends.”

“Still it is Her Highness’s wish that you should take a hundred guineas.”

“I pray you return to Her Highness and tell her that I have no intention of accepting payment.”

A hundred guineas, thought Gloucester. A great deal of money. How many muskets could one buy with it? Was the old lady wondering? But she would not want muskets, of course.

Sir Benjamin, believing that Mrs. Davies merely wished to be persuaded, emptied the bag of guineas into her lap.

“There,” he said, “with Her Highness’s thanks.”

Mrs. Davies stood up and the guineas rolled in all directions. Then she rose and walked from the room without even looking where they went.

Gloucester watched Sir Benjamin on his hands and knees gathering them up. Some had come close to him so he took them to Sir Benjamin.

“So Your Highness saw what happened?”

“She told you that she did not want it.”

“People say of money ‘Take it away. I won’t have it.’ But they are only waiting to be pressed.”

Gloucester considered this.

“But she is not people,” he said gravely. “She is Mrs. Davies.”

“Mama,” said Gloucester, “may I come to church with you?” Anne opened her eyes very wide. “I thought my boy did not care to go to church.”

“I wish to go now,” he said.

“I am pleased.”

“She is pleased too.”

Anne knew that he meant Mrs. Davies.

“I can say ‘Our Father’ now. And I know the Commandments. She says them and I say them after her. The psalms too.”

“You once said that you would never say the psalms.”

His face puckered for a while. It was true. Then he smiled. “I shall have to sing them.”

Anne thought then how happy they had been at Twickenham. It was a strange little interlude in her life—perhaps it would be in his, too. To live quietly in the country, like an ordinary family, walking across the fields to church; and she felt so much better that she was able to walk that little distance. The fruit and vegetables had seemed to do them all good—and to be away from Court in this quiet house of an old lady who could not live much longer, away from bickering and strife, ambitious men and women, the ranting of Sarah.…

What was she thinking? She was longing to be back with her dear Mrs. Freeman. Heirs to thrones could not endure the quiet life forever.

“You must be eager to be back with your men,” she said to her son.

His expression was intent. He thought of his soldiers marching up and down in the Park, while he took the salute, and the excitement made him tremble.

Then he thought of sitting with the old lady and enjoying her talk or her silence.

He was unsure.

He was very sad when the time came to say good-bye to his friend, and, understanding how he would feel, his mother had ordered that his soldiers should be posted as sentinels at Campden House to give him a welcome back.

As he rode up they presented arms and he felt a great joy to be back.

The old lady and her quiet house at Twickenham seemed like part of a dream, something to think about when he was in bed at night, when he could close his eyes and repeat the Lord’s Prayer and the psalms and recall every inflection of her beautiful but sometimes quavering voice.

This was real. This was living.

There was a new pistol waiting for him which delighted him. It was made of wood, but there was a trigger which could be pulled so that it looked like the real thing.

Yes, he was glad to be back.

GARTER AND GOVERNOR FOR GLOUCESTER

hile Gloucester was drilling his soldiers in the gardens before Kensington Palace William was in Flanders fighting the French, and at the end of the summer he won his most significant victory of the entire campaign when he captured Namur. There was rejoicing throughout the country as the people believed that this must mean the end of the war was in sight. No more taxes; a settling down to peace; that was what was needed and they believed that William could bring about this state of affairs.

Gloucester listened to the war news and immediately planned a capture of Namur between his own men. During the fight he fell and grazed his forehead with his own pistol and although it was bleeding insisted on carrying on with the mock battle.

Every little ailment or accident must be reported to his mother and she came immediately to his apartments to see the damage for herself.

“A bullet grazed my forehead,” he told her. “If I had been a boy I should have cried, but as a soldier, of course, I cannot.”

Anne commanded that the wound be dressed; and wished that she could put an end to these rough games.

She did order that no one was to fence with the Duke of Gloucester. “For,” she declared to Lady Fitzharding, “I have heard of many accidents coming about through fencing.”

But almost immediately she saw Gloucester practicing with the sword, though alone, and she demanded to know why he did this.

“Have you forgotten that I have forbidden anyone to fence with you?”

“I hope, Mama,” replied the Duke gravely, “that you will give them leave to defend themselves when I attack them.”

She marveled at his wit and intelligence. Was there ever such a boy. He was the delight and terror of her life.

At the beginning of autumn, William returned from Flanders.

William, returning as a conqueror, had begun to think that he was firm enough on the throne not to have to bother to placate the Princess Anne. He had promised her St. James’s Palace but had not yet given it to her. Why should he give the foolish woman anything, particularly as Sarah Churchill was at her elbow, pressing her to demand this and that.

But when he went to visit Campden House he could not help being charmed by young Gloucester, who had his army drawn up to form a guard of honor for him. The boy was bright and amusing, a born soldier, for he would not have had this little army otherwise.

He walked beside William inspecting the “troops” and asking his advice about them. William gave it seriously, enjoying the occasion, feeling more at ease with the boy than he did with his mother, or any of his English ministers.

“It will not be long,” Gloucester assured William, “before my men are serving you in Flanders. I shall be with them to command them, of course, and willingly I offer you my services.”

“I am sure you and your men will serve me and their country well.”

Gloucester saluted with the utmost seriousness and the King gravely acknowledged this.

“What horses have you?” asked William.

“I have one live and two dead,” answered Gloucester.

“Dead horses? Soldiers do not keep dead horses.”

“What do they do with them then?”

“They bury the dead horses.”

“Mine shall be buried at once.”

William watched with amusement while the boy gave orders that his two wooden horses be buried.

“I shall need replacements,” he said.

“What of the one live one?”

“I ride on him in the park. He is not very big, but later I shall have hundreds of big ones.”

“I see,” said the King.

And all those who watched them marveled at the boy’s power to charm even William. Anne was delighted. This was a clear indication that William happily accepted the boy as his heir.

That was a brief interlude in the King’s day. He was feeling wretchedly ill and was forced to face the fact that he was growing more and more feeble.

He had never been a happy man, but since the death of Mary he had become even more morose than before. He had lost her adulation, and the comfort of Elizabeth’s companionship, for having given his promise to Tenison not to continue his liaison with her, he could not do so … in England. There was little left to him but his Dutch friends. Keppel was his first favorite, a handsome charming gay young man, who had not the worth of Bentinck, but somehow he craved for his company. He did not want Bentinck’s frank advice; he was impatient with his friendship and Bentinck knew this and kept away. He had even left Court—a matter which often gave William deep misgivings. Mary, Elizabeth, and Bentinck—all lost to him—and in their place young Keppel.

There were times when he wanted Bentinck back—yet such was his pride that he would not command or request. Bentinck must come back on his own desire—and Bentinck stayed away.

William had improved the Banqueting House which stood close to the Palace of Hampton Court on the banks of the river and there, with his Dutch friends, he spent most of his evenings. He was drinking heavily—mostly Holland’s gin—and although he never showed signs of intoxication, after a night’s drinking he would awake next morning in such a mood of irritability that he was approached only by those servants who found it impossible to keep away. Then at the slightest misdemeanor William would lift the cane, which he kept for the purpose, and slash it across the offender’s shoulders.

The English who preferred to see a man merry in his drink, disliked Dutch William more than ever and jocularly referred to those poor servants who suffered through their master’s irrascibility as “the Knights of the Cane.”

Moods of melancholy beset the King; he shut himself into his cabinet and brooded on the wretched turn his life had taken. He mourned for Mary; he had not believed it would be possible to miss anyone as he missed her; he wanted Elizabeth; and he wanted Bentinck.

To Bentinck he had given the vested rights of the Prince of Wales—a move which he soon began to see was a stupid one. He had meant to imply by it that he cared nothing for Anne and believed he could hold the throne without any help from her; also that he would do what he wished with affairs under his control. The people disapproved of this act; and it did not bring Bentinck back to him. Only his morbid and melancholy mood could have made him do such a foolish thing.

He sent for Lord George Hamilton, a soldier who had done good service at the Battle of the Boyne and who had been wounded at Namur.

“I wish to reward you for your services,” said William. “I trust you are recovering from your wounds.”

“Your Majesty, I trust soon to be back in your army.”

“Let me see,” said William. “You were made Brigadier General after Namur were you not?”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

“And you are unmarried. You should have a wife.”

“Sir I …”

William said: “I am going to honor you. I will give you an earldom. What do you say to that of Orkney?”

Hamilton was stammering his thanks, wondering whether Holland’s gin was having a new effect on the King; but William silenced him.

“Your cousin, the daughter of Sir Edward Villiers, is a very marriageable young woman. I wish to see a union between you two.”

Hamilton was astounded. So he was being offered the King’s mistress! This could mean one of two things: Either he and an earldom were being offered to Elizabeth as a reward for past services or he was being given the role of complacent husband.

Time only would show which, for William was not a man to make himself clear on such a delicate matter.

An earldom! Promotion in the army, doubtless! And it was not as though he had marriage plans elsewhere. His cousin Elizabeth? She intrigued him. Not a beauty, but she must be fascinating to have held a strange cold man like the King all these years. She was a clever woman; and they would be partners. It was a good bargain he was being offered.

“A union with the lady would be very agreeable to me,” he murmured.

William nodded dismissal. That was one matter settled. That would quieten gossip; and when he was in Holland Elizabeth should come to him and it would be almost as it had been in the old days.

It became clear to William that it was a mistake to think that he could afford to flout Anne. No matter how many victories he might win abroad, to the English he was still a foreigner, and they resented a foreign King. Yet when Anne was carried out in her chair they cheered her; they looked upon her as the heiress to the throne and on Gloucester as her successor. He could not hope for a peaceful existence while he was outwardly not on good terms with her.

He renewed his promise of St. James’s Palace and this time Anne was able to move in. Then he made a gesture which gave Anne more pleasure than anything else could have done.

Lord Strafford, Knight of the Garter, died; and William wrote to Anne to say that it would give him the greatest pleasure to bestow the vacant ribbon on his nephew.

Anne went at once to her son’s apartment where he was having breakfast. In spite of her excitement she was shocked to see that Lewis was sitting beside him spooning the food into his mouth.

“That,” she said, “is no way for a Prince to eat. Lewis, stop it at once.”

“Your Highness it is the only way in which we can induce him to eat.”

Anne looked at her son with the familiar mingling of pride and terror. She had lost the last child as she had all the others, and Gloucester was her great hope. And he did not like food when his father and mother had such a delight in it! Was it a sign of delicate health?

“My boy,” she said, “do you not like the food which is prepared for you?”

He considered this and said: “I like crumbs on the table but I do not care much for food on plates.” He then wet his finger and picked up some of the crumbs about the table.

“You eat like a chicken,” she said.

“Oh, Mama, I am a chick of the game.”

His bright eyes, his quick smile were enchanting. Oh God, she prayed, preserve my darling. Keep him well. Take anything from me but leave me my precious boy.

“I have good news for you. You are to have the Garter.”

His eyes shone with pleasure. “The Garter. But I have long wanted it and do you know, Mama, Harry Scull dreamed he saw me wearing it. Pray, Lewis, bring Harry to me without delay. I must tell Harry.”

Back to Campden House came Gloucester, eyes brilliant with triumph, wearing the blue ribbon. He paraded before his parents telling them about the ceremony. “There were eleven knights with the King,” he said. “William knighted me with the sword of state and then put the ribbon on me with his own hands, and that, Papa—are you listening Mama?”

“To every word, my dearest.”

“Well that is most unusual, for one of the knights usually does it, but William wanted to do it for me. It was a special occasion. I am a favorite of his.”

“Well, you are an heir to the throne.”

“Yes, but it is a most unusual thing to be a favorite of the King’s, Mama.”

Anne exchanged glances with her husband. How could anyone help but make him a favorite? she was asking.

“Now may I go to my men. They are all anxious to see me in the Garter. I shall always wear it … until the day I die.”

“We will not speak of that,” said Anne sharply; and George laid a hand on her shoulder reassuringly.

They were silent, listening to Gloucester’s voice shouting orders to his soldiers.

It had been wonderful to see the boy wearing the ribbon, but the mention of his death could plunge them both into deepest melancholy.

There was a visitor for the Princess Anne. This was John Sheffield, Earl of Mulgrave. Anne could never see him without remembering that love affair of her youth when she and John Sheffield had planned to marry. She still remembered the poems he had written to her. He had been sent away on her account and she had been given her dear George who was the best of husbands; but that did not mean she had not still a tender spot for Sheffield.

He was handsome; he was an excellent poet; and she believed he was at heart a Jacobite, for he had remained loyal to James longer than most men.

“My lord,” she said, “it does me good to see you.” He kissed her hand with a lingering tenderness. He was married and so was she, but memories lingered.

“I came to congratulate you on the Duke’s honor.”

“It was good of you.”

“I thought you would like to hear an account from an eye witness. I never saw the like. One would have thought he was a mature man. Such dignity! Such grace!”

“He is a most unusual boy.”

“Which is only to be expected.”

Their eyes met. He was thinking: He might have been ours. And if he had, she wondered, would he have been stronger? She compared John with George. Poor George, who was so fat and ineffectual; and John, tall, handsome, a man who would leave his mark on the world with his literary achievements and his parliamentary career.

“My lord,” she said, “I would that you would watch over the Duke. Sometimes I feel that his education is not in the best hands. His mind is so alert; he picks up such odd pieces of information. And we find it so difficult to make him eat nourishing food. His servants feed him … to entice him. It causes me anxiety.”

“If Your Highness would wish me to keep an eye on the boy …”

“It is what I do wish. I can trust you as I can few people. Will you do this?”

“With all my heart.”

She sat smiling to herself after he had gone. It was pleasant to sit dreamily contemplating what might have been. She could do this without heartbreak. She had her dear husband, her beloved boy, her hopes of inheriting the throne; but romance was sweet.

Sarah came in and found her thus.

“Mulgrave was here, so I learn.”

“Why yes.”

“And what did he want?”

“He came to tell me how my boy conducted himself at the ceremony. Why, Mrs. Freeman, he said that the child behaved like a mature man. I do not think there is another boy in the world to compare with him and that is the truth.”

“My young John must come to be his companion. I am sure they would be good for each other.”

“It shall be so. John Sheffield is a charming man, I think.”

Sarah grunted. “Not much guts I’d say. Remember how he fled at the first sign of trouble?”

“He did not fly. He was sent away to Tangier by my uncle.”

“Some men would have refused to go.”

“Refused to go? Refused the King’s command?”

“Some would have found a way.”

Sarah did not notice the slightly sullen expression about Anne’s mouth, nor the hint of firmness in her voice as she said: “He is going to superintend the Duke’s education.”

“What?” cried Sarah.

Anne had turned away, murmuring: “Oh, not in an official capacity, of course, but I confess I shall be glad to have such an excellent man at hand.”

What of Marlborough? thought Sarah, with difficulty suppressing her anger. If the Duke was to have a Governor naturally it should be Lord Marlborough. But at least Sheffield had not been offered the post officially.

Marlborough should have it, decided Sarah. And I shall see that he gets it.

The Princess Anne was preparing to leave for Windsor Castle. William had been unusually gracious. Not being content with seeing her installed in St. James’s Palace, he offered her Windsor Castle in which to spend the summer with her husband and their son.

Having seen Anne’s interest in John Sheffield, Sarah had decided that if she could do nothing for her husband it was time she brought her son forward, and before they left for Windsor she suggested to Anne that the little Duke should have some boys, near his own age and rank, to play with.

“My John is a little older than he is, but I am sure your boy would find him a good companion.”

Anne who was sorry that Sarah had been put out over the favor she had shown to Sheffield, readily agreed; and it was decided that John Churchill together with three other boys, who were all studying at Eton, should be the companion of the Duke at Windsor.

It was inevitable that Anne should remember her dear Frances Bathurst’s boys; there were two of them of suitable age and they with another named Peter Boscawen were invited to Windsor.

Gloucester was delighted at the prospect of going to Windsor, a castle he had never before visited, and expressed the hope that there would be many towers and bastions to be defended. And what were the fortifications like? he wanted to know.

As they drew nearer to the castle he was clearly pleased with the impressive towers and immediately began planning a battle which should be fought between the new companions he was to have, since his army had not accompanied him to Windsor.

He explored the castle looking for suitable spots to defend, and was delighted when his four companions arrived. John Churchill was a charming boy who had been well prepared by his mother to make himself agreeable to the young Duke; Peter Boscawen was a little older than the others and more serious, but the Bathursts were mischievous and ready for some good sport.

Gloucester immediately called a meeting and explained the plans for the campaign. He had, he said, chosen St. George’s Hall for the action; then the music gallery and the stairs which led to it would represent a castle which had to be defended on one side and taken on the other.

This would be a new kind of game for he would not have all his soldiers to command; but he sent at once back to Campden Hill for his weapons which consisted of swords, muskets, and pikes.

He was eagerly explaining the plans of battle to his parents as he walked with them in Windsor Park. Anne and George exchanged glances; they were both wondering whether the boys understood that they must not be too rough with the young Duke.

Gloucester went on ahead of them as Anne said, “I must speak to Lewis. He must explain to them when our boy is not present. I wish that he did not so love these rough games.”

“You would not have him girlish, my dear,” George soothed.

“No, I would not. But how I wish that he were as strong and healthy looking as those others. I almost wish I had not asked them here. John Churchill is so big and strong.”

“He is several years older than our boy.”

Anne took her husband’s hand and pressed it. “You are a comfort to me,” she said; and she was suddenly angry because of the cruel lampoons which were written about this good man. The latest one which came to her mind explained that he was not quite dead but had to breathe hard to prevent being buried because no one saw any other sign of life in him. He was not stupid, as they implied, thought Anne angrily. He was just good and kind, a lover of peace.

She caught her breath in dismay, for she saw her precious son rolling over and over on the grass; he had come from the top of a steepish slope and there was earth on his face and the stains of grass on his clothes.

“My dearest …” she cried.

George had gone to the child as quickly as his overplump body would allow him; but before he could reach him Gloucester was on his feet.

He stood, legs apart smiling benignly on his parents.

“I must be able to descend hills quickly if I am to defend castles,” he told them with dignity.

Lewis took Peter Boscawen aside and said to him: “Now look here, my boy, you must be the enemy, and you must see that no harm comes to His Highness.”

Peter Boscawen nodded.

“Lose the game, rather. His mother’s orders are that he is not to be hurt on any account. Who will you have on your side?”

“I’ll take young Peter Bathurst.”

Lewis nodded. “I shall be near to give a hand, but be careful. He’s full of fire, but he’s not strong.”

“His head is too big, I think,” commented Peter Boscawen.

“He’s a game one. Won’t say when he has any sort of pain. Think generals have to forget all that. But as I say, have a care.”

Peter Boscawen was a cautious defender of the gallery and stairs, all the time giving way when in combat with Gloucester. But Peter Bathurst could not restrain himself; he became over excited and determined to hold the gallery at all costs. He had slipped the sheath from his sword and as Gloucester began to mount the steps dealt him a blow on his neck which started the blood to flow.

Lewis, horrified, saw what had happened and called: “Truce! Truce for the wounded!”

Gloucester looked at him in astonishment. “What wounded?”

“You, General, are wounded in the neck.”

“I shall not give up for a scratch, man,” cried Gloucester and charged up the stairs sending young Bathurst sprawling.

By the time the fortress was taken, Lewis was at hand with a doctor. The wound was slightly more than Gloucester would admit until the battle was over.

When his mother saw the bandage about his neck she was worried.

There was no way of protecting him, she told George, for he was the bravest boy in the world.

“My dear,” said George, “there must be other children. If you had another son … two other sons … you would not fret so much over him.”

“Perhaps next time we shall be more fortunate.”

Next time! Since her marriage she had been pregnant for most of the time—to what avail? Continual disappointment—and one boy who, while he was the most precious thing in her life, was a continual anxiety.

With the passing of summer Anne and her family returned to St. James’s. Two events occurred which caused consternation, not only in Anne’s household but throughout the country.

The first was the affair of Sir John Fenwick, the well known Jacobite who had insulted Queen Mary when she was riding in the Park by refusing to take off his hat. Fenwick was suspected of being involved in the Assassination Plot with Sir George Barclay and Robert Charnock. The plot was that with forty men they were to ride out to a lane between Brentford and Turnham Green and when William came past in his coach-and-six on his way from Richmond to London, set upon him and kill him. The plot was divulged before it could be carried out; Barclay escaped to France and Charnock was captured, found guilty of treason and hanged, drawn and quartered at Tyburn. Fenwick’s name was mentioned in papers which were captured on Charnock and he was named as a general in the army which was to be raised after William’s assassination in order to put James II back on the throne. Fenwick getting wind of his danger at once went into hiding and made efforts to leave the country. These failed and he was captured and made a prisoner in the Tower while investigations went on. Realizing that he must eventually be found guilty he accused some of the leading Whigs of being implicated. Among these was Marlborough.

Sarah was in a panic. Just as she had brought her son to Court and was hoping to have her husband proclaimed Governor of the Duke of Gloucester, there was this fresh scare.

So far William had given no honors to Marlborough and although he was allowed to come to Court he was almost as much in the shadows as ever. This could be a further check to her hopes—and as she knew that her husband had been corresponding with the King over the Water, she was terrified of further revelations.

William, however, was well aware of Marlborough’s Jacobite tendencies. But he knew that Marlborough would work for the winning side, and at the moment William was on that. He was turning over in his mind whether Marlborough should be given a post, for he was certain that hope of advancement was the best way of making sure of his loyalty.

William ignored Fenwick’s accusations; the man was found guilty and beheaded on Tower Hill. His goods were confiscated and William took possession of them. One of these, it was remembered later, was a particularly spirited horse named Sorrel, which became one of William’s favorite mounts.

The King returned to Flanders and because of his successes there the Treaty of Ryswick was signed and this, to a war-weary people, caused great rejoicing.

But the event which was somewhat startling to so many was a rumor that William was considering bringing home a bride.

William returned to England, minus a bride. It was only necessary to take a glance at him to realize that there could scarcely be truth in a rumor of that sort. He looked old and wizened; his asthma was noticeably worse; his cough was troublesome and his intimate servants knew that he frequently spat blood; he suffered torments from hemorrhoids and during the last months had begun to feel pains in his legs which had begun to swell alarmingly. He was more irascible than ever, and more liberal with his use of the cane; many of those close to him whispered hopefully together that he could not last much longer.

There was a revival of the old Jacobite songs and often William heard them whistled, although none of them dared sing the words in his hearing. The favorite at the moment was one which had come from Scotland, where most of them originated and called Willie the Whig.

He whiggit us out of our right

And he whiggit us out of laws

And he whiggit us out of our King

Oh, that grieves us worst of all

.

Popular favor was turning more and more to Anne, and this was largely due to young Gloucester. Crowds gathered to see him drilling his soldiers in the parks; they applauded and called “God bless the Prince.” They were looking forward to the day when he would be their King; they were weary of Dutch William; he would like to have told them that he was weary of them.

Elizabeth Villiers was now the Countess of Orkney and seemed satisfied with her marriage. He met her at Loo, but it was not the old relationship which he had enjoyed for so many years. He was tired and very sick; yet still some belief in his own destiny drove him on and he knew he would never give up his three kingdoms until death overtook him.

It was written that they should be his; and his they had become and should remain until death took him.

He called on Anne. It was necessary to show the people that they were on excellent terms. He had given her St. James’s for a residence; he had allowed her to spend her summers at Windsor. He himself was content with Kensington Palace and most of all Hampton Court. He could not breathe the damp air of Whitehall for long.

He inspected Gloucester’s troops and never did the people cheer him so loyally as when he was in the company of his nephew.

The boy seemed well; perhaps he would grow out of his delicateness, and the water in his head disperse; if this could be, he would make a fine King, one to whom William could happily leave his inheritance.

He talked pleasantly with Anne, curbing the irritability which she always aroused in him.

“My boy is no longer a child,” she was saying. “He should have a governor and I know of none who would fill the post as skillfully as my Lord Marlborough.”

“Marlborough,” repeated William thoughtfully; and he thought of the Fenwick affair and how mischief could always be found for idle hands. Better to have Marlborough occupied at Court, well satisfied than in half-banishment plotting. Marlborough was too clever a fellow to fail every time. “I think it a good choice,” he said.

Anne’s plump cheeks quivered with pleasure.

“I am glad to have Your Majesty’s gracious consent to the appointment,” she replied.

She could scarcely wait for him to leave; she was longing to call her dear Mrs. Freeman to tell her that at last their desire was achieved.

To annoy her, William stayed longer than he had intended, and when he rose he could scarcely walk. He would have to do something about this new complaint in his legs.

Keppel was beside him. Dear Keppel! Beautiful, fresh faced, attentive—for what he could get most likely, but when one was old and weary one was grateful even for bought attentions.

Oh, for the good days, the days when he had felt like a god among men; when the affection of Bentinck and the adoration of Mary had supported him in the role he had chosen for himself.

On horseback he was more comfortable—apart from the accursed hemorrhoids. He had always felt better mounted; he touched his horse’s flanks lightly and they were off. The creature responded to a touch. All his horses knew their master and because he showed more affection for them than he did for many people within their limits they gave him what he wanted—respect and devotion.

In the Palace he said he would rest for a while and told Keppel to send for Dr. Radcliffe who was known to be one of the best doctors in the country. A blunt man, an unashamed Jacobite who had declared openly that he had little time for the Whig Sovereigns. He had been physician to the King of England and if that King was across the water that didn’t mean that others who called themselves Kings were worthy of the name.

A man, thought William, who in some reigns would have been in the Tower. All the same he was the cleverest of doctors and when one was ill one did not think so much of politics.

In any case, thought William, I am surrounded by Jacobites; and such was the spirit of the age, fostered by the spate of writing so often in the form of lampoons and songs, that they must be endured.

Radcliffe came; he examined the King.

What a wreck of a man! he thought. He’s breaking up all over. Spitting blood for years; cough that racks his body; this alone would have killed most men years ago. And his legs? Just a further sign of decay.

There was a touch of contempt in the manner in which he prodded William’s body. A Whig Sovereign who had usurped the throne from the true King and a wreck of a man into the bargain! But a King—with a belief in his own destiny that was an inner vitality which kept him afloat.

“The climate’s no good to you,” said Radcliffe with a touch of mischief. He meant Get back to Holland and leave England for those to whom it belonged. William sensed the insolence. That word “climate” was often used ambiguously in his hearing. How often had he been told that the climate was not good for him.

“Perforce I must endure it,” replied William coldly.

“At Your Majesty’s peril,” continued the doctor.

The man was getting offensive; he need not think that his reputation as a doctor gave him the right to insult the throne.

“And my legs?” asked William tersely.

“I wouldn’t have Your Majesty’s two legs for your three kingdoms,” retorted the doctor.

William was now incensed; if his cane had been handy he might have been tempted to slash it across that insolent face.

“You may retire,” he said coldly.

Radcliffe bowed.

“I do not mean from my presence merely. You are dismissed from the Court.”

Radcliffe bowed again, smiling as though the King had bestowed some honor.

He left the apartment; some minutes later William heard the sound of whistling beneath his window as someone passed by. He looked out. It was Radcliffe on his way, whistling as he went, “Willie the Whig.”

THE GREAT TRAGEDY

arah was jubilant.

“This is our chance at last,” she told her husband. “Anne is delighted. And I can tell you this: Caliban won’t last long. He dismissed Radcliffe for telling him the truth so it must have been mighty unpleasant. Now, John, we can begin to plan.”

Marlborough shared his wife’s enthusiasm. He was in at last; a pleasant state of affairs after years of neglect.

Their son John was a companion of Gloucester’s and it had not taken Sarah long to persuade Anne to appoint him Master of the Horse to the young Duke.

She was in a whirl of excitement, plans flooding into her brain. She asked Anne if she might retire to St. Albans to have a few days with her family, to which Anne replied fondly that she could deny her dear Mrs. Freeman nothing—even leave to absent herself from her.

Those were thrilling days.

“Just think, my dear,” cried Sarah, “Anne will soon be Queen and she will obey me in all things. You are the Governor of Gloucester who will immediately become Prince of Wales. We shall rule the land.”

“A moment, my love. There will be the Parliament to be considered. You have overlooked that. Do you imagine that they are going to stand aside?”

She laughed in his face. “There is something you have overlooked, John Churchill. We have two daughters who will soon be marriageable.”

He stared at her and she went on: “Henrietta is seventeen. Anne is sixteen. Henrietta is ready now for marriage. I intend to see that my girls marry in the right quarter.”

Marlborough marveled at the power of his wife to astonish him; he raised his eyebrows and murmured: “Doubtless you have already decided on matches for our daughters?”

“I am casting my thoughts,” she answered. “Sunderland has a son—so has Godolphin.”

“You are … amazing!”

“Someone has to work for this family. You are the best soldier in the world, John, but sometimes I think you are a little dilatory in other matters.”

“I thought you hated Sunderland.”

“I do not hate his son; and I might find my hatred turning to affection if he belonged to my family.”

“You think Sunderland would …”

“My dear John, in a very short time any family in England is going to think itself fortunate to mate with the Marlboroughs. Mind you, Godolphin will be easier. I shall invite young Francis to visit us and that will give him an opportunity to become better acquainted with the girls.”

She was invincible, he was sure of it. What she wanted she would have by the sheer force of her character.

When they returned to Court a minor irritation awaited them. William had appointed Dr. Burnet, Bishop of Salisbury, to be in charge of Gloucester’s education.

Burnet had been with William and Mary in Holland and had done a great deal toward bringing them to England and deposing James. He would possibly not look with favor on a suspected Jacobite like Marlborough and there might be trouble there.

Sarah was angry. Burnet, to whom William owed some loyalty, could easily poison his mind against a man who had come near to losing his life through Jacobite activities. She was for going into battle with Burnet.

Here it was that Marlborough showed himself her superior in tactics.

He listened courteously to Burnet’s plans for the Duke’s education and immediately assured the Bishop that he was ready to accept the rule of a man whom he knew was far more learned than himself. In a very short time Marlborough’s tact and diplomacy had averted a situation which Sarah’s blunt vitality might have made a disaster.

All was going well. Marlborough and Burnet in accord; Henrietta falling in love with Francis Godolphin; his father clearly delighted with the possibility of a union between the Marlboroughs and Godolphins. Charles, Lord Spencer, Sunderland’s son might have to be angled for more insistently, and Marlborough himself was not as eager for the match as Sarah was, which meant that she would have to persuade him of the importance of alliance with the Spencers. Sunderland was an opportunist, she knew, and she had loathed him at one time, but he was one of the richest men in England and his son Charles would be rich one day. Not that money was everything. Power was the goal. And with the Spencers and the Godolphins allied to the Marlboroughs by family ties they would be supreme.

Sarah would bring her husband around to her way of thinking eventually, she had no doubt. And in the meantime she could rejoice in the way the Godolphins were being drawn into her net. And for her son John there should be the greatest triumphs of all … but he was young yet.

All was well then—William’s health was declining rapidly, and although Anne was not well, anyone who would miscarry so frequently and continue to live must be strong. She had had three miscarriages in the last three years.

Never had Mrs. Morley and Mrs. Freeman been so close. Anne liked to sit, her beautiful hands lying in her lap, while she talked of her boy, and Mrs. Freeman betrayed her hopes for her dear daughters.

Such a comfort to talk together of these family affairs! sighed Anne.

When Henrietta Churchill was engaged to Francis Godolphin, Anne said Mrs. Freeman must allow her to give them a useful little wedding gift. This turned out to be five thousand pounds—a useful sum indeed.

“Like her mother she will always be grateful to dear Mrs. Morley,” murmured Mrs. Freeman.

Those were glorious days. To Sarah it seemed that she only had to plan, exert her powerful energy, and what she desired was hers.

Anne, with what Sarah called to Marlborough her constant slobbering over her boy, often drove her to distraction. “I find the need to get away some times.”

“Be careful,” warned Marlborough. “You can be too frank at times.”

“John Churchill, it is my frankness which has endeared me to the fool.”

“Perhaps, but never forget that there are others just waiting for the opportunity to leap into your place.”

“And you think it is as easy as that! They just jump and are there?”

“No, but be careful.”

“Well, I don’t intend to waste all my time playing cards and listening to her gossip! I am going to put someone in to do some of my duties so that I can get away now and then more easily than I have done.”

“Who, in God’s name?”

“I’m thinking of my uncle Hill’s girl. That family will have to be helped in some way, I may as well make use of them.”

“She is doing good work looking after the children at St. Albans.”

“The children are growing up. She shall come into Anne’s bedchamber. She will be so grateful and she is such a mouse no one will notice her. Then I shall be at liberty to get away when I want to, knowing that there will be no smart madam to try too much friendship with old Morley.”

“You think of everything,” said Marlborough fondly.

Shortly afterward Abigail Hill joined Anne’s household; and it was as Sarah had prophesied; so quiet was she, so humble, so retiring, it was hardly noticed that she was there.

A new century, thought Sarah. The century of the Churchills. She commanded the household of the Princess Anne. She was looked upon as the future power behind the throne for with every passing week William looked more and more frail.

Yet he clung to life with the obstinacy of a shriveled leaf in spite of autumn gales.

In the spring Anne was brought to bed once more and again miscarried. She was sad for a while to think of another child lost. But there was her boy to comfort her and she believed that as he grew older he was growing stronger.

She herself was feeling the strain of the last miscarriage; Dr. Radcliffe had told her that she must show more restraint at the table and she did try; but it was difficult; and when she had to pass by her favorite dishes she grew melancholy.

She often felt sick and faint and one evening on rising from the table she felt so ill that she sent for Dr. Radcliffe. Since William had banished him, Dr. Radcliffe had not lived at Court and had often been summoned to the Princess’s bedside and obliged to make a journey through the night from his house. Being certain that Anne was merely suffering from indigestion caused through overeating he declined to go.

He sent a message back: “Her Highness is not ill. I know her case well. Put her to bed at once and she will be better in the morning.”

He proved to be right; she was better the next day; but a week later she felt ill again at that same hour which Dr. Radcliffe found inconvenient.

This time Dr. Radcliffe was more blunt. “Go back to the Princess and tell her that there is nothing wrong with her but the vapors. Let her go to bed and rest and she’ll be better in the morning.”

Anne was angry and the next time she saw him she told him that on account of his unforgivable conduct his name was no longer on her list of physicians.

“Was I not right?” he demanded. “Did you not feel better in the morning? There was nothing wrong with you but the vapors.”

“Nothing would induce me to put you back on my list,” said Anne.

“Nothing would induce me to come,” retorted the doctor. “I have never hidden my feelings and like as not, on account of them, I’d be accused of poisoning you Whig Sovereigns. So ’tis better as it is.”

He left in his insolent way, as though having the reputation of being the best doctor in England meant that he could flout royalty without fear of retaliation.

He was now no longer a Court physician and glad of it.

Anne forgot her anger over Radcliffe, because her boy’s birthday was approaching. He was eleven years old; he still drilled his soldiers, and under Burnet was becoming very wise. It was fortunate for him that he had a natural aptitude for learning which grew out of his lively curiosity, for Burnet was determined to make him a scholar.

How delightful he looked on his birthday. He was wearing a special suit which had been made for the occasion. The coat was blue velvet—a color which suited him and made his eyes more vivid than ever; the buttons were diamonds and the Garter ribbon matched the coat; he wore a white periwig which made his head look bigger than ever; but he was a charming figure.

Anne could not take her eyes from him; she thought: He is the whole meaning of life to me.

There was flatttery among courtiers, of course, for the heir to the throne, but surely all who saw must admire him as much as they implied.

He had asked permission to fire his cannon in honor of his parents and when this was given and done he approached them and bowing to them he said in his high clear voice: “Papa and Mama, I wish you both unity, peace, and concord, not for a time but forever.”

They were both overcome with emotion; George pressed Anne’s hand to show he shared his wife’s pride and emotion in their son.

“It is a fine compliment,” George told the boy.

“No, Papa, it is not a compliment; it is sincere.”

There never was such a boy. Anne had been so often disappointed through the children she had hoped for; there were so many failures that she had to think hard to remember the number and then she was not sure; but, while she had this son, she was the proudest, happiest mother in the world.

Young Gloucester sat at the head of the banqueting table and welcomed his guests. All his soldiers were present and taking advantage of the good things to eat, for they needed refreshment after their exertions.

Dancing followed. Gloucester danced tolerably well although he told his mother he could not abide Old Dog—his name for Mr. Gorey who had been dancing master to Anne and her sister Mary when they were Gloucester’s age—and he felt that dancing was not for soldiers.

He was very tired when the banquet was over and not sorry to retire to his apartments where he told John Churchill that birthdays were better to be planned for, than to have, and he would rather one big battle any day.

In their apartments Anne and George sat together reminding each other of how he had danced, how he had reviewed his soldiers, what he had said.

“I can never thank you enough for giving me such a son,” said Anne.

“Nay my dear, it is I who should thank you.”

And they went on to talk of him. They laughed and rejoiced in him.

“We cannot say we have been unfortunate while we have our boy,” said Anne.

The next morning when Gloucester’s attendants went to awaken him they found him feeling sick. He said he had a sore throat and did not want to get up.

This news brought his mother to his bedside immediately, and when she saw his flushed face she was terrified.

“Send for the physicians!” she cried. They came; but they did not know what ailed the boy. They bled him, but his condition did not improve. Before the day was out he was in a high fever and delirious.

“Dr. Radcliffe must come,” said Anne. “Go and bring him.”

“Your Highness, you have dismissed him.”

“Go and bring him. Tell him I order him to come.”

Dr. Radcliffe arrived at Windsor in due course but he clearly came reluctantly.

“Your Highness,” he said, “I am no longer one of your physicians, and I cannot understand why you should summon me here.”

Anne’s face was pale with fear; he had never seen her so frightened for herself as she was for her son.

“My boy is ill,” she said. “If anyone can save him, it is you.”

Radcliffe went and examined the boy.

“He has scarlet fever,” he said. “Good God, who bled him?”

The doctor who had done so admitted that he had.

“Then,” said Radcliffe, “you may well have finished him. I can do nothing. You have destroyed him.”

Anne listened as though in a trance. She let Radcliffe go and made no attempt to detain him.

She only muttered: “He is the best doctor in England and he says my boy is destroyed.”

A future without this boy was something she could not face. She was numb with terror, yet bemused. Only a day or so ago he had stood before her bowing in his beautiful blue suit. It was not possible that he could be so ill.

She would nurse him. Dr. Radcliffe might say that they had destroyed him with the wrong treatment, but she would give him all that a mother could—perhaps what only a mother could.

She forgot her own maladies; there was only one thing that mattered to her. Her boy must live. She herself waited on him, nursed him, prepared the food which he could not eat. As she moved about the sick room, her lips moved in prayer.

“Oh, God, leave me my boy. You have taken all the others and this I accept. But this one is my own, my joy, my life. For eleven years I have cherished him, loved him, feared for him. You have taken the others; leave me this one.”

He must improve. Such loving care must make him well.

“My boy … my boy …” she whispered as she looked at the hot little face that seemed so vulnerable without that white periwig, so childish and yet at times like that of an old man. “Do not leave me. I will give anything … anything in the world to keep you. My hopes of the crown … anything.…”

A fearful thought had struck her. Why did she suffer constant miscarriages? Why was she in danger of losing her best beloved boy?

Had her father once loved her and Mary as she loved this boy? Had he suffered through his children as she had been made to suffer through hers? Death and treachery … which was the harder to bear?

She shut out such thoughts. She called to her boy and to her God.

“Have pity on me. Have pity on this suffering mother.”

But there was to be no pity. Five days after his birthday, William, Duke of Gloucester was dead.

THE LITTLE GENTLEMAN IN BLACK VELVET

he Princess Anne remained in her apartments. She spoke to no one and no one could comfort her. She did not wish to see Mrs. Freeman, not that Sarah cared. She herself had suffered the loss of a son and she did not want to be reminded of that tragic time.

As Sarah said to Marlborough: “The death of Gloucester changes the position of Anne. That poor lump of woman … how long will she last? And without an heir she is scarcely of any importance. You see how wise I was to link us with Godolphin, and it will be Sunderland before long.”

Anne had not thought of her changed status. There was only her loss.

George came to her; they held hands and tried to speak of their lost child and then could not bear to.

They sat in silence crying quietly.

Anne said at length: “I keep seeing him, George, reviewing his soldiers, regarding us in his grave way. Do you remember his greeting to us? He wished us peace, unity, and concord. Peace … how shall we ever know that again without him? I cannot believe it, George. Our little one. Never to see him again.”

“Est-il possible?” murmured George brokenheartedly.

Anne wrote to her father. She wanted him to forgive her. She had been a wicked daughter to him and now she suffered a bitter penitence. Her great sorrow, she believed, was a punishment from heaven. Her heart was broken, but if he would forgive her she believed she could go on living.

When she had sent off that letter she felt a little happier; and when James replied forgiving her, asking her to use her utmost power to restore her brother to the throne if ever she came to it, and to accept it only in trust for him; she wept and said that her father’s letter had comforted her as nothing else would.

William was growing weaker and Anne was the heir to the throne who could not shut herself away forever.

Sarah had become a little more insolent than before. She was determined to stress Anne’s less powerful position even if Anne was unaware of it. She had succeeded in marrying her daughter Anne to Charles, Lord Spencer, and that little project had been carried through victoriously.

Sunderland, Godolphin, Marlborough. What a combination! In certain circumstances unbeatable. All that would be necessary for them to rule would be for Sarah to keep the flaccid Queen in leading strings; and that she could adequately do.

The death of one small boy had turned thousands of eyes toward the throne. The Whigs and the Tories were drawn closer together. The Tories wanted the old regime—a King such as they had been accustomed to; the Whigs preferred the Sovereigns they had made of William and Mary, whose power was governed by the Parliament. But they stood together on one point and passed the Act of Settlement which stipulated that the sovereign must be a member of the Anglican Church, must not leave the country without the consent of Parliament and must be advised by the entire Privy Council and not by counsellors who were secret.

This meant two things; there should be no return to that old Stuart love: The Divine Right of Kings; and James’s son by his Catholic wife should be kept from the throne as long as he adhered to the Catholic faith. A constitutional Monarchy and a Protestant King.

William could not live long; Anne was not a healthy woman; in view of the Act of Settlement eyes were turned to the House of Hanover in which James I’s granddaughter Sophia was Electress.

But William still lived and there was Anne, who was a young woman still. She was almost certain to become pregnant again soon and who knew what would happen? She had produced one child. Why should she not produce another?

It was hoped she would. What a lot of trouble that would save!

Death did not come singly to the royal family.

It had not been generally known that, early that year, James had had a stroke which left him partially paralysed. He lived on for a while but by September his condition had weakened and after a short illness he died at St. Germains.

In his last hours he reiterated that he forgave all his enemies and he mentioned specially his daughter Anne. He lovingly took farewell of Mary Beatrice, but he was not sorry to go; sickness and defeat had darkened his life, but what had hurt him most was the treachery of the daughters he had loved so dearly; that was something he would never forget. But the letter of Anne’s, who herself was suffering through a beloved child, had given him some comfort. He was glad that she had asked forgiveness and he had given it before leaving the world.

Louis came to his deathbed and James made a dying request of him.

“Here is my son,” he said. “In a few hours’ time he will be King of England. Will you, my good friend, promise me that you will recognize him as such.”

“I promise,” answered Louis.

William knew that war was inevitable. Louis of France had proclaimed the son of James II and Mary Beatrice, King James III of England.

There was a new King over the Water for the Catholics to drink to.

Only such an act could rouse William from the physical disabilities which were overwhelming him. His body might be failing him, but his mind was as alert as ever. The proclamation of James’ son as King of England was a minor issue. The question of the Spanish succession was involved; Charles II of Spain had named Louis’ grandson Philip of Anjou as his successor. This could only mean that Louis would have a big control over Spain and the balance of power in Europe would be upset. A European war was brewing fast and Holland and England would have to stand together against France and Spain if they were to survive.

Such a project was such to put new life into a great war leader.

William rarely spent an evening drinking Holland’s gin nowadays. He was in consultation with his most able ministers. Marlborough was a good soldier; William had seen enough of him in action to know that. There were Marlborough, Godolphin, and Sunderland … among others.

This was a time for unity. They would all see that.

And at such a time William ceased to be an irritable invalid.

The gateway of greatness was opening to Marlborough; Sarah knew it. And he would always remember whose had been the hand to unlock those gates. He would always remember what he owed to his wife.

She sat at her table in the anteroom to Anne’s bedchamber drawing on her gloves, but she did not see the room; she saw Marlborough crowned with the laurels of success; her lovely daughters queens of their world; and young John, best beloved of all her children, who should have the grandest future of them all.

The door opened so silently that she was not aware that anyone had entered until a soft voice said: “Excuse me, my lady.”

She looked up into the meek plain face of Abigail Hill.

“Good gracious, you startled me. I didn’t hear you come.”

“I am sorry, my lady. But you are wearing the Princess’s gloves.”

Sarah looked down at her hands. She thought they had seemed tight. Anne’s hands were small, her fingers tapering; the only beauty she possessed.

Abigail was regarding her with such awe that she was first amused and then delighted. She supposed these women about Anne realized that she, Sarah Churchill, was of far more importance than their mistress.

She could not resist confirming this opinion or making sure that it existed in case it did not already.

She peeled them off turning up her nose as she did so. “Take them away at once. I do not care to wear something that has touched the odious hands of that disagreeable woman.”

Abigail looked startled as Sarah had expected; Sarah flung the gloves at her; they fell to the floor and the woman meekly picked them up.

“Leave me, please. I am busy.”

Sarah sat smiling as Abigail left. What she did not know was that Abigail had left the door open and that Anne in the adjoining room had heard Sarah’s words, for Sarah had a loud penetrating voice.

She had said that to a serving woman! thought Anne. Mrs. Freeman had called her hands odious and her a disagreeable woman. Sarah was handsome, of course, and however disagreeable Sarah was, Anne could not help being fascinated by her. But to say such a thing to a serving woman! She would not have believed it if she had not heard it herself.

Sarah gave herself great airs since her daughters’ marriages and since Marlborough was back in favor.

She didn’t mean it perhaps. It was a joke. Yes, that was it. It was meant to be amusing. Sarah would never call her hands odious, herself disagreeable.

Abigail Hill brought the gloves to Anne.

“Can I help put them on, Your Highness.”

Such a nice quiet voice, such a nice quiet woman! And she gave no sign of what must have been astonishing to her.

It couldn’t be true. I imagined it, thought Anne. It was more comfortable that way; for in truth, although Mrs. Freeman was overbearing, although she was growing more and more inclined to bully, she was Mrs. Morley’s dear, dear friend and Mrs. Morley could not do without her, particularly now she was suffering so deeply from the loss of her beloved boy.

Abigail Hill was smiling shyly. Such a pleasant creature, but so quiet and self-effacing, one did not notice she was there until one wanted something.

Abigail made her think that she had imagined those words. How comforting! It was just what she wanted.

War! thought William.

The whole of Europe in conflict. But he would win; he was certain of it.

To be on the battlefield again! It was the life for him.

He pressed his heels into his horse’s side. A good horse this, Sorrel, Fenwick’s horse; the only good thing which had come out of that affair.

Before him was Hampton Court—his palace. How different he had made it since his arrival in England! It could be in Holland; there was the Dutch stamp on it—square and gracious and the gardens were a delight.

He was anxious to be there; he went into a gallop; but as he did so the horse plunged its forefoot into a molehill and William was rolling over and over on the grass.

His collarbone was fractured. It must be set and he must rest.

“Rest!” he cried. “With war imminent! I have to be at Kensington Palace this night to meet my Council!”

None dared dissuade him; and when he reached Kensington riding there in his carriage, the jolting he received had displaced the bones and they had to be reset. Moreover, his sickly body could not endure the strain and he was exhausted and forced to rest.

He lay tossing on his bed. He had no great desire to live, but this was not the time to die. There was so much to be done. War was threatening and he was a great war leader. He did not love England, nor did the English love him; but his destiny, so clear at his birth, was the possession and retention of three crowns and he was not a man to evade his fate.

He must not allow a broken bone or two to deter him.

They said this King was immortal. They had been expecting him to die for years; yet he had outlived his wife; he had outlived James; and although a few days ago he had been believed to be near death he was recovering.

In the taverns the “Jacks” were secretly drinking to the Little Gentleman in Black Velvet—the mole who had made that hill which had brought down Fenwick’s Sorrel. He had passed through many battles; he had been the victim of plots; he had faced death a hundred times and eluded it; could it be that the little mole had succeeded where his enemies had failed?

But it seemed as though it were not to be.

The Princess Anne and Prince George called on the King to congratulate him on his recovery and for a week or so William, although suffering more acutely than before, went about his business.

But it was true that the gentleman in black velvet had achieved what his enemies had failed to do.

The swollen legs grew larger; the asthma was worse; it was he himself who told those about his bed that the end had come.

Keppel was at his bedside; he was glad of that; but there was one other whom he wanted: Bentinck. The friend of the past. There must be one last touch of that once dearly beloved hand.

Bentinck came, sorrow in his eyes and in his heart.

The one who truly loved me, thought William—but there had been one other. There had been Mary.

On his arm was the bracelet of hair he had put there on her death. They would find it now and perhaps know that somewhere in his heart under the layers of ice there was a warmth for some. For loving Mary, for loyal Bentinck, for gay Keppel, for his dear Elizabeth.

He tried to speak to Bentinck. “I am near the end …” But there was no sound.

In her apartment Anne waited for news. Sarah was with her, too excited for speech.

To herself she spoke. It has come. This is the great day … the beginning of greatness. We shall be invincible. My entire dream is coming true.

She looked at the flaccid figure in the chair: the Queen of England.

Queen, thought Sarah, in name only. It shall be the Marlboroughs who rule.

People were coming into the apartment now. Oh, so respectful, so full of feigned sorrow, so full of suppressed excitement.

They knelt before Anne.

“Your Majesty,” they said. And then there was a cry in the apartment. “Long Live Queen Anne.”

Bibliography

Aubrey, William Hickman Smith

History of England

Bathurst, Lt.-Col. The Hon. Benjamin

Letters of Two Queens

Bray, William, ed.

Diary of John Evelyn

Burnet, Bishop

History of His Own Time

, with notes by the Earls of Dartmouth and Hardwicke and Speaker Onslow, to which are added the cursory remarks of Swift

Chapman, Hester W.

Mary II, Queen of England

Churchill, William S.

Marlborough, His Life and Times

Dobrée, Bonamy

Three Eighteenth Century Figures

Edwards, William

Notes on British History

Kronenberger, Louis

Marlborough’s Duchess

Oman, Carola

Mary of Modena

Pepys, Samuel

Diary and Correspondence

edited by Henry B. Wheatley

Renier, G.J.

William of Orange

Sandars, Mary F.

Princess and Queen of England: Life of Mary II

Sells, A. Lytton

The Memoirs of James II

(translated from the Bouillon manuscript, edited and collated with the Clarke Edition, with an introduction by Sir Arthur Bryant)

Stephen, Sir Leslie, and Sir Sidney Lee, eds.

The Dictionary of National Biography

Strickland, Agnes

Lives of the Queens of England

Traill, H.D.

William the Third

Trevelyan, G. M.

England under the Stuarts

Trevelyan, G. M.

English Social History

Trevelyan, G. M.

History of England

Wade, John

British History

Macauley, Lord, edited by Lady Trevelyan

The History of England

from the Accession of James II

TURN THE PAGE TO READ AN EXCERPT FROM

JEAN PLAIDY’S

SEVENTH AND FINAL BOOK IN

THE NOVELS OF THE STUARTS SERIES:

COURTING

HER HIGHNESS

978-0-307-71951-5

$16.00

ABIGAIL HILL

hen the attention of Lady Marlborough was called to her impecunious relations, the Hills, she looked upon the entire subject as a trivial inconvenience, although later—much later—she came to realize that it was one of the most—perhaps the most—important moments of her brilliant career.

In the first place it was meant to be an insult, but one which she had brushed aside as she would a tiresome gnat at a picnic party.

The occasion had been the birthday of the Princess Anne, and on that day Her Highness’s complete attention had been given to her son, the young Duke of Gloucester. Anne’s preoccupation with that boy, although understandable, for he was the only one of her children who had survived after countless pregnancies—at least Lady Marlborough had lost count, for there must have been a dozen to date—was a source of irritation. Before the boy’s birth, Sarah Churchill, Lady Marlborough, had become accustomed to demanding the whole of the Princess’s attention, and the friendship between them was the wonder and speculation of all at Court; when they were together Anne and Sarah were Mrs. Morley and Mrs. Freeman respectively, because Anne wished there to be no formality to mar their absolute intimacy. But since the boy had been born, although the friendship had not diminished, Anne’s first love was for her son, and when she went on and on about “my boy” Sarah felt as though she could scream.

Thus it had been at the birthday celebrations; the boy was to have a formal introduction to the Court, and for the occasion Anne had ordered that a special costume be made for him; and she had had the absurd idea of decking him out in her own jewels. Anne herself did not greatly care for ceremonial occasions; she was far more comfortable reclining on her couch, with a cup of chocolate in her hand or a dish of sweetmeats beside her, entertaining herself with the cards or gossip. But she wanted “my boy” as she, to Sarah’s exasperation, constantly referred to him, to look magnificent.

Poor little wretch! thought Sarah, who delighted in applying terms of contempt to persons in high places. He needed to be adorned. When she compared him with her own handsome son—John after his father—who was a few years older than the young Duke, she wanted to crow with triumph. In fact it was all she could do to prevent herself calling Anne’s attention to the difference in the two boys. When she brought young John to Court, as she intended to quite soon, Anne would see for herself what a difference their was between the two.

But young Gloucester, in spite of his infirmity, was a bright boy. He was alert, extremely intelligent, and the doctors said that the fact that he suffered from water on the brain, far from harming his mind, made it more alert; and so it seemed. He was old for his years; sharp of wits, and to see him drilling the ninety boys in the park whom he called his army, was one of the sights of the Court. All the same, his head was too big for his body and he could not walk straight unless two attendants were close beside him. He was the delight and terror of his parents’ life—and no wonder.

There he was on this occasion in a coat of blue velvet, the buttonholes of which were encrusted with diamonds; and about his small person were his mother’s jewels. Over his shoulder was the blue ribbon of the Garter which Sarah could never look on without bitterness; she had so wanted the Garter for her dear Marl, her husband, who, she believed, was possessed of genius and could rule the country if he only had a chance. Therefore to see the small figure boasting that he was already a Knight of the Garter was a maddening sight; but when she looked at the white periwig, which added a touch of absurdity, and thought of that huge head beneath it, she was thankful that even if Marlborough had been denied the Garter, even if Dutch William was keeping him in the shadows, at least she had a healthy family; and it was only a matter of waiting for the end of William before, with Anne’s coming to the throne, they were given what they deserved.

In the royal nursery young Gloucester had displayed the jewel which the King had given him; it was St. George on horseback set with diamonds, a magnificent piece; and it was certainly not William’s custom to be so generous. But like everyone else at Court he had an affection for the little boy who, with his charming eccentricities, had even been able to break through the King’s reserve.

“His Majesty gave me this,” he said, “when he bestowed the Garter on me. He put on the Garter with his own hands which I assure you is most unusual. It is because he holds me in such regard. Am I not fortunate. But I shall repay His Majesty. Look here, Mama, this is the note I am sending him.”

Anne had taken the note and Sarah, with the boy’s governess, Lady Fitzharding, had looked over her shoulder as she read:

I, Your Majesty’s most dutiful subject, had rather lose my life in Your Majesty’s cause than in any man’s else, and I hope it will not be long ere you conquer France. We, your Majesty’s subjects, will stand by you while we have a drop of blood.

Gloucester

Anne had smiled and looked from Barbara Fitzharding to Sarah. Besottedly, thought Sarah. It was true the boy was precocious—but he was a child. And when he offered his soldiers—boys of his own age with toy muskets and swords to the King—it was a joke and nothing more. But even grim William gravely accepted these offers and came to Kensington to review the small troops. Perhaps, thought Sarah sardonically, this was not so foolish as it seemed; for it was only on such occasions, with the crowd looking on, that he managed to raise a cheer for himself.

“I am sure the King will be delighted,” Anne had said.

“Doubtless he will think I am a little too fine,” mused Gloucester thoughtfully. “But my loyalty may help to divert his impatience with my finery.”

The Princess Anne had rolled her eyes in ecstasy. Was there ever such a boy! What wit! What observation! What a King he would make when his turn came!

When he had left them they had had to listen to accounts—heard many times before—of his wit and wisdom. Sarah was impatient, but Barbara Fitzharding was almost as besotted as the Princess; and there they had sat, like two old goodies, talking about this wonderful boy.

It was later when Sarah and Barbara were together, that Sarah gave way to her impatience.

“I do not think the King cared for all that display,” she commented, a smile which was almost a sneer turning up a corner of her mouth.

“He is, I believe, truly fond of his nephew,” Barbara replied. “And he is not fond of many people.”

“There are his good friends, Bentinck and Keppel—Bentinck the faithful and Keppel the handsome—and of course his mistress.”

Sarah looked slyly at Barbara, for it was her sister, Elizabeth Villiers, who had been William’s mistress almost since the beginning of his marriage to the time of the Queen’s death. The Queen had left a letter that had been opened after her death reproaching William and asking him to discontinue the liaison, and which had so shaken the King that he had left Elizabeth alone for a long time. Sarah believed, though, that the relationship had been resumed—very secretively; and Barbara, a spy reporting everything to her sister who passed it on to William, would know if this were so.

“He is so very ill these days,” said Barbara. “I doubt whether he has the time or energy for diversions.”

“His gentlemen friends remain at his side. I hear they enjoy themselves on Holland gin in the Hampton Banqueting House. He still finds time—and energy—to indulge his Dutchmen.”

“But he is looking more frail every week.”

“That is why it was a mistake to dress Gloucester up in all that finery. It was almost proclaiming him Prince of Wales before his mother is Queen.”

“I wonder,” said Barbara with a hint of sarcasm, “that you did not warn his mother since she would most assuredly listen to you.”

“I did warn her.”

“And she disobeyed?” Veiled insolence! Sarah had never liked Barbara Fitzharding since the days when as young Barbara Villiers she had lived with the circle of girls, Sarah among them, who had been brought up by Barbara’s mother, with the young Princesses Anne and Mary in Richmond Palace.

“She is so besotted about that boy.”

“He is her son.”

“He is being pampered. I would not let one of mine be indulged as he is.”

Was this a reflection on Barbara’s governess-ship? Barbara disliked Sarah Churchill—who at Court did not?—and although she might rule the Princess Anne’s household, Barbara was not going to allow her to interfere in that of the Duke of Gloucester.

“He is by no means indulged. He merely happens to be an extremely intelligent boy. In fact, I have never known one more intelligent.”

“Have you not? I must invite you to St. Albans one day and you shall meet my children.”

Barbara laughed. “Everything you have must naturally be better than other people’s.”

“Must always be? What do you mean by that? My children are strong, healthy, intelligent, which is not to be wondered at. Compare their father with that … oaf … I can call him nothing else … who goes around babbling ‘Est-il possible?’ to everything that is said to him! Prince George of Denmark! I call him Old Est-il-possible! And when I do everyone knows to whom I refer.”

“One would think you were the royal Princess—Her Highness, your servant,” said Barbara. “You ought to take care, Sarah Churchill. You should think back to the days when you first joined us at Richmond. You were fortunate, were you not, to find a place there? It was the greatest good luck … for you. You must admit that you were not of the same social order as the rest of us. We were noble and you …”

“Your relative, Barbara Villiers—my lady Castlemaine as she became—put honors in your family’s way because she was an expert performer in the King’s bedchamber. We had no such ladies in our family.”

“Your husband I believe did very well out of his relationship with my lady Castlemaine. She paid him for his services to her … in the bedchamber. Was it five thousand pounds with which he bought an annuity? You must find that very useful now that my lord Marlborough is out of favor and has no office at the Court.”

If there was one person in the world whom Sarah truly loved it was her husband, John Churchill, Earl of Marlborough; and although he had had a reputation as a rake before their marriage, he had, she was certain, remained absolutely faithful to her since. This reference to past indiscretions aroused her fury.

She slapped Barbara Fitzharding’s face.

Barbara, taken aback, stared at her, lifted her hand to retaliate and then remembered that there must be no brawling between women in positions such as theirs.

But her anger matched Sarah’s.

“I’m not surprised at your mode of behavior,” she said. “It is hardly to be wondered at. And besides being arrogant and ill-mannered you are also cruel. I should be ashamed, not to have poor relations, but to turn my back on them while they starve.”

“What nonsense is this?”

“It is no nonsense. I heard only the other day the distressing story of the Hill family. I was interested … and so was my informant … because of their connection with the high and mighty Lady Marlborough! Your uncle, aunt, and cousins … dying of starvation! Two girls working as servants, I hear, two boys running about the streets, ragged and hungry.”

“A pitiable story and one which does credit to your imagination, Lady Fitzharding.”

“A pitiable story, Lady Marlborough, but it owes nothing to my imagination. Go and see for yourself. And let me tell you this, that I shall not feel it my duty to keep silent about this most shameful matter.”

Sarah for once was speechless, and when Lady Fitzharding flounced out of the room she stared after her, murmuring: “Hill! Hill!” The name was familiar. Her grandfather Sir John Jennings, she had heard her own father say, had had twenty-two children and one of these, Mary, had married a Francis Hill who was a merchant of London.

Sarah had heard nothing of him since. One did not need to keep in touch with one’s merchant connections—except of course when they were likely to bring disrepute.

Sarah made one of her prompt decisions.

Something must be done about the Hills.

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Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

A Husband for Anne

Mrs. Morley and Mrs. Freeman

The King is Dead

Long Live the King

The Princess Bereaved

The Warming-Pan Scandal

The Flight of the Princess

The Uneasy Coronation

A Dish of Green Peas

At the Playhouse

The Arrival of Mrs. Pack and Departure of William

Beachy Head and the Boyne

Marlborough’s Defeat

The Flowerpot Plot

His Highness’s Soldiers and Stays

The End of a Life

To Be Delivered After Death

The Twickenham Interlude

Garter and Governor for Gloucester

The Great Tragedy

The Little Gentleman in Black Velvet

Bibliography

Excerpt from Courting Her Highness