Courting Her Highness (27 page)

She was so young yet; and dared say nothing, for she knew well enough how fierce Mamma could be when she did not want something—and she would certainly not want this marriage.

“But it is going to be,” said Mary to herself; and in her face was all her mother’s determination.

Watching Sarah reading the letter Mary thought: I shall hate her for ever and ever if she stops our marriage.

“H’m!” said the Duchess. “Sometimes I think that woman grows madder every day.”

Mary knew to whom she referred when she spoke in that slighting
way. Mamma loved to speak contemptuously of the Queen, who had done so much for her. Perhaps, thought Mary, she will send me back to St. Albans with Abigail Hill in charge. That would be wonderful. One could do exactly what one liked with Abigail Hill. One could bully and browbeat
her
into accepting just anything.

“Is it from the Queen?” asked Mary.

“It is. She is a jealous old fool. She cannot bear that I should be with anyone but herself. What next!”

“Mamma, do you propose to send Abigail Hill to St. Albans with me?”

“No I do not. She is too useful at Court. The Queen would not like that at all.”

“She would not wish to lose Abigail then?”

Sarah let out a spurt of laughter. “Abigail! She cares nothing for her. She’s a good chambermaid … nothing more. The Queen likes her there because she does what is expected of her without obtruding. But she is so jealous of my noticing anyone … just anyone … that she thinks of a plain little chambermaid as an enchantress. Think of that! Abigail Hill.”

“I was only thinking, Mamma, that you might have wanted her to be in charge of me. It would take me off your hands if Abigail and I went back to St. Albans.”

The Duchess’s glittering eyes were fixed on her daughter.

“Both you and Abigail stay precisely where you are,” she said coolly.

Mary quailed. How much does she know? she wondered.

How pleasant it
was in the green closet! Abigail poured the tea and brought it to her mistress, so quietly, so efficiently, just the right amount of sugar. Why was it that it was never quite the same when others made it? George sat in his chair, so contented now—except of course when his asthma troubled him, and even then so patient … so resigned. Dear George! He seemed not to mind that he had never fulfilled his early promise of becoming a great soldier or sailor, just as she had accepted the fate of never having had the children they had longed for. Now she dreamed of being a great Queen. Often she talked to Hill about her hopes, for to
talk to Hill was like talking to oneself.
She
never shouted or contradicted or burst into loud laughter that had a hint of derision in it.

“I look upon my people as my children, Hill, the children I never had. Then I see myself as the Mother of them all and I want to do what is best for them just as I should for my babies had they lived.”

“Your Majesty, I believe the people look upon you as the Mother of them all.”

“Do you think Hill that a Queen can—if she has good ministers—be an inspiration to her people that a King can never be?”

“I do, Your Majesty. Think of Queen Elizabeth. An inspiration … it is exactly that.”

Anne nodded contentedly. “When I think of that, Hill, I cease to mourn quite so sadly.”

“It is God’s consolation,” answered Abigail.

Dear Hill. So right-thinking! So deeply religious!

“And there is the Church, Hill. To uphold the Church and the state—that is my duty.”

“Oh, Your Majesty is good … 
good
!”

Dear Hill! Not only were her deeds a perpetual comfort but her words also.

What happy days! And she was beginning to grasp affairs of state. Here in the green closet she received her favoured ministers and how much easier it was to grasp a situation over a dish of tea than at a Council meeting. She felt so at peace, with one of the dogs on her lap and George dozing in his chair and Hill never far distant.

Samuel Masham was a frequent visitor because he always accompanied the Prince, and he was a young man on whom George seemed to depend as she did on Abigail. Not quite as much, of course; that would be impossible.

“There is a cold wind today, Your Majesty.” Abigail laid the shawl about her shoulders.

“I notice it now you mention it.”

She always anticipated a want. What a creature!

“The Duchess is still at St. Albans, I suppose.”

“I believe that to be so, Your Majesty.”

Abigail lowered her eyes to hide the faint mischief in them. The
Duchess’s children did lead her a dance. Now it was Mary wanting to marry someone whom the Duchess considered unsuitable. Abigail hoped that little affair would keep Mamma occupied at St. Albans for some time. It was so peaceful at Court without her.

“How peaceful it is!” said the Queen. “Do you know Hill, I think one of the states most desirable as one gets older is
peace
. I am sure His Highness would agree with me.”

“I am sure he would, Your Majesty.”

How long, wondered Abigail, before she began to understand who was the disturber of the peace, how long would she allow the Duchess to dominate her and set the pattern of her life? Sometimes it seemed as though the answer was: For ever. There were others when Abigail was not so sure.

“Hill, who is invited to the closet this afternoon?”

“Mr. Harley, Madam, and Mr. St. John.”

“Oh yes, yes. Marlborough’s protégés. He seems to think highly of them and he is a very clever man. The Duchess is not so sure of them. Well, perhaps we shall discover, eh, Hill?”

Perhaps we shall discover! There were moments when Anne lifted her from her position as a chambermaid and made a confidante of her, and to be a confidante of a Queen was to take part in politics.

“It might be
that Mr. Harley would like a dish of tea, Hill.”

Abigail stood before him and a shiver of excitement tinged with apprehension ran through her. His eyes, betraying nothing of his feelings, rested on her not lightly but as though they would probe the depth of her mind. As he accepted the tea she caught the smell of wine on his breath; he had been drinking before he came. Why not? she asked herself. So had the Prince, over his dinner; that was why he could not keep awake.

“Thank you, Mistress Hill,” he said. His tone was courteous but his voice harsh.

“And Mr. St. John?”

What a handsome young man! Considerably younger than Mr. Harley. Twenty years? Not quite so much as that. Fifteen perhaps. And clearly
his disciple. Mr. St. John was too bold. Abigail had heard from Samuel Masham that he had the reputation of being a rake. Now his eyes were on Abigail appraisingly, but differently from the manner in which Mr. Harley watched her. St. John was no doubt noticing her sandy hair, the freckles of which she could never rid herself, the pinkness at the tip of the nose which was too long, the colourlessness of eyes that were too small. He would be dismissing her as unbedworthy. But still he was interested. Yet not so interested as Mr. Harley.

The realization came to Abigail that she was no longer merely the chambermaid to pour the tea, to fetch and carry the Queen’s fans, cards or shawls, and that these men, who were clearly going to be important in the country’s affairs had discovered this startling fact even before she had.

Mr. Harley was talking to the Queen of Daniel Defoe. Abigail seated herself on a stool close to the Queen’s chair, where Anne liked her to be, and listened. Mr. Harley was now trying to plead for Defoe. What an extraordinary voice he had; it was inharmonious, and he all but stuttered; yet he made his points with a brilliance and tact which was admirable.

“Your Majesty’s reign will be one remembered through the ages,” he was telling Anne. How had he known that that was one of the dearest wishes of her heart? “Conquest, yes, Madam. That makes for greatness, but there is something more valuable, more endurable: Literature.”

“I believe you have a wonderful collection of books, Mr. Harley.”

“To collect books is a hobby of mine, Madam. And I believe that at this time our country has a greater contribution to make to literature than ever before.”

The Queen folded her hands. What pleasant conversation! What an accomplished man! Yes, she had heard of the people he mentioned and it was admirable, quite
admirable
, that they found so much in the
times
to inspire them.

“Sometimes, it does not inspire them to admiration, Madam,” suggested St. John.

“It is of slight importance,” retorted Mr. Harley. “It matters only that they are inspired.”

Mr. Harley led the conversation this way and that. He mentioned Jonathan Swift, Matthew Prior, Joseph Addison, Richard Steele, William
Congreve, John Dryden and at last he came to the point of the discussion: Daniel Defoe.

“I believe he is under sentence for some misdemeanour,” said Anne, frowning.

“For writing a pamphlet, Madam.”

Anne shivered. “I would not compare such a man with Mr. Dryden whose work I admire. Such amusing plays! I think we should have one performed for my birthday, Hill. Remind me.”

“Yes, Madam.”

“Had he been a less brilliant writer, Madam, he would now be free.”

Anne nodded. “Such amusing plays,” she answered.

Mr. Harley had a way of bringing the conversation back to what he wanted to say, and he had come to talk of Daniel Defoe for whom he obviously had a great admiration. Abigail realized at once that his idea was to have the man released from Newgate. But he did not know Anne if he thought that because she found his company stimulating she would grant any request. These people underestimated their Queen; she could be as determined as any of them to have what she wanted. She never raged and stormed as some people were apt to do. But she made her point and clung to it as stubbornly as any mule.

She had not invited Mr. Harley and Mr. St. John to the friendly intimacies of the green closet to discuss the affairs of a scribbler who had foolishly been caught up in politics and in consequence found himself in Newgate Jail.

Abigail inwardly laughed. It was so amusing to listen to Mr. Harley on the theme of Defoe while the Queen repeated at intervals. “Such a clever man, Mr. Dryden. Hill do remind me. We will have the play at St. James’s for my birthday.”

And when they left they must have been deeply disappointed, for they had gained nothing, in Abigail’s opinion, but perhaps a little understanding that the Queen was not what they had believed her to be.

She would have been surprised if she could have heard their conversation as they sauntered across the path.

“What did you think of her, St. John?”

“Scarce a beauty and devilish sly.”

“It may well be that her mental accomplishments make up for her lack of physical attraction.”

“She’s quiet as a mouse. They call her the shuffling little wretch at court, so I heard. Danvers and the rest are pleased to put on her all the most unpleasant tasks.”

“Danvers and the rest could well be fools.”

“Come, Master, don’t tell me you’re taken with the woman.”

“Mightily taken.”

“And you not a man for the wenches.”

“Your mind runs along wearisomely well-worn paths, Harry. Did you know there are other games more amusing, more exciting than those of the bedchamber?”

“An impossibility,” answered St. John.

“Rake! Libertine! You’re missing much in life.”

“You are proposing to play games with Mistress Hill?”

“Perhaps. She’s a deep one that. Worth watching. Who is she, do you think?”

“Brought to court by Viceroy Sarah, being some distant relation in service, which could not be tolerated, of course. Connection of Her High and Mightiness a serving wench! Never! Better to have her at Court—in a post of spy, you understand.”

“So she is a Marlborough spy! I doubt it, Harry. I doubt it very much.”

Robert Harley was smiling complacently. He was well pleased with his visit to the green closet.

Abigail would have been surprised, for he had failed completely to do anything for Daniel Defoe. She did not guess then that he had achieved his main object. He had seen Abigail Hill and had decided that he had not been mistaken in her.