Courting Her Highness (33 page)

“Your hope, Master?”

“Well, do you wish to remain one of Sarah’s subjects?”

“I loathe the woman, but while the Queen is besotted by her how can we help it?”

“There are always ways, my dear fellow. The Marlboroughs are supreme now … at their peak, shall we say. Never can they climb higher than they are at this moment. Now is the time to assess their power, to find their weaknesses.”

“But …”

“I know. I know. We are Marlborough’s men. We are his protégés. To him we owe our advancement. He trusts us. Now we come to his weakness. It is never wise—in politics to trust anyone.”

“I have trusted you.”

“My dear fellow, we are travelling companions—we go together. Your support is useful to me; my influence is useful to you. We are not rivals. We move in unison. It is the Marlboroughs who are our rivals. If we are not careful we shall find that we must agree with Marlborough in all things—and that, like as not, means obeying Sarah—and if we do not, we shall be
out.
”

St. John shrugged his shoulders.

“You would accept this state of affairs? A great mistake, Harry. Never accept anything unless it is agreeable. Pray accept some more brandy for that at least you know to be agreeable without doubt.”

“So … you intend to work against Marlborough?”

“You express yourself crudely. Let us say this, Harry, if we would advance we do not stand still. We go forward. We explore the territory and assess its advantages. Well, that is what I intend to do.”

“But how?”

Harley laughed. “Can you not guess? I shall tell you then, because we are in this together, St. John. You know that as I march forward I take you with me. That’s agreed, is it not?”

“We have worked together; you have helped me, encouraged me.”

“And when I receive my Government appointment you have yours. We’re in harness, Harry. Don’t forget. Now in what territory would you reconnoitre if you were surveying the coming battle? You are at a loss, Harry. That’s rare with you. In the Queen’s bedchamber, my dear fellow! That is the place. And the time is now. You will see I am ready to go into action.”

Glorious days! thought
Sarah. Letters from Marl telling of his plans and his love for her. “I would give up ambition, my hopes for future glory, for the sake of my dearest soul.” They were bound together again and there must be no more follies. She was certain that if by any chance there had been a little truth in the rumour Sunderland had reported to her, Marl had learned his lesson. He would never risk looking at another woman.

She had been down to look at the site for the new Palace. Woodstock was both delightful and romantic. There Henry II had dallied with the Fair Rosamond Clifford, and to avoid the jealousy of Queen Eleanor had had a bower built for her within a maze to which few had the clue. Eleanor determined to destroy her rival, arranged that a skein of silk be put in Rosamond’s pocket that it should be unravelled as she walked through the maze, and thus Eleanor, following the silken clue, was led to the bower where she offered Rosamond a choice between a dagger or a bowl of poison.

Rumour! thought Sarah mockingly, knowing how rumour could arise. But the fact remained that Rosamond died soon after her liaison with the King was made known and there seemed little doubt that Eleanor had had a hand in it.

Sarah could well sympathize with the Queen. I’d be ready with the dagger and the poisoned bowl for any woman Marl preferred to me! she thought. But how foolish! He preferred only her. Did she not carry a letter in her pocket in which he told her so with the utmost emphasis.

The romantic past of Woodstock made even her imaginative. Here the Black Prince had been born; here Elizabeth had been imprisoned; Charles I had sheltered here after the Battle of Edgehill; but now in place of Woodstock there would be Blenheim, and when people passed this way they would not think of Elizabeth or Charles or the Fair Rosamond—they would say: There is Blenheim which commemorates one of the greatest victories in English history made possible by England’s greatest soldier.

It was a beautiful spot; two thousand acres of parkland watered by the River Glyme. Sarah was impatient, and when she had viewed the site engaged Sir Christopher Wren to draw up plans.

Wren of course was getting old and perhaps it was wise to engage another architect to submit his ideas. She had heard that the Controller
of Works was doing a very fine job for the Earl of Carlisle, rebuilding his mansion—Castle Howard. He was the rising architect; Wren was the waning one.

“Your Grace should certainly give John Vanbrugh a trial. He’s an amusing fellow besides being an excellent architect. He’s the man who writes those witty plays.”

“He can show me what he can do,” Sarah had said; and as a result the plans submitted by John Vanbrugh had been chosen in preference to those of Wren.

So far so good. But there were troubles in the family circle and again it was Mary. She was only sixteen and very beautiful—perhaps the most beautiful of an extremely handsome family.

She was young, but Sarah had seen since that unfortunate affair at St. Albans that Mary was the sort who needed to be married young.

She had not talked to Marl about their daughter. He was far too indulgent where his daughters were concerned. In fact had he not been so devoted to her they might have joined forces against her. But Marl would never do that. Throughout her stormy relationships with her family John had always done everything in his power to bring her children back to her. “You must listen to your mother. Really she knows best.” And those bold girls of hers—Henrietta and Mary particularly—would fling their arms about his neck and say: “But Papa,
you
understand. We know you do!” There could have been conflict in the family but for Marl’s complete loyalty to her.

And now there was Mary. She remained sullen and on bad terms with her mother. Really the girl should be whipped. And, Sarah told herself and Mary, if I had more time I might be tempted to do so.

Mary’s lips curled in contemptuous disregard and it was all Sarah could do to prevent herself striking the girl.

In any case she knew that she must get her married quickly.

There were suitors in plenty. In the first place who would not want to mate with the Marlboroughs? And in the second, in spite of her present sullenness, Mary was a very attractive girl.

Lord Tullibardine had tentatively approached Sarah and she was by no means averse to such a match. The Earl of Peterborough’s heir was clearly attracted by the girl; and Lord Huntingdon had hinted that he was
interested. Besides these there were others whom Sarah could not consider, but it was obvious that it would be the simplest matter to get Mary married.

But every time Sarah approached the girl she was sullen.

“I have no wish to marry any man you may choose for me.”

“So you intend to die unmarried?” demanded Sarah.

“I did not say that.”

“You will marry whom I choose for you or not at all.”

“Then there is no alternative but to die unmarried,” retorted the insolent creature.

“Lord Huntingdon is the son of the Earl of Cromartie,” Sarah reminded her daughter.

“I am aware of it.”

“So you consider he is not good enough?”

“I consider I am too young to marry—as you told me recently.”

“Too young for an unsuitable marriage.”

“I cannot see how suitability affects age.”

“I can see how
your
insolence is affecting me.”

That was how it was. Perpetual strife; and now Lord Monthermer, son of the Earl of Montague, was expressing interest.

“Lord Monthermer is a very worthy young man,” said Sarah.

“Being the future Earl of Montague?” asked Mary.

“Those who turn away the best prizes often have to accept something less valuable later on.”

“I am still too young, Mamma, to be interested in these glittering prizes.”

Who would have daughters!

And thus it was. Taking Mary to St. Albans in the hope that a sojourn from Court would enable her energetic mother to instill a little sense into her foolish young head; going down to Woodstock, having meetings with John Vanbrugh. It took so much time so she could not be with Anne as much as the latter would have liked.

Mrs. Morley must realize how busy I am with my affairs, Sarah told herself. In any case there is Abigail Hill to make sure that everything runs smoothly in my absence. That is exactly why she was put where she is.

So during those weeks when Harley was planning his strategy, Sarah, immersed in her own affairs, left the fort wide open to her enemies.

The Queen was
preparing to go into the green closet. George had come to her apartment to accompany her there and was at the moment standing at the window commenting on the passers-by. His remarks were malicious; he enjoyed poking fun at the oddities of others, although, thought Abigail, his own obesity was scarcely attractive; but perhaps this was the reason for his delight in the physical disabilities of others.

“We are ready now, my dearest,” said Anne.

George turned reluctantly from the window and yawned.

“You’ll have your nap, my dear, in the green closet. Hill will make some bohea after a little while and
that
will revive you.”

“The sucking pig was goot,” said George. “But I think I haf ate too much of it.”

“Dearest, you always eat too much sucking pig—and then there was the wild fowls and fricasse. You’ll sleep it off, never fear. Hill, who will be in the closet today?”

“Mr. Harley, Madam, and Mr. St. John … among others.”

“Pleasant creatures, both,” said Anne; and they went to the green closet.

Abigail, while waiting on the Queen, was conscious of Mr. Harley’s interest. Every time she lifted her eyes it seemed that she met his. His smile was warm and friendly; and she wondered what had happened to arouse his interest in her. She did not imagine that he was attracted by her, for she was not an attractive woman, except to perhaps Samuel Masham who was clearly affected by her; but Samuel was not a great politician—merely a humble servant to royalty like herself, meek and never forgetful of his place. Robert Harley was different. He was one of the most important men in the Government; and surely there was only one reason why he could show his interest in a humble person such as herself.

Yet he had not attracted scandal by his affairs with women. He was respectably married and by all accounts was faithful to his wife, although he was a notoriously heavy drinker and a lover of the night-life of London. But what did it mean?

She watched him talking to the Queen. He knew how to pay a compliment and Anne was obviously pleased with his company. And Mr. St. John could supply his own particular brand of wit.

It was a successful afternoon—Prince George comfortably sleeping without snoring too loudly, Anne sipping tea and listening contentedly while Mr. Harley talked of the advantages which had come to the country since the Queen’s reign. He did not mention Blenheim, though.

It was when he was taking his leave that he found an opportunity of coming close enough to Abigail to whisper: “Could I have a word with you alone?”

She looked startled and he went on, “I have a matter to discuss with you which I think will be of great interest … to us both.”

“Why … yes,” she murmured.

“I will wait in the ante-room. Come when you can.”

Shortly afterwards she made her way there to find him patiently waiting for her.

“I knew you would come,” he said, his voice warm and friendly.

“You said you had a matter to discuss.”

“Yes, I have made a very pleasing discovery.”

“About … me?”

“You and myself. We are cousins.”

“Cousins! Is it indeed so?”

“You are in the same relationship to me as you are to the Duchess of Marlborough. Your father was my cousin.”

“Mr. Harley, is it really so?”

He laughed. “You seem more surprised than pleased. But I can prove it to you.”

“But of course I am honoured to be so … so well connected.”