The Queen's Devotion: The Story of Queen Mary II (2 page)

There was an occasion when the physicians pointed out that my sister was growing unhealthily fat and could damage her health if she did not give up the habit of consuming sweetmeats at every opportunity.

My mother was frightened. Perhaps she blamed herself for allowing her daughter to share her own weakness. In any case, Anne was sent away for a while with one of my mother's ladies. She was to be watchful of what Anne ate and my mother could trust her friends to keep a sharper eye on my sister in a different house than in her own, for there she suspected that her friends would give way to her pleadings for more of the sweetmeats she loved so much.

I was very sad to lose my sister. Life was not the same without her good-natured smiles. I pictured her on a strict diet, deprived of her sweetmeats. Perhaps she was taking it all in her good-tempered manner.

It was a happy day when she returned, good-natured as ever and, if not exactly thin, less rotund than she had been.

Everyone declared that the cure had been a miraculous one, but it soon became clear that the temptation presented by a dish of sweetmeats was still irresistible. However, we were all so delighted to have her back that we could only smile at her indulgences.

During Anne's absence I missed her so much that my parents decided I must have a companion to compensate me for the loss of my sister and, to my great joy, Anne Trelawny joined the household. She was a few years older than I and we were firm friends from the beginning. It was wonderful to have someone to confide in; and Anne was sympathetic, understanding and all that I could ask for in a friend.

My sister Anne must always have what I had and when she came home and saw that I had a friend, she must have one too.

She made this desire known to our mother who immediately set about looking for someone suitable.

She had been particularly interested in one of the maids of honor, a certain Frances Jennings who came from a family of somewhat obscure origins. It was something of a mystery that she should be received at court, but Frances herself was very engaging—not exactly beautiful, but attractive and quick-witted. My mother, herself of a lively mind, liked to have people of her own sort about her, and she was more attracted to intelligence than ancient lineage. Hence she took a special interest in Frances and when a connection of the noble house of Hamilton was attracted by her, my mother helped to advance the match.

Frances had a younger sister, Sarah, whom she was anxious to bring to court and when the young girl was introduced to my mother, she found her very bright indeed. She was about five years older than my sister Anne, which seemed no drawback, and she would, my mother was sure, be a lively, entertaining companion for our somewhat lethargic Anne.

A position in our household was naturally accepted with alacrity by the ambitious Frances for her sister, and I am sure now that from the moment Sarah entered our household, she was fully aware of the advantages which had opened up for her.

She knew exactly how to behave with Anne and, almost from the day of her arrival, they were the closest friends. We were a happy quar-tet: Anne Trelawny and myself, my sister Anne and Sarah Jennings.

Then a certain anxiety crept into my mind. I felt something was not quite right. My mother had changed. She seemed a little absentminded at times. She would smile and nod but her thoughts seemed elsewhere. In spite of her plumpness, there was a drawn look about her face. I noticed that its color had changed. Her skin had a strange yellowish tinge and now and then she would put her hand to her breast and wince.

I thought at first that she was anxious because her father had gone away, and when I thought of what I should feel if I lost mine, I could understand her sorrow. But there was only one Duke of York and Lady Mary; and no father and daughter loved each other as we did. My mother had lost her father, who had run away to save his head. But there was something else. Once I saw her walking in the gardens with Father Hunt, a Franciscan; and they were talking earnestly together.

I knew that Father Hunt was a Catholic and I was sure that Gilbert Sheldon, Archbishop of Canterbury, would not be very pleased to see my mother in close conversation with him. Then I saw my father join them and the three of them walked off talking closely together.

I did not think very much about that at the time, until I heard that the people did not like my uncle's marriage to Catherine of Braganza, because she was a Catholic, and the English did not like Catholics.

This and the change in my mother's looks were like vague shadows, but so slight that they did not linger long in the warm sunshine of those happy days.

MY MOTHER WAS GOING TO HAVE A BABY
. That was the reason for her being ill, I supposed. She was so plump and her figure so round that her pregnancy was scarcely noticeable.

Anne and I eagerly waited to hear whether we should have a little brother or sister. We hoped for a sister. Brothers were a disappointment. They were always ill.

To our delight it was a little girl. They named her Catherine, in honor of the Queen.

We talked a great deal about her—or rather, I talked and Anne listened. Anne preferred to listen. Sometimes I thought she was getting more and more lazy.

My father came to see us. It was a cold day in March and the year was 1671. I was at that time nearly nine years old and Anne already six. I was greatly alarmed because I saw the pain and suffering in my father's face.

He sat down and, putting an arm round each of us, drew us to him and held us closely. Sobs shook his body. I was filled with horror as well as sadness to see my invincible hero so broken with grief.

“My dearest daughters,” he said. “The most terrible of calamities has befallen us. How can I tell you? Your mother . . . your mother . . .”

I kissed him tenderly, which only made him weep the more.

He said: “Children, you have no mother now.”

“Where has she gone?” asked Anne.

“To heaven, my child.”

“Dead . . . ?” I whispered.

He nodded.

“But she was here . . .”

“She was so brave. She knew it could not be long. She was very ill indeed. There was nothing that could be done to save her. My children, you have only your father now.”

I clung to him; so did Anne.

He told us that he had been with her at the end. She had died in his arms. She had died happy . . . in the way she wished. We must try not to grieve. We must think of her happy with the angels in the true faith of the Lord.

We were bewildered. We could not believe that we should never see our mother again. Neither of us could visualize what our lives would be like without her. There would be changes.

We were soon to discover that.

We had lost her, yes. But there was something more than that. What we did not know then was that, on her deathbed, she had received the
viaticum
of the Church of Rome and that my father was also wavering toward the Catholic faith.

Unfortunately, my father was not keeping this a secret. He was too honest. He believed he would be false to his faith if he tried to disguise it. I was to learn that he was a man of very little judgment. Already he had taken the first step which was to lead to disaster. And we children, because he was after all his brother's heir, were not without importance to the State.

So there were changes. In view of his religious leanings, which were becoming public knowledge, the Duke of York could no longer be allowed to supervise his children's upbringing, and because of their position in the country, it was necessary for the King to take the matter in hand.

RICHMOND PALACE

It was decided that the old palace of Richmond should be our new home. Lady Frances Villiers was to be our governess and in charge of our household; and our tutors would be appointed by the King.

The Palace of Richmond had originally been called Sheen, but when the Earl of Richmond, who became Henry VII, took the crown after defeating Richard III on Bosworth Field, he called the palace after himself and it became Richmond.

When much has happened in a place, some of the past seems to linger there and people like myself become fanciful. My sister did not feel this at all; but Anne Trelawny understood immediately and I talked of it to her.

I remember approaching the palace with our party and thinking: this is to be our new home. There were several buildings, but they did not seem to match each other, though they all had circular towers and turrets. I noticed the chimneys. There were several of them and they reminded me of inverted pears.

My grandfather had lived here once—that grandfather whom we mourned every January. He must have stood in this very spot, where I was at that moment, looking at those upside-down pears. It was a dwelling of ghosts and shadows. I hoped my father would come often.

It was rather intimidating, on our arrival, to be greeted by Lady Frances Villiers. She was smiling, but I sensed she could be formidable. She curtsied, but I fancied she meant to imply that this gesture was a formality, necessary because of our rank, and that we should have to submit to her will.

I was surprised to see that there were six girls with her—some obviously older than I was.

I glanced at my sister. She was not very concerned.

“Welcome to Richmond Palace,” said Lady Frances. “We are so happy to be here, are we not?” She turned to the girls, who stood a pace or two behind her.

The tallest of them answered: “We are very happy to serve the Lady Mary and the Lady Anne, my lady.”

“We shall be a most contented household,” went on Lady Frances. “It gives us great pleasure to be here. I and my daughters have come to serve you and I know we shall all be good friends. Have I your permission to introduce my daughters to you, Lady Mary, my Lady Anne?”

I nodded my head in as dignified a manner as I could muster, and Anne smiled broadly.

“My eldest daughter, Elizabeth . . .”

I often wondered long afterward why some fate does not warn us when a meeting which is going to have a great impact on us takes place. I feel there should have been some premonition to tell me of the effect this girl was going to have on my life. So often I have said to myself, from the first moment I met her I knew I had to be wary of her, that she was sly, clever—far cleverer than I could ever be—and that she disliked me because she, who considered herself my superior, should have to pay homage to me simply because I had been born royal.

But no, I thought that afterward, when I knew. It took me a long time to discover how devious she was. But I was young and innocent; she had the advantage. I could easily have had her dismissed. I only had to say to my father, “I do not like Elizabeth Villiers,” and, although he was no longer in control of the household, my wishes would have been respected. But she was subtle. She did not betray herself. That was where she was clever. She knew how to deliver a barb where it hurt most, but it would be couched in soft words so that only those who understood could be aware of the venom. She was too clever, too subtle for me. That was why she was always the victor, I the victim.

But I deceive myself. None of this was at all clear to me at that first meeting.

She was by no means handsome, but there was something unusual about her looks. Perhaps this was because there was a slight cast in her eyes. It was hardly perceptible. I caught it at times. Her hair was of an orange tinge. “Ginger,” Anne Trelawny called it, and Anne, my dear friend, liked her no more than I did.

The other daughters were being presented.

“My ladies, my daughters, Katharine, Barbara, Anne, Henrietta and Maria.”

They curtsied. Anne Villiers reminded me of her sister Elizabeth; she had shrewd eyes and a penetrating look. But she was less impressive—perhaps because she was younger.

And so we were installed in the Palace of Richmond.

LIFE IN LONDON
had settled down to normality. The city had been almost rebuilt and was a much more beautiful and cleaner place than it had been with its reeking gutters and narrow streets.

My father, with the King, had taken a great interest in the rebuilding. They were often in conference with the architect, Sir Christopher Wren, while the work was in progress.

My father at this time was not a happy man. I guessed he was grieving about my mother's death, and the failing health of my little brother, Edgar, gave him great cause for concern.

He talked to me at this time and I learned more from him than I ever had because I believed he was so distressed that he did not always consider his words, and sometimes it was as though he were talking to himself.

I was glad in a way, though sad because he was, but I did begin to learn a little of what was happening about me.

He was angry on one occasion.

“Bishop Compton will be coming here,” he said.

“To us?” I asked. “But why?”

“The King has appointed him. He is to instruct you and your sister in religion.”

“That does not please you?”

“No. It does not please me.”

“Well, why do you let him come?”

He took my face in his hands and gave me one of his melancholy smiles.

“My dearest child, I have to submit to the King's wishes in this matter.” He was angry suddenly. “It is that or . . .”

He released me and turned away, staring ahead of him. I waited.

“I could not face that,” he murmured. “I could not lose you.”

“Lose us!” I cried in alarm.

“Well, they would take you from me. Or . . . they would restrict our meetings. My own children . . . taken from me . . . I am unfit to take charge of their education, they say. And all because I have seen the truth.”

This was beyond my understanding. I could only think of being taken from him and I could visualize no greater calamity. He was aware of my concern and was my loving father immediately.

“There. I have frightened you. There is nothing to fear. Anything but that. I shall see you . . . as always. I would agree to anything rather than that they should take you from me.”

“Who would take me from you? The King, my uncle?”

“He says it would be for the sake of the country . . . for the sake of peace. He says, why do I not keep these matters private? Why do I flaunt them? But you must not bother your little head . . .”

I said firmly: “My head is not little and I want to bother it.”

He laughed and seemed suddenly to change his tone.

“It is nothing . . . nothing at all. Bishop Compton will be here to instruct you in the faith you must follow, according to the laws of the country and the command of the King. You must listen to the Bishop and be a good little member of the Church of England. Compton and I have never been great friends, but that is of no moment. He is a hard-working fellow and has the King's favor. He will do his duty.”

“If he is not your friend . . .”

“Oh, it was a long-ago quarrel. He had the temerity to dismiss a man who acted as secretary to your mother.”

“Did my mother not wish him to be dismissed?”

He nodded.

“Then why? Could you not . . . ?”

“This was the Bishop of London and the secretary was a Catholic. It is over. Your mother was not pleased. Nor was I. But . . . the people here . . . they are so much of one mind and they will listen to no other. Now, my dearest, let us have done with such talk. The fault was mine. Bishop Compton will come to you and he will make good little girls of you both. It is the King's wish that he should come, and we must needs make the best of it.”

“But you are unhappy.”

“Oh, no . . . no.”

“You said that we could be taken from you.”

“Did I? Let me tell you this . . . nothing, nothing on Earth will ever take my children from me.”

“But . . .”

“I spoke rashly. I did not want this Compton fellow to be here, but I see now that he is a good man, a religious man. He will obey the King's commands and make good Protestant young ladies of you. That is what the King wants and you know we must all obey the King. He says it is what the country wants and the country must see it being done. That is important. He is right. Charles is always right.”

“Then you are not unhappy?”

“At this moment, with my dearest child, how could I be unhappy? You are to have a French tutor. You will like that. I believe you are interested in learning.”

“I like to know.”

“That is good. And Anne?”

I was silent and my father laughed.

I went on: “She does not care for books because they hurt her eyes.”

He frowned. “She certainly has an affliction. Poor child. But she has a happy nature and we must keep it so.”

When he left me he had banished my fears.

I WAS LEARNING MORE
of what was happening around us. There was always gossip among the attendants; the girls naturally heard it, and the elder ones, like Elizabeth Villiers and Sarah Jennings, understood what it was all about.

These two had taken a dislike to each other. Sarah, by this time, had complete domination over Anne, and my sister was hardly ever seen without her friend. It was not that Sarah was sycophantic. Far from it. There were times when one would have thought she was the mistress, and Anne the attendant.

I think Elizabeth Villiers resented her. She had not succeeded in forming that sort of alliance with me; and she probably recognized in Sarah one of her own kind. They were both ambitious and knew that to have one foot in a royal household was one step up the ladder to power.

They realized far more than we did then what our position could be and that there was a chance—though remote—of our reaching the throne if certain eventualities were to come to pass. They recognized in each other a rival for power, and that made them natural enemies. In their way they were both formidable, though their methods were different. Sarah spoke her mind without fear; Elizabeth was soft-spoken and sly. I think, on the whole, I preferred Sarah.

We were all sitting sewing one day. I quite enjoyed needlework. Anne would sit idly with the work before her, not attempting to use her needle. It hurt her eyes, she usually said. Sarah would laugh and do hers for her. I liked to do something with my hands while I listened to the music one of the girls would play; and sometimes there was reading.

On this occasion, Elizabeth Villiers said: “The Bishop will soon be here. He will make sure that the Lady Mary and the Lady Anne keep to the true faith.”

“He is a very clever man,” said Sarah.

“And of the right persuasion,” went on Elizabeth, “which is very necessary.”

“Do you think the Duke is happy with the appointment?” asked Anne Villiers.

Elizabeth smiled a little superciliously. “The Duke will realize it is the best possible conclusion.”

Sarah commented that the Duke would know it was what the people wanted and it was always wise to listen to them and let them think they were getting their way.

“They are certainly getting their way on this,” said Anne Villiers. “I am not surprised the Duke does not like the Bishop.”

I must have shown that I was listening intently, for I saw Elizabeth's eyes on me as she said: “We all know that the Bishop had Edward Coleman dismissed from the Duchess's household while she was alive and all because he was a Catholic, which the Bishop thought was a bad influence. The Duke held nothing against Edward Coleman for that but, of course, he could not save him.”

I was thinking of what my father had told me and I remembered seeing him with my mother in the company of Father Hunt, the Franciscan. The trouble was all about religion and that was why Bishop Compton was coming here to teach us.