The Queen's Devotion: The Story of Queen Mary II (26 page)

William was more silent than ever. He did not like the English and their ways. He had longed for the crown; he had been invited to take it; and now they were making him as uncomfortable as they could.

In due course Compton, Bishop of London, agreed to perform the ceremony in place of the Archbishop of Canterbury; but I think incidents such as this made us feel very uneasy from the beginning.

We were dressed and ready to set out for Westminster Hall when the messenger arrived.

William came unceremoniously into my chamber. He looked paler than usual and very agitated. He was waving a paper in his hand.

“What has happened?” I cried in alarm.

William looked at me blankly for a moment. Then he said: “James has landed in Ireland.”

My first words were: “Is he safe?”

William looked impatient. He went on: “He has taken possession of the island and has been welcomed by the Irish. Only Londonderry and one or two other smaller towns are holding out against him.”

I stared aghast. “What does this mean?” I asked.

“That he will rally forces against us. This is not the end.”

I felt sick. Such news, to come at such a time! It seemed significant that this should happen now, when I stood there in my coronation robes, preparing to receive the crown which was his.

“What must we do?” I murmured.

William said tersely: “We must get those crowns on our heads without delay and then we will consider.”

He left me and no sooner had he gone than a messenger arrived with a letter for me. I felt faint as I saw that the writing was my father's.

I took the letter, sat down and began to read. The words danced before my eyes. I wanted to tear off those robes, throw myself on my bed and weep.

He wrote that hitherto he had made all fatherly excuses for what I had done, and had wholly attributed my part in the revolution to obedience to my husband, but the act of being crowned was in my power, and if I were crowned while he and the Prince of Wales were living, the curse of an outraged father would light upon me as well as that of God, who had commanded duty to parents.

I reread the words and then put my hands over my eyes to shut them out.

I could not move. I could only picture my father's face when he wrote those words.

How could I do this? He was right. It was betrayal. If I were crowned Queen I should be thinking all the time of my father who had loved me so dearly and whom I was betraying by this ceremony.

I sat there with the paper in my hand. William must have heard something had happened, for he came to my chamber. He saw me sitting there and took the letter from my hand. His face grew pale when he read it.

“To send this at such a time!” he murmured. Then, briskly: “Come. The time is passing.”

“You have read what he says?”

William lifted his shoulders wearily. “Of a certainty he does not want the coronation to proceed.”

“It is right . . . what he says to me.”

“The people do not want him,” said William firmly. “He does not please them. They have chosen us.”

“I cannot . . .”

“You will,” he said, looking at me coolly.

“I shall never forgive myself . . . never forget.”

I put my hands over my face. He must have thought I was about to weep, for he said sharply: “Control yourself. They are waiting for us. You cannot refuse now. You have given me your word. The people are expecting you.”

“My father . . .”

“Your father is a defeated old man. He has gone to Ireland and at this time that is . . . inconvenient. But this day you are going to be crowned.”

“You, William, but . . .”

I saw the contemptuous smile curve his lips.

“What folly,” he said, and there were angry lights in his eyes. I understood my presence was necessary. The people would not accept him without me.

I was bitterly hurt, deeply wounded and I felt angry with myself . . . with my father and with William.

I lost my fear of my husband at that moment.

I cried: “You should not have let him go as you did. The fault is yours. If he regains his authority, you will be to blame.”

I was aghast that I could have spoken so to William, but surprisingly he was not angry. He looked rather pleased.

He nodded, as though agreeing with me.

“Yes,” he said, “he should never have been allowed to get away.” He put an arm round me. “Never fear. We shall know how to act. It is very important that we should be accepted as King and Queen without delay. Come, we are late already.”

DRESSED IN MY ROBES LINED WITH ERMINE
, I was carried in my chair across Palace Yard to Westminster Hall, and there the people assembled were asked whether they would accept William and me as their King and Queen. I fancied there was a pause, but that may have been due to my state of uncertainty.

The acclamation came as was expected and there was none to say the crown should not be ours.

The ceremony proceeded and I noticed that there were fewer people there than had been expected. It would probably be due to the news from Ireland, and there might be some who did not want to show themselves joining in our coronation in case our reign should be a short one, and in that event it would be wise not to be associated with it.

The news of my father's arrival in Ireland would have spread and people would be saying there was something significant about its arriving on the day of the coronation. I sensed the uneasiness in the air.

We were nervous throughout the proceedings, and when the moment came at the altar to make our offering of gold pieces, neither William nor I had the money with us to do so. There was a long pause when the gold basin into which the coins should be put was handed to us. I was aware of the dismay in those about us. We had known what would be expected but I suppose we had been so unnerved by the news as to forget such a detail.

Lord Danby, who was close by, hastily produced twenty gold guineas and the little matter was over, but on such occasions people look for omens.

Gilbert Burnet, now made Bishop of Salisbury as a reward for his services, proceeded with the sermon. His voice rang out through the hall. William was gratified. He could trust Gilbert Burnet to stress the faults of my father while he extolled the virtues of the new monarchs who, with God's approbation, had been set up in his place.

He took his text from the passage in Samuel: “He that rulest over men must be just, ruling in the fear of God.”

It was a day of mishaps and I think it all stemmed from the news we had had that morning. It had affected us all deeply. There had been delay in starting the proceedings, the absence of the fainthearted who feared there might soon be a change of monarchs and did not want to show allegiance to the wrong ones, and we were late in arriving at the banquet.

Then came the traditional challenge when Sir Charles Dymoke rode into the hall and flung down his glove to challenge any who would deny the right of William and Mary to the crown. This was all part of the coronation ritual, and I believed there had never been a time when the challenge had been taken up.

Dusk had fallen by this time and from where I was sitting I could not see the actual fall of the gauntlet. To the amazement of everyone, no sooner had the glove been thrown down than an old woman hobbled over to it, picked it up and was gone. It seemed incredible that she could have been crippled because her movements after picking up the glove had been quick, and she was gone before anyone could stop her; and in place of Charles Dymoke's gauntlet was a lady's glove.

The challenge had been accepted.

This could only be a supporter of my father.

It was a most extraordinary and upsetting affair. But nothing came of it. Dymoke did not consider it was a true challenge and ignored it. But there were some to say that the next morning a man was seen in that spot in Hyde Park where duels were fought, a man equipped with a sword, waiting for the arrival of Sir Charles Dymoke.

Whether this was true or not, I cannot say. There were so many rumors. I was exhausted when the day was over. I think it was the most unhappy day of my life.

A GIFT FOR ELIZABETH

The ceremonies which followed the coronation were a great trial to William. He was very impatient with the ancient customs which had to be observed; what he wanted was to get on with the business of ruling. Trivialities bored him and he was not the man to disguise his boredom.

It was easier for me. My nature was different. I liked to have smiling people about me and I could not bear long silences. I liked to hear opinions and, yes, I will confess it, gossip.

The day after the coronation we had to receive all the members of the House of Commons who came in a body to congratulate us. I knew William would think it a waste of time. The crown was firmly on his head. That was the important matter. He could dispense with the rest.

More attention was given to me on these occasions. It may have been because I was considered the rightful heir to the throne, or simply that they found me easier to talk to. William was aware of this and it made him feel angry toward them, and I feared, with me. I wondered why, as he was so clever, he could not hide his irritation and cultivate a more genial manner which would be more pleasing to the people.

He was glad when he could escape to Hampton Court. Rebuilding there was soon going on apace and a new elegance was replacing the old palace. I was glad that some of the old Tudor part was left so that we could see the contrast.

I think Hampton Court would always be one of William's favorite places. It was one of mine too.

I was often in Anne's company. The delight which I had enjoyed on my arrival had faded a little. I was conscious of a certain irritation in her company. She was lethargic. That was understandable as she was in an advanced stage of pregnancy, and indeed was about to give birth at any day.

She would sit in silence, smiling that rather vacuous smile of hers, saying very little. I would do all the talking, telling her about the people I was meeting, whether I liked them or not, about my life in Holland and the differences between the Dutch and the English. She would sit, nodding affably; and I wondered if she really heard what I was saying.

I thought: she will be different when the child is born.

There were times when I was quite alarmed. She was so enormous. She had always been inclined to be fat, of course. I remembered how she used to sit with our mother, nibbling at the sweetmeats which always seemed to be at her side. She was still the same.

When I remonstrated with her, she shrugged her shoulders.

“It is the baby,” she said. “This one is going to be a giant.”

Anne was very affectionate toward her husband, and he to her. How different from William and me! Of course, George was ineffectual, but how kind and pleasant to everyone. He lacked William's wisdom; he could never have been a great ruler, but what a charming man he was! And how contented Anne was with her marriage and her babies, who appeared regularly, even though none of them survived.

Yet, at times I believed that Sarah Churchill was more important to her than George. She always liked to have her close. Perhaps she felt with Sarah around she need not bestir herself to talk, for Sarah talked incessantly. She was giving herself special airs, too.

The custom was to distribute honors at a coronation, and this had been done. For instance, Gilbert Burnet had become Bishop of Salisbury and William Bentinck was now the Duke of Portland and John Churchill was the Earl of Marlborough. Sarah was very pleased to be Lady Marlborough and Anne was, of course, delighted by Sarah's triumph.

It was indeed a close relationship—dominating on Sarah's side, submissive on Anne's. I think Sarah ruled Marlborough himself in the same way as she did Anne.

When Anne had chosen the names of Mrs. Morley and Mrs. Freeman for herself and Sarah, she had asked Sarah to choose which she would have and, with a touch of humor I always thought, Sarah chose Mrs. Freeman. Nothing could have been more apt.

Between myself and Sarah there was a certain animosity. There was something in our natures which grated on each other. Sarah, of course, must show a certain respect for the Queen, and naturally she could not offend me openly; but I did wonder whether, in private, she tried to turn Anne's mind against me.

I traced her dislike back to that incident of the two pages, which had happened while I was in Holland. It was when Anne had taken up her residence in the Cockpit, those apartments which were more or less attached to the Palace of Whitehall and where Lady Castlemaine had once had her lodgings.

There had been a rearrangement of staff and Anne had needed two more pages in her household.

People in special places, as Sarah was, had the privilege of selling positions in those households where it could be advantageous to be installed, and Sarah had succeeded in selling these places for the sum of £1,200, which was very profitable for her; but since these were posts in the household of the Princess Anne, who could inherit the throne one day, the price seemed reasonable enough to the families concerned.

She must have been congratulating herself on the sale, when it was discovered that the two pages were Roman Catholics. This was something which we could not accept, for it was at the time when there was a great deal of feeling working up against King James; and Anne, of course, was said to be a staunch Protestant.

I wrote to Anne and told her that the two pages must be dismissed without delay. This created a difficult situation, for Anne would know of Sarah's profitable deal and the Churchills were always in need of money and sought to find it wherever they could. But, in view of the gathering storm, there was nothing to be done but dismiss the pages.

Sarah was very reluctant to give up the money, which by right she should refund to the families who had paid it for the posts which were not now theirs. There was a certain amount of bargaining and in the end it was agreed that Sarah should keep £400 and refund the rest.

This had been done and Sarah was very disgruntled. She blamed William and me—first for discovering the religion of the pages, and then for insisting on their removal.

I knew the money was of great importance to Sarah and the loss of £800 would never be forgiven.

I was always conscious of her enmity and I did not trust her.

ANNE'S CHILD WAS NEARLY DUE
. The hot weather had come and she was more lethargic than ever. I began to worry about her. She had taken childbearing as she did everything else, and it did not greatly disturb her; and now, in the heat of summer, she just lay about, placidly waiting. I was far more anxious than she was.

She had taken up residence at Hampton Court. She was as fond of the place as I was and I was glad that she appreciated the improvements which William had brought about.

William was often at the palace. He was keeping a watchful eye on events in Ireland and was not very pleased about the support my father was getting there. He talked of it to me a little and said that we must be ready to face James if the need arose.

We often walked in the gardens together. I was very proud of them, having helped to create them. He used to take my arm, instead of my taking his, and I knew it was because he sometimes needed support. He tired easily but would not admit that this was the reason.

I saw looks of amusement on the faces of some of the English, who had not taken to William any more than he had to them. I was taller than William and getting plump. I might seem almost sylphlike when compared with Anne; but it was different when I walked side by side with William.

Sarah said with a smirk: “I saw you and the King walking together . . . he taking your arm. Such a good example to married people!”

She knew why he took my arm and she wanted to remind me of his relationship with Elizabeth Viliers. Sarah was no friend of mine.

One hot July day, Anne's baby was born. I had insisted on being with her and I was so relieved when I heard the cry of a child. It was a boy. How pleased everyone would be!

Anne herself was in a state of ecstasy, and I was overjoyed to see her raised out of her indifference. I had not seen Anne, the mother, before, and the state certainly became her.

She looked almost beautiful, peering at the child with her myopic eyes, demanding: “Is he well . . . every limb of him?”

She was assured that the child was in perfect health and the strength of his voice was like sweet music to us all. A boy! An heir to the throne!

People crowded into the chamber. William was there. George, the father, was highly emotional, proud, delighted, gazing down on his wife and son with adoration in his eyes.

It was a touching and moving scene.

Anne said: “We shall call him William, after the King.”

William looked gratified. I knew he was thinking that the boy had come at the right moment. The people would be pleased. The child would be brought up as a Protestant and he would be heir to the throne. At last there was a Protestant male heir and the menace of King James, now trying to raise an army in Ireland, had receded a little.

This was a very important little boy.

I TOOK IT UPON MYSELF
to share in the nursing of my little nephew. Anne was rather weak after her ordeal, and was quite happy to sink back into a state of lethargy. It was a great delight to hold the baby in my arms. He seemed a bright little fellow. William had already created him Duke of Gloucester, and I am sure no child ever had a warmer reception into the world.

However, it was not long before there began to be fears for his health. He grew thin and fretful. Was it going to happen all over again? The familiar pattern, the birth, the hopes that this one would survive, and then the weaknesses which began to show?

It was unbearable to watch little William grow weaker every day. He put on no weight whatsoever and we could not understand what ailed him. Poor Anne was despondent. The others had been stillborn or lived their brief spells. Not little William, too.

We were filled with gloom. The child could not live much longer. Each morning, when I rose, I would say to my women: “How fares the Duke of Gloucester?” and they would have the answer ready, knowing that the question would be asked.

“He is poorly, Your Majesty, but he lives.”

Then one day, when the baby was a month old and not expected to live through until September, I was told that a woman was there, who wished to see me most urgently.

“A woman,” I said. “What woman?”

“She is carrying a young child, Your Majesty. A rather big, strong woman.”

“I will see her,” I said.

She was brought to me. She was plainly dressed in a garb I discovered to be that of a Quaker; she had fresh skin, clear eyes and was obviously healthy. She was carrying a plump baby of about the same age as William, but how different this child was from the little Duke. He had smooth round cheeks, and what struck me most was his look of sleek contentment.

She did not bow to me, nor show me the respect due to me, nor did she express any surprise that I had deigned to see her.

In fact, she treated me as a woman like herself.

I said: “Who are you?”

“I am Mrs. Pack,” she told me. “I have come here on an errand of mercy because I believe the young Duke is dying.”

She spoke bluntly and to the point, in a straightforward, honest way which immediately won my respect. She was very different from the sycophantic people who surrounded me and she went on without preamble: “I believe I can save the boy's life.”

“How?” I demanded. “He is already surrounded by those who seek to do that.”

“It may be that they do not know what is wrong.”

“And you, who have not seen him, do?”

“I would take him to my breast. I would give him of that milk which the good Lord has given me in good plenty that I may save the Duke. A voice came to me in the night telling me what I must do.”

I wondered if she were a little mad, but she did have an air of simple piety about her which impressed me. Moreover, my anxiety about the baby was so great that I could not turn away from the flimsiest hope of saving him.

I said to Mrs. Pack: “Come with me.”

I took her into the room where the baby lay whimpering in his cradle, and to the astonishment of the nurses, I said: “Take up the child, Mrs. Pack, and show me what you can do.”

Mrs. Pack, with simple dignity, laid her own child in the cradle beside little William. She then took him in her arms and, seating herself, undid the buttons of her bodice and gave her breast to him.

There was quietness in the room. I saw the child, his lips at her breast, and I heard him; he was sucking eagerly.

Mrs. Pack sat there, smiling benignly. There was a look of saintliness about her in her simple gray gown and the manner in which she held herself, as though there was nothing unusual about her being in the royal apartments suckling the Duke of Gloucester.

What delighted me was to see the child satisfied, and after he had had his fill, he fell into a deep sleep.

I went along to Anne and told her what had happened. She wanted to see Mrs. Pack without delay, and I took her with me to the nursery where little William was. He looked frail but it was wonderful to see him sleeping quietly.