The Queen's Devotion: The Story of Queen Mary II (4 page)

I heard Anne Villiers saying: “She is very tall and nothing but skin and bone—not good-looking at all.”

“Only a magnificent pair of legs,” said Elizabeth, raising her eyes to the ceiling in an expression of wonder. “Yet she inspired a personage.”

Sarah said that there was so much beauty at court that perhaps it was refreshing to find a lack of it.

“The gentleman concerned,” went on Elizabeth, glancing at her sisters, several of whom could not restrain their giggles, “is said to have an odd taste in women.”

I was getting more perceptive. The pauses and the exchanged glances startled me. I thought suddenly, I believe they are talking about my father. I could not believe this though. This Arabella Churchill had had three children. When the first would have been born, my mother was alive. It was nonsense. But the suspicion remained.

I said to Anne Trelawny when we were alone: “Arabella Churchill's lover? Who is he?”

I saw the flush in her face and she did not answer.

I said: “Was it my father?”

“In a court like ours these things happen,” she said uneasily.

I could not forget that, while my mother was dying, he had been in love with Arabella Churchill's legs. I discovered that her first child had been born in 1671—the year my mother had died—and now there was this one.

I remembered my father's sorrow over my mother's death. How he had wept and seemed to care so much, and all the time he was making love with Arabella Churchill. And I had believed he was heartbroken by my mother's death. How could he have been?

Life was full of hypocrisy. People lied. They deceived. Even my noble father.

Elizabeth Villiers had succeeded in what she had intended to do. Nor did she leave it there.

She had a clever way of steering the conversation round to the way she wanted it to go. In the days of my innocence I believed that it happened naturally, but now I was beginning to see it differently. She was clever; she was subtle; she was five years older than I and when one is eleven that is a great deal.

At this time her aim was to poison the relationship between my father and me. It may have been because she thought he might yet turn me into a Catholic and so jeopardize my way to the throne and, as my attendant, she would be without the benefits accompanying such a position. Or it might have been that, disliking me as she did, she could not bear that I should know such happiness from a love the like of which I imagine could never have been hers.

When one of the courtiers began acting strangely and it was said that he was suffering from a bout of madness, Elizabeth remarked that he reminded her of Sir John Denham.

One of the younger girls asked who Sir John Denham was.

It was obviously what Elizabeth had expected, and she said quickly: “It was something which happened some time ago. It was very unsavory and perhaps best forgotten, though there will always be people to remember it.”

“Oh yes,” said Anne Villiers. “Whenever Sir John's name is mentioned, people will remember.”

“Do tell us what happened,” begged Henrietta.

And then I heard the story of Sir John Denham.

It had started in the year 1666, just after the Great Fire. Sir John Denham had gone mad suddenly and thought he was the Holy Ghost. He even went to the King to tell him so.

Henrietta and Maria Villiers giggled at the thought and my sister joined in.

Elizabeth reproved them rather primly.

“It is not a joke,” she said. “It was very serious and you should not laugh at the misfortunes of others.”

“It was due to his wife, was it not?” said Anne Villiers. “He had married her when she was eighteen and he was a very old man. You can guess what happened. She had a lover.”

Elizabeth was giving me a covert glance, so I guessed what was coming.

“Sir John was so upset,” she went on, “that he went mad. And then she died. It was said she was poisoned. The people blamed Sir John at first. They gathered outside his house and called on him to come out that they might show him what they did to murderers. The people are fickle. When he gave his wife a fine funeral and wine was served liberally to all the people who had come to see her buried, instead of attacking him, they said he was a good fellow and it must have been someone else who murdered his wife.”

“Who?” asked Henrietta.

“I really do not think we should talk of this,” put in Elizabeth. “It is not really a very pleasant subject.”

“But I want to know,” said Henrietta.

“You are not to . . .” Elizabeth made a great show of embarrassment, as though forcing herself to be silent.

Sarah looked at her cynically. Sarah was more shrewd than the rest of us. That was why she and Elizabeth were so wary of each other. I wondered whether she would discuss the case of Sir John Denham with my sister when they were alone together. Anne might be too indolent to ask, but she seemed to be listening with interest; I supposed it would depend on whether Sarah wanted Anne to know.

I did bring the matter up with Anne Trelawny. I trusted her completely and it was always a joy to talk over things with her, because she never tried to impose her will on mine.

“Do you remember all that talk about Sir John Denham who thought he was the Holy Ghost?”

“Oh yes,” said Anne reluctantly. “It happened a long time ago.”

“Round about the time of the Great Fire.”

“I thought they said she died the year after the Fire.”

“She had a lover.”

“They said so.”

“Who was it?”

“Oh, people will talk!”

“Was it my father?”

Anne blushed and I went on: “I guessed it was by the way Elizabeth Villiers talked.”

“She's a sly creature, that one. I had even rather have Sarah Jennings, though I must say
she
can be a trial, and I could well do without her.”

“What happened? Was there a big scandal?”

“I suppose you could call it that.”

“And my father?”

She shrugged her shoulders.

I said: “I now know about Arabella Churchill. She is still with him, is she not?”

“Both the King and the Duke can remain faithful to those who really mean something to them. The King had been very friendly with Lady Castlemaine for some years and there is this play actress, Nell Gwynne.”

“Pray do not change the subject, Anne. I said I want to know. One of the Villiers girls said that when Sir John provided the wine, someone else was accused of the murder.”

“They had to blame someone.”

“My father?”

“No . . . not your father.”

“Then whom did they blame?”

“Well . . . they said . . . your mother . . .”

“My mother! She would never have done such a thing!”

“Of course not. As a matter of fact, the post mortem proved that Lady Denham had not been poisoned at all. So it was a lot of lies.”

“Not all,” I said. “I suppose Sir John did go mad and his wife did take a lover, and that lover was . . .”

“Dear Lady Mary,” said my friend Anne. “You must see the world as it really is. You cannot shut your eyes to the truth. Your father is not unlike the King in this. They were both born to love women. It is part of their natures. I sometimes think that the King is so greatly loved because of this weakness. He is the people's charming, wayward King. He has so much that is good in him and must be forgiven this foible. And as for your father, he loves you dearly, as you love him. This love between you is a precious thing, the best you will ever know until you have a husband who will love you, too. Accept what is good in life. Do not allow others to influence your feelings toward those you love.”

“I wanted him to be perfect, Anne.”

“No one is that. Life is very rarely perfect and never for long. If you are going to savor the best of it, accept what cannot be changed and enjoy it while you are able. When you have learned to do that you have mastered as valued a lesson as ever Bishop Compton can teach you.”

THE STEPMOTHER

My father came to see me. He wanted to be alone with me and I knew he had something of great importance to tell me.

“My dearest daughter,” he said. “I want to talk to you very seriously. I know you are young, but I want you to try to understand the position in which I find myself.”

I nestled closer to him. No matter what evil stories I heard about his relationships with women, I still loved him the same. To me he was always the tender loving father, and whatever he felt for those women did not touch us.

“You must know that the King cannot get children,” he began.

I wrinkled my brows. I had often heard that this woman or that was going to have the King's child.

He noticed this and went on: “No child who could inherit the throne. The Queen, it seems, cannot produce one. Now this is of some significance to us. I am the King's brother and, if he were to die . . . Oh, do not look alarmed . . . he is not going to die for a long time. He is hale and hearty. But there are those who say, yes, but suppose there was a riding accident . . . some mishap. Who knows in this life? And if your uncle died tomorrow . . . well, we must be prepared. I should be king then.”

“I know that,” I said.

“Well, I have two beautiful daughters and God knows I love them well, but the country looks for sons. People have this obsession for the masculine sex. That is a custom. They will take a woman, yes, but they would rather a man and they maintain that it is the duty of the heir to the throne to get sons if he possibly can.”

“My mother is dead now,” I said.

He looked mournful. “Alas,” he murmured. “But that is why they expect me . . .” He paused and, gripping my hand firmly, he went on: “to marry again.”

“To marry? Whom would you marry?”

“Ah! That is the question. The matter is being raised. Believe me, my love, there are many who would like to give birth to the heir of England. So I must needs put the past behind me. I must take a wife. I must show them that I will do my best to give them an heir.”

I could not help thinking: you will do that with ease. If Arabella Churchill, with the enticing legs, were your wife you could have several already. I did not say that. It would have wounded him deeply. He would not want me to know of such matters. But I kept thinking of my mother, with the pain in her face just before she died, and at that time he was Arabella Churchill's lover.

These thoughts persisted, and I remembered what I had heard about the days when they were young and in exile at the court of the Princess of Orange, and how my father had fallen in love with my mother and proposed marriage to her. Then there came the Restoration and the Duke of York was no longer a wandering exile, and the marriage, which might have been acceptable when he had been, was no longer suitable for the brother of the King. There had been opposition, but my father had remained true to his word. I had liked that story. It fitted in with the image of him which I had created for myself.

And now he was going to marry again, so that he could get an heir to the throne because, although he already had my sister and me, boys were preferable.

“So you see, my dearest,” he was saying, “your father must do his duty. I hope you will like your new mother.”

“I could not have another mother,” I said. “I had one and I have lost her.”

He nodded and looked mournful again. Perhaps I was growing cynical, but I fancied he was not displeased at the prospect of having a new wife.

It might be that she would be young and beautiful, so that he would not have need of those others.

EVERYONE WAS TALKING
about the proposed marriage of the Duke of York. It was freely discussed by the girls. There seemed to be no reason to be discreet about it, even though he was the father of Anne and me, since it was being spoken of throughout the court.

The Duchess of Guise was highly suitable. Would it be the Duchess? Then there was the Princess of Wirtemburg. There was also Mademoiselle de Rais.

“I wonder which one it will be,” said Elizabeth Villiers. I imagined she did not want it to be any of them. Or if there had to be a marriage that the bride would be ugly and barren. I imagined she was hoping that one day—some time ahead maybe—I was going to be Queen of England.

To me it seemed preposterous and I could not conceive its ever coming to pass. The idea filled me with dismay. But if my father married and there was a son, the household at Richmond would sink into insignificance.

Poor Elizabeth! How sad that would be for her!

Then there suddenly appeared another candidate for marriage into the House of York. This was Princess Mary Beatrice of Modena.

My father had sent the Earl of Peterborough to the Continent. It was said he was to spy on these ladies and to report secretly on them in such a way that none should know the true verdict but the Duke of York himself. But by some means we heard of the reports.

The Duchess of Guise was very short and not elegantly shaped; nor did she appear over-strong and it seemed unlikely that she would produce the much-desired heir. Mademoiselle de Rais? The Princess of Wirtemburg? Fair enough, but in the meantime my father had seen a portrait of the young Mary Beatrice of Modena.

I like to remember that when he made his choice he came first to me.

“She will be your companion,” he said. “Peterborough sent home such a report to me. She is of middle height, which is good, for although I would not choose one who was low in stature, I would not care to have a wife look down on me. Her eyes are gray and she moves with grace. She has a sweet innocence, for she is but a child yet. She is strong and very young. She would bear sons, this little lady. Peterbor-ough reports that, although she is gentle and of great modesty, yet she discourses with spirit. Methinks you will like my little bride from Modena.”

“It is not for me but for you to like her,” I said.

“You are right, but I should like to have my dearest daughter's approval. She will give it, I know, when she knows that is what I wish. My dearest child, I am going to bring you a little playfellow.”

SHE WAS YOUNG
and very frightened. I liked her from the moment we met. My father was proud of her and must have thought himself very lucky to have such a beautiful bride.

There was, of course, a faction who were against the match. They called it the Papist Marriage and tried to prevent its taking place; and when they heard it had actually been celebrated they suggested that my father should retire and lead the life of a country gentleman somewhere away from the court. This the King refused to take seriously.

I did not know at that time how intense the feeling against my father was becoming. If only he had not been so frank, so honest. If he had only been like the King, who leaned toward the Catholic faith but was wise enough not to let his subjects know this, how different everything might have been! But my father was no dissembler. To deny his faith would be a mortal sin to him.

At this time I could only be glad that he had acquired such a charming bride. I understood absolutely how he had been prevailed upon to marry; and although I could never forget my mother, I ceased to mourn for her so acutely and began to like my stepmother.

My father had said he was providing us with a playmate and this was true in a way. She was about the same age as Elizabeth Villiers and Sarah Jennings, but she seemed younger and, in spite of the fact that she was the daughter of a great house, she lacked the air of superiority which characterized those two. Fifteen was young to be married, particularly when the union brought with it two stepdaughters only four and six years younger than herself.

I sensed that she was very unhappy to have been taken away from her home and sent to a strange country and to a husband who must seem very old to her. My father was, in fact, twenty-five years her senior, but, I told myself, she would soon discover what a wonderful man he was—the best in the world—and when she did, she would cease to regret her marriage and would stop mourning because she had not become a nun, which was the life she would have chosen for herself.

Because of my understanding and the closeness of our ages, she began to confide in me.

“The thought of marriage was very unpleasant to me,” she told me in her musical voice with the quaint accent. “I had set my heart on going into a convent.”

I felt very sorry for her, putting myself in her place and imagining being forced to leave my father and go off to some foreign land.

When I learned a little more about her life, I thought it was not such a tragedy for her that she had come to us. Her childhood had not been as happy as mine had.

Poor Mary Beatrice, born to the illustrious House of Este, noted for its chivalry, its bravery, its encouragement of literature and all forms of art and civilization in general!

Unfortunately, her father Alfonso was a victim of crippling gout and depended on his forceful wife, the Duchess Laura, who ruled not only her household but the country. Mary Beatrice could scarcely remember her father, for he had died when she was very young. There were two children, Mary Beatrice and her brother, Francisco, two years her junior.

Her father's brother, Rinaldo d'Este, was appointed guardian of the children on Alfonso's death, but it was Duchess Laura who assumed command.

“My mother is a very good woman,” Mary Beatrice told me. “We did not always understand that when we were children. We thought she seemed very harsh, but it was because she was always concerned with what was best for us. You see, she thought we must never show weakness so that we might grow up strong.”

“So she was very severe with you.”

“For our own good,” insisted Mary Beatrice. “I hated soup. It made me sick once and ever after I did not want to take it. My mother said that was weakness. Soup was good and nourishing. I must overcome my petulance and folly. I must learn to
like
soup because it was good for me. So every day I must sit at table and take soup. There was always to be soup for me.”

I shivered and had a quick picture of my mother sitting on a chair with my sister Anne beside her, a bowl of sweetmeats beside them. I could hear my mother's voice, laughing as she said: “You eat too many sweetmeats, child. I fear you are as partial to them as your mother is. So no more, eh? Let us be strong or the palace will not be big enough to hold us. Look at this plump little hand . . .” taking Anne's hand and kissing it. And a few minutes later that plump little hand would be reaching for a sweetmeat and my mother, watching, would laugh and jokingly scold as she took one herself.

How different from ours Mary Beatrice's mother must have been!

“I was not allowed to leave the table,” she went on, “until every drop of the soup had gone. But I did teach myself not to be sick. My mother is a very strong, good woman.”

“I should have hated to be forced to take what I did not want,” I said.

“The soup was usually well watered with my tears. She was right, of course. One has to learn to do things one does not like. It makes it easier to face the world.”

I wondered whether drinking soup she had hated had made it easier for her to come to England. I did not believe it had for a moment and I felt very critical of Duchess Laura and a fresh flood of sadness for the loss of our kind and clever mother.

“Our lessons were not easy either,” said Mary Beatrice. “Many times I was beaten because I could not remember a verse in one of the psalms. You see, my mother wanted the best for us. She wanted us to be clever, so that we were prepared for anything that might happen to us. It was all for our benefit. The doctors once said that my little brother was not strong enough to sit so long over his lessons. He should be more in the fresh air. But my mother replied that she would rather have no son at all than a dullard. So poor little Francisco had to persevere with his lessons.”

How different it had been with us! I remembered Anne, lolling indolently in her chair. “I shall not do lessons today. My eyes will hurt if I try to.” And everybody said she must not hurt her eyes. Lessons were there if we wanted them, but no one in the household should think of forcing the Lady Anne to learn if she did not want to.

Poor, poor Mary Beatrice—although it must be rather pleasant to have learned as much as she appeared to have done.

“You will find my father very kind,” I assured her. But I could see that she was unsure and uneasy, although she had already been charmed by the King.

I was a little piqued to realize that she wished my uncle had been her bridegroom instead of my father—and not because of his superior rank. I had heard it said so often that the charm of the King was unsurpassable. Kindliness was at the very essense of that charm and, because of her youth, and perhaps her beauty, he had made a very special point of showing affection and kindness to his new sister-in-law.

He appeared often at St. James's Palace, which was my father's official residence and, of course, with him would come the courtiers so there were some very lively gatherings.