The Queen's Favourites aka Courting Her Highness (v5) (23 page)

Such pleasant afternoons! And that nice page, Samuel Masham, usually accompanied the Prince. He looked a little glum this afternoon. In fact they were all glum—except the Prince, who was quickly asleep.

“We missed Abigail Hill,” said Anne to herself, with a little jolt of surprise. “All of us. Even George. I am sure he didn’t sleep quite so comfortably.”

And now Sarah had swooped on Abigail Hill and carried her off to the opera. Suppose Sarah should discover the charm of Abigail Hill. Suppose she carried her off to St. Albans. Then she would never want to lose her. Anne’s face grew long. She pictured them together—handsome flamboyant Sarah and quite
indispensable
Abigail Hill.

Her feet felt limp and only half dry.

“Danvers …” she began. But what was the use? It was only Abigail who could bring comfort to her poor aching feet.

Abigail … and Sarah! Together. And she confined to her couch or her chair with her dropsy and her gout. How she would enjoy being at the opera, listening to Sarah’s wit and with Hill close by to see to her wants.

Danvers was awaiting her command.

“Bring me writing materials. I want to write to the Duchess of Marlborough.”

While Danvers was obeying her she thought of Sarah who had been absent from her for several days and had not written. Sarah was always remiss in her correspondence; Anne had constantly to be reminding her to write. And now of course she would have less time than usual, since she had discovered the virtues of Abigail Hill.

“Dear Mrs. Freeman hates writing so much I fear, though she should stay away two or three days, she would hardly let me hear from her, and therefore for my own sake I must write her a line or two. I fancy now you are in Town you will be tempted to see the Opera, which I should not wonder at, for I should be so too if I were able to stir, but when that will be God knows, for I am still so lame I cannot go without limping. I hope Mrs. Freeman has no thoughts of going to the Opera with Mrs. Hill and will have a care of engaging herself too much in her company, for if you give way to that it is a thing which will insensibly grow upon you. Therefore give me leave once more to beg for your sake, as well as poor Mrs. Morley’s, that you would have as little to do with that enchantress as ’tis possible, and pray pardon me for saying it.

Your poor unfortunate Morley.”

She sent for Danvers to seal the letter and see that it was delivered. And afterwards when she sat dozing in her chair she thought: That was a strange letter I wrote to Mrs. Freeman. I wonder why I wrote it. Yet there is truth in it, little Abigail Hill is an enchantress of sorts. One does not notice her when she is there, but when she is away, how one misses her!

“Danvers.”

“Your Majesty.”

“When Hill returns please tell her that she is taking too much leave of absence.”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

“And send her to me … as soon as she comes.”

The Duchess of
Marlborough was with her daughter Mary when the Queen’s letter was delivered to her. Mary sat sullenly watching her mother while she opened the letter.

The young girl’s blue eyes were fretful, her mouth—so like Sarah’s—was petulant. She was longing to return to St. Albans. He would be waiting for her. She would slip out in the evening and they would plan the future. Perhaps they would have to elope for it was certain that Mamma would never allow one of her daughters to marry a simple country gentleman. And that was all he was, even though he was the most handsome, most perfect man in the world. Wasn’t it enough that Henrietta’s husband was Lord Rialton and would be the Earl of Godolphin when his father died? Anne was Lady Sunderland and Elizabeth, Lady Bridgewater. Grand marriages for all three. They had married where their mother wished them to; so why shouldn’t Mary the youngest choose for herself?

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.