The Queen's Favourites aka Courting Her Highness (v5) (29 page)

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.”

“It was your name that caught my attention. Abigail is my mother’s name. It is a popular name in our family.”

“It is scarcely unusual.”

“But that was what interested me and then … I discovered the connection. I was … delighted, and I could not refrain from telling you so.”

“It is a pleasure for me,” said Abigail, “but for you …”

“You are indeed as modest as I have always heard you are. There is one thing I wished to say to you and it is this: Cousins should meet now and then, should they not? A relationship is a bond. Do you agree? I hope therefore that we shall meet often in Her Majesty’s green closet.”

“I am sure Her Majesty will be pleased to see you at any time.”

“And you too?”

“I, of a certainty,” said Abigail with a blush.

She went back to the Queen a little bewildered but pleased. What exalted relatives she possessed! And how much more charming was Mr. Harley than the Duchess of Marlborough. He talked to her as though she were a friend—not, as the Duchess did, like a poor relation only fitted to be a glorified servant.

Abigail was excited
. Why, she asked herself, had Mr. Harley seemed so pleased by the relationship? He was not a young man to be easily excited. He was a very ambitious middle-aged one.

A thought came to her. Could it possibly be that Robert Harley, one of the leading politicians, believed the acquaintance of a chambermaid was worth cultivating?

What did Harley want? Abigail was no fool. He wanted a closer relationship with the Queen and he believed he could reach it through his cousin. People were noticing the Queen’s fondness for her. This must be the case. It had come to Robert Harley’s ears, and because of it he was proud to recognize his cousin.

For, pondered Abigail, I have been his cousin for a very long time, but it is only now that he has taken the trouble to find out.

She could think of nothing else but Harley’s pleasure in his discovery, the courteous manner in which he had spoken to her.

I am important, thought Abigail. Not only to fetch and carry for the Queen, but for the influence I can have with her. I am becoming a little like my cousin Sarah.

What if one day I should be in Sarah’s position?

Samuel Masham noticed
the change in Abigail.

“Something has happened,” he said when she joined him in the ante-room after the Queen and her husband had retired for the night. “You are different.”

Did she then betray her feelings, Abigail wondered, she who had always prided herself on so successfully hiding them. She studied Samuel shrewdly. They were very close friends; he sought her company whenever possible and she trusted him as she did few people.

“Nothing has happened,” she told him. “I have, though, discovered a new cousin.”

“Who is that?” asked Samuel sharply.

“Mr. Harley.”

“The Secretary of State?”

“Yes, he asked to speak to me and then told me he had discovered the relationship. He seemed very pleased about it. I have been wondering why.”

“People are beginning to appreciate you, Abigail. I was afraid …”

“Yes, of what were you afraid?”

“That perhaps … someone was paying court to you … and you were rather pleased about it.”

“No, no one is paying court to me, Samuel.”

“You are wrong, Abigail,” he told her vehemently. “It is what I have been doing for a long time.”

She lifted her green eyes to his. “But, Samuel …”

“I think we could be very happy together, Abigail.”

“You mean …”

“I mean in marriage.”

Marriage! She considered it. The Prince’s page and the Queen’s chambermaid. Their children growing up at Court. She remembered the marriages of the Churchill girls and how Anne had presented them all with handsome dowries. They would make good marriages … if their parents were important at Court. No, not their parents. It would be their mother, for Samuel would never be important. Perhaps he knew it. Perhaps that was why he admired her. If she married Samuel—and if she were to have a husband it would have to be Samuel, for who else would want to marry her?—she would guide his destiny as well as her own, as well as their children.

And the Queen was fond of her. Not as fond as she was of Sarah Churchill, of course; but the Queen was capable of great fondness for her female friends. People were noticing.… That was what she kept coming back to. Robert Harley was anxious to claim her as cousin because people were noticing her, Abigail Hill.

“Well, Abigail,” he said. “You don’t hate me, do you?”

“No, Samuel. You know I’m very fond of you.”

“Fond enough for marriage?”

“I’d like to think about it.”

He was contented. Samuel would be easily contented.

What an exciting life was opening out for Abigail Hill! She was asked in marriage—which was something she had once thought would never happen to her. More than that, ambitious men sought her friendship—because of the influence they believed her to hold with the Queen.

“Good day to
you, cousin.”

She was in the garden and she could have sworn he had waylaid her.

“Good day to you … cousin.”

“You hesitate.”

“It is a somewhat distant relationship. You were my father’s cousin.”

“Well, that makes me yours of a sort, and as I told you once before I am as nearly related to you as the Duchess of Marlborough. Though I promise you I shall not attempt to treat you with the scorn I have seen her give you.”

Abigail said: “I was a poor relation.”

“My lady was not always so rich; but she knew how to feather the nest, eh?”

“She is, I am sure, very clever.”

“At feathering nests? But there are times when I think the lady is but one half as clever as she believes herself to be, and do you know, little cousin, it is a very dangerous thing to do to overestimate one’s brilliance.”

“I am convinced of it.”

“There may come the day when the Queen of Bedchamber loses her crown.”

“That is scarcely likely to be permitted.”

“The improbability often becomes the possible. You would be surprised how often!”

“And you would be pleased to see it.”

“I did not say so, cousin. But I should always be pleased to see merit rewarded. Pray tell me, will the Queen be receiving in the green closet today?”

“I believe she will.”

“And who is to be there?”

“The Queen will be alone with the Prince. She did not sleep well, so I shall play to her on the harpsichord and perhaps sing a little.”

“I should like to hear you play on the harpsichord. I have always admired your singing.”

She lifted her eyes to his and regarded him steadily for some seconds.

“You wish an audience with the Queen this afternoon?”

“An audience? That has a formal ring. I should like to be there … to talk to the Queen … soothingly … but without others present.”

Abigail’s heart began to beat faster.

“Would that be possible?” he asked.

“It might be.”

“If you suggested it to Her Majesty? That I had no tiresome business with which to weary her. Just a dish of bohea …”

“It might be possible …”

“I should esteem it a cousinly favour.”

“I will speak to Her Majesty. Present yourself and if … it is possible, you shall be invited.”

He took her hand and kissed it gallantly.

“How pleasant it is,” he said, “to have relations in high places.”

A hint of mockery? Perhaps. But his eyes were gleaming; and he was asking a favour.

She was beginning to understand something about him. He hated the Churchills—and so did she. How could one love someone who had done one so much good and never allowed one to forget it?