Royal Sisters: The Story of the Daughters of James II - Plaidy

Shrewsbury looked at her in astonishment while Anne’s admiration for her friend’s boldness was apparent.

Anne knew what she had to say: and said it. “The affair is now before Parliament and events must take their course.”

When William heard the result of the interview he was furious with Anne, but did not show it. Instead he summoned his ministers and said he would be happy to accept their will in this matter of the Princess Anne’s allowance; at which Anne was voted her fifty thousand pounds.

“Let that be an end to this unfortunate matter,” said William.

Mary, who could not let the matter rest, sent for her sister.

When they were alone she burst out: “I cannot understand how you could have behaved so to the King!”

“What cannot you understand?” asked Anne.

“I know what took place at that interview with Shrewsbury. You implied that you would not trust William. I suppose that harpy of yours is behind this.”

“I know of no harpy.”

“Then it is a pity you cannot see more clearly what is obvious to everyone else. I would like to know when the King has ever shown anything but kindness to you.”

Anne was silent.

“Answer me,” insisted Mary.

“I do not know what you want me to say. All I know is that I have been less happy since our father went away.”

“You to talk like that! Have you forgotten what you used to write to me when I was in Holland?”

“I only know that I was not treated thus by our father.”

“I am ashamed of you … ashamed and surprised.”

Anne did not answer.

Her silence maddened Mary, but when Anne had gone the Queen wept a little. She had so looked forward to a return of the old friendship. What had happened to her dear little sister who had so looked up to her and admired her.

She thought angrily: Sarah Churchill has happened to her. How I loathe that woman!

Anne was dining at the royal table. This was one of William’s economies; he had ordained that the Princess Anne, the Queen and King must not keep separate tables; it was an extravagance.

It was no great pleasure to dine at the King’s table. He said little and never addressed a word even to those who served him. The Queen would have liked a little gaiety—some amusing conversation, a little music and afterward, dancing. But she conformed in every way to the King’s desire and was almost as silent as he was.

How different it had been in the days of Uncle Charles! thought Anne. And even in our father’s day.…

Then her eyes sparkled for a servant had set a dish of green peas on the table. Green peas! the first of the year which always tasted the best.

Anne’s mouth was watering. She loved her food and more especially during pregnancies.

She could not stop looking at the peas. Mary could not eat them; they were bad for her; and William was a poor eater. There were not a great many; she would eat the lot and it would be no use asking for more for it was too early yet and these would be all that were ready for serving.

The Queen had shaken her head at the dish. Now it was Anne’s turn. Anne leaned forward; but just as she did so William stretched out a hand and drew the dish toward him, and under Anne’s agonized eyes ate the lot without even asking her to have a few.

Beast! thought Anne. Uncouth swine! Dutch abortion. Caliban! Was there ever such a King? He belonged more in a swineherd’s hut than in a palace.

She was quaking with rage when she returned to her own apartments for although most things did not rouse her from her lethargy, food could.

Sarah came to her and demanded what fresh insult she had been forced to endure.

Anne told the story, her eyes glistening; she could see those peas, smell them, remember the flavor of past peas; she could see them now disappearing into that ugly twisted mouth.

“And he ate them as though he did not care what he was eating.”

“Of course he did not care. He only wanted to keep them from you.”

“I hate him!” said Anne vehemently.

“Oh, dear Mrs. Morley, he will not always be with us. Let us think of the bright future when he is gone. That will be the greatest day of my life when we crown Queen Anne.”

It was pleasant to contemplate but Anne’s mind was still clouded with the thought of green peas.

Sarah saw this and had the gardens and forcing houses searched in the hope of finding some that might be found and cooked for the Princess; but none were to be had.

Anne could only ease her disappointed palate by going over and over the list of his sins with Sarah, and from that day she hated him and was ready to follow wholeheartedly in any scheme against him.

AT THE PLAYHOUSE

arah Churchill, thought Elizabeth Villiers, had become one of the most important figures at Court and all because she had so fascinated the Princess Anne that she was allowed to manage her affairs completely. With anyone but Anne, Sarah would have had to use more subtle methods; that domineering know-all attitude would have had to be considerably subdued. But Anne was a stupid woman with an unnatural passion for the friend who was unlike her in every way. Sarah was not exactly beautiful, but was handsome with her magnificent fair hair and her extraordinary vitality. Anne had been pretty enough in an insipid way, but she was growing so fat that she looked much older than her years and of course the perpetual pregnancies had not helped her. She had turned to Sarah as one who was her opposite in every way; and even in their childhood days the sisters had had a great fondness for members of their own sex.

Sarah Churchill would have to be watched carefully.

Elizabeth Villiers’s own methods were quite different from Sarah’s; and yet there was a similarity, for as Sarah wished to influence Anne, so Elizabeth wished to influence William.

It had been a remarkable achievement to retain his attention all these years; he was a cold man, but between them there was a relationship which was enduring; they needed each other and to be the woman in William’s life who could give him exactly what he needed was a tribute to her brilliance.

She had wondered what her position would be in the household when she had accompanied Mary, as a reluctant bride, to Holland, for Mary had little love for her. They had spent much of their childhood together, but she had never been one of Mary’s selected friends. And then … she had seen the possibilities with William; and miraculously she had succeeded with him.

She must be ever watchful of rivals though; not that Mary was a rival. She would never be afraid of the Queen who was so quick to agree with her husband in every way—even though on one occasion she had, during William’s absence, sent her, Elizabeth, out of Holland with a letter addressed to the King, her father, asking him to keep her enemy there. Elizabeth had had some difficulty in returning to Holland, but she had; and after her spurt of independent action Mary had become the docile wife again.

Yet she need not be fearful of Mary when she was looking for a rival in William’s affection; she knew full well where the danger lay.

It was with Bentinck, William’s devoted friend and Elizabeth’s own brother-in-law, for he had married her sister Anne who had died just before they left Holland.

Elizabeth remembered now that deathbed scene with Mary attempting to reconcile the sisters. How characteristic of Mary, who must have everything comfortably rounded off.

Anne had been as docile a wife to Bentinck as Mary was to William—for in a way Bentinck and William were two of a kind, though Bentinck had a charm which William lacked; he was more polished in manners, more displomatic in his relations with others, but perhaps he could not afford to be as brusque as William was.

Two of a kind! thought Elizabeth; and women were not of great importance to either.

Bentinck had never been a great friend of Elizabeth’s; he had even pretended to be sorry for the Queen and had on one occasion dared criticize William for his treatment of Mary; that had meant a rift in that passionate friendship which had not lasted it was true; but it had been an attack on her, Elizabeth Villiers, the King’s mistress.

Elizabeth believed she knew why Bentinck had made that attack, why he did not like her. It had little to do with sympathy for the Queen. He was merely jealous of a woman who took up so much of his master’s time.

Elizabeth must be watchful of Bentinck. How did she know what he said of her when he and William were alone together. Bentinck was an ambitious man, but he also loved his Prince, even as William loved him; and since William had become King of England he had not forgotten his favorite.

Bentinck was now Baron Cirencester, Viscount Woodstock and Earl of Portland, First Gentleman of the Bedchamber, Groom of the Stole and a Privy Councillor, and William rarely made a decision without him. He was too important. It was not so easy to shower honors on Elizabeth, for William was not a man to flaunt his mistress. He preferred it to be believed that the relationship did not exist and Elizabeth was too clever to insist on recognition. So all that had come her way so far was a large portion of James’s Irish estates which was supposed to be worth some twenty-six thousand pounds a year; but because of difficulties in getting the money it was little more than five thousand pounds.

That was not important. Elizabeth would look after herself, but in doing that she must keep her eyes on Bentinck.

She was too clever to attempt to criticize Bentinck. She had held her place by the comfort she had been able to give William; she had never tried to involve him in intrigues for her own advantages. No, the only way of undermining Bentinck’s influence with the King was for him to have a rival in the King’s affection.

She had been watching that very personable young man Arnold Joost van Keppel who although as yet only a page in William’s service had already attracted his master’s attention. William could almost smile with pleasure when he looked at that fresh young face and it was already clear that he liked to have the boy near him.

Keppel was bright; it was certain that he was ambitious. Poor Bentinck was growing old and showed signs of strain, for he was as deeply involved in state matters as his master. It was not that Elizabeth hoped to oust Bentinck from William’s affections. That would be an impossibility; they would be friends until death parted them; but there was no reason why someone younger, gayer and more handsome, might not take up some of the King’s attention.

When she was next with the King she mentioned Keppel.

“A charming boy,” she commented, “and one I think who is very eager to serve you.”

“I have noticed him,” said William, and in spite of his attempt to hide it there was a gentle note in his voice.

“And of good family and breeding,” added Elizabeth. “Such a young man should hold a higher post than page of honor.”

“The thought had occurred to me,” admitted William.

“There will be a vacant place in the bedchamber soon.”

“He shall have it,” said William, and smiled affectionately at his mistress who had the fortunate knack of anticipating his wishes.

Shortly afterward Arnold Joost van Keppel became Groom of the Bedchamber and Master of the Robes.

During that early summer the city was full of rumors. In Ireland William’s army was fighting against that of James. There were constant reports that James had died; that he landed in England; that he was defeated; that he had beaten the King’s men.

There was frequent secret drinking to the “King over the Water”; the ominous “Squeezings of the Orange.”

William had taken up his headquarters at Hampton Court; he believed that he would soon have to go to Ireland, and he would have been there now but for the fact that his ministers had begged him to remain.

Mary yearned to have a little gaiety, and although this was not possible at Hampton Court when William had to come to London and stayed at St. James’s she accompanied him, and on these occasions made some attempt to make a Court there.

William turned his back on such frivolities, but he realized that it was no bad thing that they should take place. He was so unpopular largely because of his uncouth and retiring manners; the people—who would complain of the Court’s extravagance, yet wanted an extravagant Court—said he was a dullard and they might as well have no King as King William. But whenever the Queen appeared they cheered, for she obviously liked gaiety. She had been brought up in the right way, to laugh and dance and make merry.

Mary declared that during one of her sojourns at St. James’s she would see a play at the playhouse.

Now a play must be very carefully selected because many of them were historical and there must be no references which could apply to the present delicate situation. One which was definitely banned was of course King Lear. That was a play which would never be played during the reign of William and Mary.

Mary discussed the matter excitedly with her ladies of honor: the Countess of Derby, her first lady and Mistress of the Robes, mentioned a play which had been banned under James.

“One of Mr. Dryden’s,” she said. “I believe it is most enlivening.”

“And why was it banned?” asked Mrs. Mordaunt, another of the Queen’s women.

“It was thought to contain slighting references to the Catholics, I believe,” replied the Countess.

“Then,” said Mary, “it might be a good one to have. I have always admired Mr. Dryden’s work. What is it’s name?”

“The Spanish Friar, I think, Your Majesty. Shall I inquire?”

“Pray do,” said the Queen. “I can scarce wait to see it. I have always loved the play. I remember in my uncle’s time how he was constantly at the playhouse.”

They all looked a little wistful for the golden days of the merry Monarch. It was all so different now. So many people were comparing William with Oliver Cromwell, and if he had his way, they were sure there would be a return to puritanism.

But the Queen was different; everyone’s hopes were fixed on the Queen.

There were a hundred little irritations in Mary’s life. Anne who was aloof and rarely spoke to her; Sarah Churchill was as insolent as she dared be; Elizabeth Villiers, sly and retiring, was nevertheless keeping her hold on William’s affections, and as if that were not enough there had to be Catherine Sedley.

Mary had always disliked the woman—no beauty, but like her father, the rake and poet who had been a favorite of Uncle Charles, full of a wild joy in living and a desire to act in such a way as to call attention to herself.

She had been one of the most successful mistresses of James and although he had made several attempts to cast her off, he had never been able to do so. He had made her Countess of Dorchester and given her a fine town house which she now occupied, and she often came to Court which Mary thought was an affront to herself. Such people should have the decency to stay away. It was even said that she was working with the Jacobites to bring James back and that she cared not who knew it.