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

Anne agreed as she always did with Sarah.

“Poor Mr. Morley longed to serve his country,” went on Sarah, “but no! He is not allowed to.” Sarah slid over the fact that he was not an Englishman and went on quickly: “And Mr. Freeman. I am sure Mrs. Morley will agree with me that there is not a man in this country who has done as much for it as Mr. Freeman.”

“He is a great soldier and I know you are proud of him and he of you, which pleases me, for I like well to see those I love appreciated.”

“Dear Mrs. Morley, what should I do without your sympathy? I had thought that after his services Mr. Freeman would have received some decoration. He is worthy of the Garter. But my poor Freeman is too modest to think of these things. I declare he is like Morley in that. So we, my dear Mrs. Morley, must think for them.”

“What would they do without us to think for them!” sighed Anne, smiling.

“If I could see Freeman wearing the Garter I think I should be the happiest woman alive.”

Sarah glanced sideways at Anne. It had worked. A conspiratorial expression had flitted across the plump highly colored face. Anne was going to see what she could do about procuring a Garter for Mr. Freeman.

“The Garter for Marlborough!” said William. “They’ll be asking for the crown next.”

Mary shivered. That was what she feared. There were so many Jacobite plots. One never knew where they were going to spring up next; and prisoners when questioned told strange stories. She was certain that the Marlboroughs were not to be trusted. They had betrayed James and people who betray once will do so again. Mary’s nightmare was that they rose and deposed William. It would break his heart if that happened. He always seemed so indifferent to the three crowns of England, Scotland, and Ireland but this was not so. He believed that in possessing them he fulfilled a destiny which he had known was his ever since the midwife at his birth had seen three circles about his head which were believed to signify a prophecy that he would one day inherit three crowns.

“Anne is very eager to get a Garter for Marlborough,” said Mary.

William frowned. “They do what they will with her. They have bewitched her.”

“It is that woman.”

“The sooner Anne rids herself of Sarah Churchill the better.”

“She never will.”

“No, I’ve aways said that the most stupid woman in England is your sister.”

“Poor Anne!”

“Not poor in worldly goods, only in mental equipment,” growled William. “And I’d as lief decorate one of your dogs with a Garter as Marlborough. So that’s an end of it.”

But it was not the end, for now Marlborough was agreeing with Sarah that little would be achieved under William.

His services were unrewarded. William did not believe it was necessary to consider him. Very well, he would show William.

In the first place he had great influence in the army. He had good looks and great charm of manner. He was also a first-class soldier and a born leader of men. Therefore what he said carried weight.

He began to point out how extraordinary it was that so many high posts in the Army were held by foreigners. One would have thought it was a foreign army. Of course the King was a Dutchman. That was the reason why favors were always given to the Dutch, and the English passed over.

Sidney Godolphin, Earl of Godolphin, who was a friend of the Marlboroughs, became aware of what was happening. Godolphin, a brilliant statesman and a Tory, had voted for a Regency at the time of the Revolution and was by no means satisfied when William and Mary were made King and Queen.

He sought out Marlborough and when he invited him to walk in the park, Marlborough guessed that something was going to be said that was too dangerous to be mentioned inside four walls.

Godolphin said: “You’re dissatisfied with the manner in which affairs are being conducted and I understand why.”

“I am a soldier,” said Marlborough, “I do not care to see the Army in the hands of foreigners.”

“It is inevitable when we have a Dutchman for a king.”

“What is, must perforce be borne, I dare swear.”

“Unless it were changed.”

Marlborough was alert; this was what he had expected.

“I never believed that they should have taken the crown,” went on Godolphin. “Had there been a Regency we might have made some compromise. James might have been made to accept certain conditions and return. In fact I am sure he would.”

“It would have been preferable to this.”

“I believe so.”

“Alas, it is too late.” There was almost a question in the remark.

“Some of the old King’s friends are still in touch with him.”

Marlborough’s cool brain was rapidly weighing up the possibilities. Men like Godolphin were in this. Then it had a good chance of success.

“I have often felt contrite,” he said, “because of the way I acted.”

“James would be ready to forgive, if forgiveness were asked.”

They were silent for a while. Godolphin was waiting for Marlborough to speak and when he did he said what he expected him to.

The Marlboroughs’ policy had always been that where they went, the Princess Anne must follow, for their fortunes were inextricably bound up with hers.

Marlborough was writing to James, asking forgiveness for the part he had played, hinting that he would be ready to bring down the regime he had helped put up, assuring James that he would persuade his daughter Anne that she had been an undutiful daughter.

The task of persuading was, of course, Sarah’s, and Sarah accomplished it with speed. When she had a definite project Sarah was happy and this was not a plan to bring back James, but merely to depose William and Mary. They wanted no Catholic monarch; therefore with the Dutchman out of the way, and his wife with him, for she would not reign without him, it would be Anne’s turn.

When Sarah came to her mistress’s apartments the cards were laid out. Sarah sat impatiently drumming her fingers on the table.

She had already spoken to Anne and she was sure the Princess was now ready. She hated William; she disliked Mary; and she was ready to wish she had been a better daughter. Once she had put her intentions in writing, the matter would be sealed.

Cards! thought Sarah impatiently. What a preoccupation when there was life to be lived! Not that Sarah did not enjoy a game of cards. They were her favorite recreation, for she had never had much patience with books. “Prithee do not talk to me of books,” was a favorite remark of hers. “I know only men and cards.” It had not occurred to her that had she looked into books she might have learned some invaluable lessons; she might have been able to see herself in relationship to others; but Sarah could not do this—it was her great fault. She could only see herself as a giant in a world of pygmies, and, as John often feared, this could be her downfall.

She played the game with a careless abandon which was not lost on Lady Fitzharding, who had come to know Sarah very well. When she played like that, her mind was on other things and it was clear that she wanted to be alone with the Princess Anne.

Sarah lost heavily and made no accusations against the others, which was unusual; and very soon she had contrived to be alone with Anne.

It was on such occasions that Barbara made sure that she was aware of what went on between Anne and Sarah. She owed that to Elizabeth.

“Oh, those tiresome women!” cried Sarah in her resonant voice. “I thought the game would never end.”

“It was a good game, and you, my dear Mrs. Freeman, played very badly.”

“I know. My mind was on more important matters.”

“Oh?” said Anne, her eyes shining. “Do explain.”

“There is news from your father. He is delighted that you are with those who are ready to show him friendship.”

“My poor father. Do you know, Mrs. Freeman, I have been haunted ever since the morning of the Coronation. That letter! To be cursed by one’s father. And all the babies I have lost. And my little Gloucester … sometimes my heart almost fails me when I look at him. He is such a clever little boy, so alert, so brilliant … oh, but dear Mrs. Freeman, so frail.”

“I know, I know. If you had your father’s forgiveness everything would be better, for it is not a good thing that there should be enmity between a father and daughter.”

“What can I do, Mrs. Freeman?”

“Well, I believe that if you were to write a letter to him and tell him how sorry you are, he would be ready and willing to forget the past and be friends again.”

“How I wish that could be.”

“We will write that letter and see what happens. It can do no harm. Now … pen and paper and to work.”

Sarah bustled about the apartment, laid out writing materials, and helped Anne to the table.

“Now … what do you think? Something like this. ‘I have been very desirous of some safe opportunity to make you a sincere and humble offer of my duty and submission to you; and to beg you will be assured that I am both truly concerned for the misfortune of your condition and sensible, as I ought to be, of my own unhappiness …’ ”

“That is wonderful.”

“Well write that down.”

Anne obeyed.

Sarah went on: “ ‘As to what you may think I have contributed to it, if wishes could recall what is past, I had long since redeemed my fault …’ ”

Sarah went on dictating; Anne went on writing; and in the anteroom Barbara Fitzharding’s ear was pressed against the keyhole that she might not miss a word.

Elizabeth Villiers made William lie on her bed and rest, for she said that when he came to her he must, for a short time, forget his troubles.

She smiled down at him and he regarded her with affection—the face which so many failed to appreciate, that fascinating cast in the eyes which had endeared her to him in the first place, and the clear alert mind which she devoted to his interests. He was blessed in his mistress as he was with his male friends. He was a man who was loved by few, but those few gave him wholehearted devotion.

Wife, mistress, and friend. He could rely on them all—though perhaps not his wife because, for all that she was the meekest of the three, her exalted position and the power she could wield if she wished meant that he could never be completely sure of her.

“My sister reports disturbing news from the Cockpit,” she said. “Anne is writing to her father.”

William raised himself on his elbow and stared at her.

“It is so. No suggestions … yet. A little contrition; the dutiful daughter is haunted by the wrong she has done her father and asks his forgiveness.”

William was silent; then he said. “The Marlborough woman.”

Elizabeth nodded. “She dictates all.”

“Marlborough will be aware of it.”

“I am sure of it,” said Elizabeth. “That woman continually abuses you, but I do not think she would take this step without Marlborough’s being aware of it.”