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

She would write to Mary and ask if her sister would see her. There was no danger to herself for she had had the small pox. In any case, she would have risked danger to see Mary and be friends again.

Sarah was pleased. As Anne’s chief lady she would write to the Countess of Derby telling her the Princess Anne’s wishes.

A reply came, written in the hand of the Countess of Derby.

Madam, I am commanded by the King and Queen to tell you they desire you would let the Princess know they both thank her for sending and desiring to come, but it being thought so necessary to keep the Queen as quiet as possible, hope she will defer it. I am, Madam, your ladyship’s most humble servant.

E. Derby.

There was a postscript to this letter which Sarah found significant. It read: “Pray, Madam, present my humble duty to the Princess.”

“It is the most polite note we have had for some time,” said Sarah gleefully. “And what do you think Madame Derby means with her postcript?”

“She presents her duty to me.”

“Her duty! She is suddenly very dutiful. Why? I ask you, Mrs. Morley. It is because when Mary is gone, Mrs. Morley will hold a very important position in this land.”

Sarah looked at Anne who had begun to weep silently.

But Sarah was right. During the next few days there were many callers at Berkeley House. Those who of recent months had not thought it necessary to be aware of the Princess Anne’s existence, now wished to pay their humble respects to her.

No wonder Sarah was gleeful.

In Gloucester’s apartments the servants were talking of the topic which was on everyone’s lips.

“Well, Mr. Jenkins, I have just had it from the Queen’s usher. It is not the small pox. It’s only measles.”

“Oh, be joyful!” cried Jenkins. “Dear lady, she will recover soon.”

“Oh, be joyful,” murmured Gloucester.

“What did you say, sir?” asked Jenkins.

“What you did, Lewis. You said ‘Oh, be joyful’ but soon you will be saying ‘Oh, be doleful’.”

He walked away from them with his strange gait, for he had never yet been able to walk straight on account of his affliction.

They looked after him and then looked fearfully at each other. He was such a strange boy.

The Queen was dying. There was no doubt of it now.

In her bedchamber it was stifling, for so many people came to see her die.

The scent of herbs and unguents filled the room; there were the sounds of whispering voices, of prayers and of weeping.

Mary was not aware of this; she did not see her doctors or her ministers and those who called themselves her friends gathered together to see her die.

The Princess Anne had sent a message by Lady Fitzharding who, determined to deliver it, forced her way to the Queen’s bed. She said in ringing tones that Her Highness the Princess Anne was deeply concerned for her sister.

Mary understood for she smiled faintly and whispered: “Thank her.” Then she closed her eyes.

William who had been told that her end was very near lost his indifference. She would have been astonished if she could have seen his grief. Never while she lived had he shown such feeling for her; but now that he was losing her he remembered all her goodness, all her affection; and he was struck with a sense of great desolation.

Bentinck was at his side—Bentinck who had grown away from him; but at such times it was to old friends whom one turned. “I must go to her,” he said,

“I must ask forgiveness …”

“Your Majesty yourself is ill,” said Bentinck.

As William rose he swayed and would have fallen had not Bentinck caught him.

The King had fainted.

Half an hour passed before, leaning on Bentinck for support, he was able to go to her sickroom. All calm deserted him, and as he stood by the bed he cried aloud: “Mary!”

But she did not answer him. She who had always longed for his affection could not respond now when it was given as never before.

The irony of the situation came home to him. He wanted to show her that he loved her, for now that he had lost her he understood her goodness to him, all that she had offered and he had rejected.

But she had gone. She would never speak to him again, never give him that fearful tremulous smile.

He covered his face with his hands; his body had begun to shake.

Those in the death chamber of Queen Mary saw the astonishing sight of William of Orange giving way to his grief.

TO BE DELIVERED AFTER DEATH

lowly recovering from the grief which surprised him no less than it did those about him, William began to consider his own position, and he was alarmed. He had threatened often to return to Holland, but the prospect of being forced to do this was not pleasing. At his christening the midwife had prophesied three crowns for him; he had won them and he intended to keep them.

He was a wise man; he was a brave man, and his somewhat sour outlook prepared him more for disadvantages than for advantages. He had never tried to gloss over the fact that he was unpopular and that he lacked those qualities to inspire affection. Even his enemies respected him as a great leader; but for the nature of his coming to England and its inevitable conflicts, his rule would have been beneficial. No one who lived close to him and realized what physical torments he suffered uncomplainingly could but admire him. But the fact remained that though he had virtues which bordered on greatness he was completely unlovable.

He turned now to Bentinck, who, like the true friend he was, forgot the estrangement of the past and was by his side in this crisis.

Bentinck, so like himself in many ways, lacked his powers of endurance, his calmness in adversity, his great leadership, but, in place of this lack, possessed a charm and an ability to inspire affection.

He knew that he could trust Bentinck as he could no one else now that Mary had gone.

“Well Bentinck, what news?”

“Some mourn the Queen, some rejoice.”

William nodded.

He wanted the worst so Bentinck would not hesitate to give it.

“In some of the taverns, they are singing Jacobite songs. They are shouting: ‘No foreigners. No taxes!’ ”

“Do they want James back?” said William wearily. “They will say ‘No popery’ then. What’s it to be, foreigners and taxes to keep him out or popery to bring him in? They can make their choice.”

“They have made their choice. If he came back they would be shouting ‘No popery’ through the streets again.”

“And the lampoons?”

Bentinck nodded.

William held out his hand.

“Do you want to look. They are so silly.”

William took the paper and read:

Is Willy’s wife now dead and gone?

I’m sorry he is left alone

Oh, Blundering Death, I do thee ban ,

That took the wife and left the man!

Come, Atropos, come with thy knife ,

And take the man to his good wife;

And when thou’st rid us of the knave ,

A thousand thanks then thou shalt have .

William screwed it up in his hands with a wry smile.

“So foolish,” murmured Bentinck.

“Yet in these outpourings we have an indication of public feeling. We should never shut our eyes to that, my friend.”

“And you have thought how best to act?”

William nodded. “I have been considering the Princess Anne. You know how I loathe the woman.” Bentinck nodded and William gave a sharp laugh. “As much as she loathes me. But this estrangement should end, of course. They will all be looking to her, for now there can be no doubt that she is the heir to the throne.”

Bentinck knew his master well enough to understand what was passing in his mind. What was his position now that Mary was dead? Would the people allow him to keep the crown? Would they remember that in the direct line of succession, Anne came before him.

If this were so, a continuance of the estrangement between them could make great trouble. There was enough conflict abroad; William must have peace with Anne. Therefore a reconciliation was essential.

Thomas Tenison, Archbishop of Canterbury, was asking for an audience with the King on a matter of vital importance, and William ordered that he should be admitted without delay.

The Archbishop was surprised by the signs of grief in William’s face, for never before had he seen him betray any emotion. Never during his married life had he shown how much affection he had for his wife; and in view of the Archbishop’s mission the latter was doubly surprised.

“Your Majesty,” he said, “I come on an unpleasant duty and an indelicate mission. I pray you will forgive my frankness.”

William said coldly: “Pray proceed.”

“The Queen left me a casket which contains a letter addressed to you.”

“Left you a casket! With a letter for me! Why was it not left to me?”

“Because her late Majesty wished me to give this to you; there was also a letter for me in which she explains the contents of her letter to you. She wished me to remonstrate with you and to point out the evil of your conduct.”

William was startled out of his calm. “This seems to me both incredible and monstrous.”

The Archbishop’s eyes were as cold as those of the King. “Her Majesty suffered greatly from your infidelity and she fears that if you continue in your adultery you will not be received into heaven.”

“I do not understand how …”

The Archbishop held up a hand. William might be angry but Tenison was in command. The Queen had entrusted him with the saving of the King’s soul and he was going to perform his duty no matter how he offended him.

“The Queen was, of course, right to be anxious. You endanger your soul by continuing with this liaison.”

“I will be responsible for my soul,” retorted William.

“To God or to the Devil,” murmured the Archbishop. “I will leave the casket with you so that you may open your letter.”

“Pray do.”

“Then, Your Majesty, if there is anything you wish to discuss with me, if you wish my help in any way …”

“That is unlikely.”

The Archbishop bowed his head. “Then have I Your Majesty’s permission to broach a matter of a different nature, something which concerns the temporal position rather than the spiritual.”

William bowed his head.

“This concerns the Princess Anne. Your Majesty will be aware that many of those who have ignored her in the past are now flocking to pay their respects to her.”

“I know this.”

“And it is well that the people should know that she is recognized by Your Majesty as the heiress to the throne?”

“This is so.”

“The people would accept no other heir. Had you and her late Majesty been blessed with a child, that would have been different. But you were not.” The Archbishop looked reproachful as though suggesting that the barrenness of the late Queen was a punishment for her husband’s sins. It was an indication of how the people were feeling that the Archbishop should dare censure him in this way. He was now implying that if William married again and had issue, the child would not be accepted as heir to the throne.