The Three Crowns Read online

  So the siege of Maestricht played out on a stage was more than a pleasing pageant.

  Mary Beatrice, watching it, was deeply conscious of her husband. She would not have believed it possible when she first came to England that she could have such strong feelings for that man. He was twenty-five years her senior; he was a sensual man; he made demands on her which she had never thought it would be a pleasure to fulfill; but how wrong she had been. Mary Beatrice, once longing for the virgin’s life, had now become a woman passionately in love with her husband.

  It was a marvel to her that she who had once lain in the nuptial bed shivering at the prospect of his approach, now lay waiting for him, her only fear being that he would not come but decide to stay with one of his mistresses instead. She was passionately jealous of his mistresses; she had remonstrated with him about them, but although he was always kind, and implied to her that they were not as important in his life as she was, he would not give them up.

  She had discovered a great deal about her husband’s first marriage—for she never tired of hearing about it and asked numerous questions. She knew that he had loved Anne Hyde his first wife so much that he had defied his formidable mother, his brother, and all his family for her sake. They had made life unpleasant for poor Anne Hyde, except the King who, when he saw that everyone was against her, sought to be kind to her.

  She could well believe that. Had he not been kind to her? Looking back now she believed the change in her had begun when she had met the King.

  Now she watched her husband and she prayed that he would triumph over Monmouth, because she knew that Monmouth hated James; but she believed James to be too kindly to hate his nephew.

  She was pregnant and as she put her hands on her body which was beginning to swell, she was filled with love and tenderness for the child who would be born in five months’ time. Her child and James’s. She longed to have the child; she wanted to protect it from all the misfortunes which could beset a royal infant.

  And when she looked at James, there in the mock battle against the King’s bastard, she wanted to protect him too.

  The Princess Anne must follow her sister whenever possible, so as soon as she saw Frances Apsley she became violently attracted by her.

  Mary was not altogether displeased; she was delighted whenever anyone admired Frances, and as she loved her sister dearly she found it hard to be angry with her. But she was tortured that Frances might prefer Anne to herself, which she thought might be possible. Anne, with her easygoing nature, was popular; people understood Anne more readily than they did Mary; so it seemed to the elder sister that Frances might very well find the younger more attractive.

  Mary had given Frances the name of Aurelia—a character from a Dryden comedy—the Aurelia of the play being a delightful creature, whose company was greatly in demand. Mary herself was Clorine, a shepherdess from one of the Beaumont and Fletcher works—a faithful character who was constantly misunderstood.

  When Mary could not see Frances her only consolation was in writing letters to her. To her beloved Aurelia she told of her undying devotion, imploring her always to love her exclusively and to remember that she was the loving husband to her Mary-Clorine.

  As Lady Frances Villiers did not approve of this correspondence and Mary was in constant dread that something would be done to stop it, the letters had to be smuggled out of Richmond Palace to St. James’s. The dwarfs, Mr. and Mrs. Gibson, who loved their mistress and wished to please her, conveniently obliged and did the carrying. So a pleasant atmosphere of intrigue had been created and when Mary looked back to those dull days before she had known Frances Apsley, she wondered how she had endured them.

  Anne refused to be left out. She even bestirred herself to write to Frances, although writing was an occupation which held little charm for her.

  One day Mary found her bent over a letter and looking over her shoulder saw that she was writing to her beloved Semandra.

  Anne put her hands over the letter, pretending to hide it.

  “Who is Semandra?” asked Mary.

  “Well, if she is Aurelia to you she cannot be to me.”

  “Semandra! That is one of the characters in Mithridate.”

  Anne nodded. “Mrs. Betterton wants me to act in it. And Ziphares is in it too. So while Frances is Semandra I shall be Ziphares.”

  “Anne, why do you always have to copy me? Can’t you think of anything for yourself?”

  Anne looked astonished. “But why should I, when I have my dear clever Mary to think of everything?”

  Mary wanted to feel angry and exasperated; but how could she? She loved Anne and could not imagine ever being without her.

  She thought then that she would like to spend the rest of her life in a little house—far from the Court. She and Frances together. They would have cows and she would do the milking; and she would cook like a country woman. Anne should visit them … often, very often.

  She was smiling at her sister. “Really, Anne, you ought to try and do something of your own.”

  Mary Beatrice was longing for a son. The people expected it of her; if she had a boy he would be the heir to the throne; it was no wonder that everyone watched her with apprehension during those waiting months.

  When she was indisposed her health was the main topic of conversation. Every night she prayed for a son.

  Poor barren Queen Catherine spent much time with her and they became good friends, for it seemed that since Catherine could not provide the heir to the throne she was content for her sister-in-law to do so.

  It was a great responsibility.

  She guarded her health with the greatest care all during the cold dark autumn days, and early in January she went to St. James’s Palace to await the birth.

  On the ninth of that month she knew her time was near; and with relief and apprehension waited for the beginning of her ordeal.

  Outside the snow had begun to fall and the bitter wind blew along the river. Her women were bustling round her.

  This was the most important birth in the kingdom.

  She awoke on a dark Sunday knowing that her time had come; she called to her women.

  It seemed to Mary Beatrice that all the world was waiting breathlessly for the child she would have.

  She was aware of voices as she emerged from unconsciousness. The room was lighted by many candles and her pains were over.

  Someone was bending over her.

  “James,” she said.

  “My dear.”

  “The child?”

  “The child is well and healthy. And you must rest now.”

  “But I want to see …”

  He said: “Bring the child.…”

  The child? Why did he continue to say the child? She knew of course. Had it been a boy he would not have said the child.

  They brought the little bundle; they laid it in her arms.

  “Our little daughter,” said James tenderly.

  “A daughter!”

  But when she held the child in her arms she ceased to care that it was not a boy.

  It was her child. She was a mother. She laughed scornfully at that foolish girl who had believed that the ultimate contentment could only be found within the walls of a convent.

  She lay in her bed, drowsily content. My daughter, she thought. There would be others. Next time a son. But she was entirely content that this one should be a daughter.

  She thought of the future of the child. Should she be brought up with her half-sisters? But they were much too old. Moreover they were in the care of the Protestant Bishop of London. The Protestant Bishop! Why should her child be brought up as a Protestant? She was a Catholic, James was a Catholic; even though he was not publicly known as one. Why should they not be allowed to bring up their children as they wished?

  When James came to see her she told him that she wanted the child baptized as a Catholic.

  “My dear,” said James, “that is not possible.”

  “But why? I am a Catholic a
nd so are you.”

  “Our little daughter is in the line of succession to the throne. The people of England will not accept a Catholic baptism.”

  “This is my daughter,” said Mary Beatrice obstinately.

  “Alas, my dear, we are servants of the state.”

  He did not discuss the matter further, but Mary Beatrice lying back on her pillows continued to brood. Why, because she was young, should she be continually told what she must do? She had been married against her will and nothing could alter that, even though she was now glad that she had been. She was not going to allow anyone to dictate to her where her child was concerned.

  She sent for her confessor and when he came she said: “Father Gallis, I want you to make ready to baptize my daughter.”

  Father Gallis raised his eyebrows, but she went on: “I want no interference. Indeed I will have no interference. My daughter shall be baptized in accordance with the rights of my Church. I care not what anyone says. That is what I have decided.”

  Father Gallis, secretly pleased, obeyed his mistress and the little girl was christened on her mother’s bed, according to Rome.

  Charles came to call on his sister-in-law.

  He sat by the bed smiling at her.

  “I have come to welcome my new subject,” he said genially.

  The baby was brought to show him.

  “She is charming,” he said, and he smiled from James, who had accompanied him, to the beautiful mother.

  “You are very proud of your achievement,” he went on, “and rightly so. Have you decided on her names?”

  “Yes, Your Majesty,” answered Mary Beatrice, “she is to be Catherine after Her Majesty.”

  “A pretty compliment,” murmured Charles, “and one which will satisfy the Queen.”

  “And Laura after my mother.”

  “Who, rest assured, will be equally gratified. Now, let us talk about the arrangements for this blessed infant’s baptism.”

  Mary Beatrice’s heart began to beat fast. It was one thing to talk defiance to her confessor; another to do so to the King’s face.

  “Your Majesty,” she said slowly and she hoped firmly, “my daughter has already been baptized in accordance with my Church.”

  Charles was silent for a few seconds then he smiled. “Catherine Laura,” he said. “What charming names!”

  Mary Beatrice lay back on her pillows. She had won. She should have known that the easygoing King would let her have her own way.

  The Queen came to visit her.

  “I am so touched that the baby is to be named after me,” she said.

  “I should perhaps have asked Your Majesty’s gracious permission.”

  Catherine laughed. “It would have been readily given as you knew. And the King has asked me to discuss the baby’s baptism with you.”

  “But …”

  “It is His Majesty’s wish that it should take place in the chapel royal where the bishop will perform the ceremony.”

  “In accordance with the Church of England?”

  “But of course.”

  “When did His Majesty request you to come to see me?”

  “Only half an hour before I arrived.”

  Mary Beatrice lay back on her pillows. He had shown no signs of anger. But then he rarely did. He had merely smiled and then made plans to have it done the way he wished it.

  She was afraid then that some punishment would fall on Father Gallis for what he had done, and as soon as the Queen had left she sent for him and told him what had happened.

  He said they could only wait for the King’s vengeance.

  They waited. Nothing happened. And then the baby was baptized according to the King’s desire and the rites of the Church of England. Her sponsors were the Duke of Monmouth and the baby’s half-sisters, Anne and Mary.

  The King did not refer to the matter again. He hated unpleasantness, Mary Beatrice was to learn; but at the same time he liked to have his way with as little fuss as possible.

  Mary was in despair. The family of her dear Aurelia were moving from St. James’s Palace to St. James’s Square.

  “What will this mean to us?” she demanded. “How can we meet when you are not at the Palace?”

  “My dearest,” answered Aurelia, “we must content ourselves with letters when we are apart; my family will often be at St. James’s or Whitehall and you must contrive to be there when I am.”

  Mary was a little comforted.

  “I shall give you a cornelian ring so that when you look at it you will always remember me,” said Aurelia.

  “It will comfort me,” answered Mary.

  When she returned to Richmond she was pensive. Frances in St. James’s Square was no longer easily accessible but they would meet and there would be letters; it was a warning that life did not go on indefinitely in the same pleasant pattern.

  Change came.

  Daily she waited for Gibson to bring her the cornelian ring. Anne, who had wept with Mary when she had heard that Frances was moving from the Palace, declared that she too must have a ring for remembrance; and when the cornelian did not arrive Mary believed that Frances had sent it to Anne instead.

  She poured out her jealous anguish in a letter.

  “Not but that I think my sister do deserve your love more than I, but you have loved me once and now I do not doubt that my sister has the cornelian ring. Unkind Aurelia, I hope you will not go too soon, for I should be robbed of seeing you, unkind husband, as well as of your love, but she that has it will have your heart too and your letters, and oh, thrice happy she. She is happier than I ever was for she has triumphed over a rival that once was happy in your love, till she with her alluring charms removed unhappy Clorine from your heart …”

  But Anne did not have the cornelian ring; and all in good time it came to Mary.

  A happy day, which almost made her forget that communication would be more difficult now that Frances was going to St. James’s Square.

  In spite of her love for Frances, which was all absorbing, Mary still had an affection for her cousin Monmouth; and now that she was growing up and was a great deal at Court she had many friends among the maids of honor. She was mildly fond of a number of them, but her passion for Frances meant that she had little room in her heart for others.

  Eleanor Needham, a beautiful young girl, was a friend of both Mary and Frances; so that when Eleanor was in trouble and she had to confide in someone, she chose the Princess Mary.

  But this did not happen until the interfering Sarah Jennings had made it necessary.

  Sarah dominated whatever household she found herself in; her passion for management was irresistible to her. She had quarrelled with most of the maids of honor and was continually trying to call attention to herself. She had made the Princess Anne her special charge, but since Mary had become so attached to Frances (and Anne must follow her sister in everything) Anne had become less friendly with Sarah.

  Sarah was alert; there was little she missed; and she it was who warned the Duchess of Monmouth to watch her husband and Eleanor Needham, for she was certain something was going on there.

  The Duchess told Sarah to mind her own business, to which Sarah retorted that if she could not take a warning she was welcome to the consequences of her blindness. The Duchess accused her husband, mentioning Sarah, at which Monmouth called on Sarah and told her that if she did not keep her sharp nose out of his affairs she might not be in a position to much longer, for that same nose would not reach the Court from the place to which he would have her banished.

  Sarah was furious; but then Sarah often was furious. All the same she was aware of the power of the King’s favorite son; and although she might talk of upstart bastards out of his hearing, she was a little afraid of what he might do. Sarah knew that it was most essential for her to keep her place at Court if she were going to make the marriage that was necessary to establish her social position.

  So before Eleanor came to Mary she had had an idea of what was happ
ening and now that she was so knowledgeable of how people at Court conducted themselves, she was not surprised at the outcome.

  “My lady,” said Eleanor, “I am with child and I must leave the Court very soon.”

  “Is it Jemmy’s?” whispered Mary.

  Eleanor nodded.

  “Poor Eleanor. But what will you do?”

  “Go right away from here and no one shall ever hear of me again.”

  “But where will you go?”

  “Do not ask me.”

  “But Eleanor, can you look after yourself?”

  “I shall be all right.”

  “But I must help you.”

  “My dear lady Mary, you are so kind and good. I knew you would be. That is why I had to say good-bye to you. But I shall know how to look after myself.”

  “You should stay at Court. No one takes much account of these things here.”

  “No, I shall go. But I wanted to say good-bye.”

  Mary embraced her friend.

  “Promise me that if you need help you will come to me?”

  “My good sweet lady Mary, I promise.”

  Mary told Anne what had happened, and how sorry she was for poor Eleanor.

  “Sometimes,” said Mary, “I think I hate men. There is Jemmy who is as gay as ever while poor Eleanor is so unhappy she has to go right away. How different is my love for Aurelia.”

  Anne nodded, and taking a sweet from the pocket of her gown, munched it thoughtfully.

  Mary went into her closet and sitting at her table wrote that she was taking up her new crow quill to write to her dearest Aurelia.

  She told her about the quarrel between that busybody Sarah Jennings and the Duke and Duchess of Monmouth, which was on account of Eleanor Needham. It was sad, wrote Mary, that a woman should be so ill-used. They had both been fond of Eleanor, and now she had left the Court to go, as she said, where no one would hear of her. How Mary longed to escape from the Court where such intrigues were commonplace.

  “As for myself, I could live and be content with a cottage in the country and a cow, and a stiff petticoat and waistcoat in summer, and cloth in winter, a little garden where we could live on the fruit and herbs it yields.…”