The Queen's Devotion: The Story of Queen Mary II Page 9

  I lay still for a while, bruised, hurting and feeling unclean.

  My attendants came in. Elizabeth Villiers and her sister Anne and my dear Anne Trelawny, who looked at me anxiously and compassionately. She put her arms round me and kissed me tenderly.

  “I shall be with you in Holland,” she reminded me.

  That was like a faint glimmer of pleasure in a dark, dark world.

  “You have been crying again, my lady princess,” said Anne Villiers.

  Elizabeth looked amused, and I hated her. I wondered if I should ask my father to stop her coming with me. It seemed a trivial matter in the midst of all my misery.

  “I will bathe Your Highness’s eyes,” said Elizabeth, practically. “They are rather swollen.”

  I was dressed. I did not know whether the Prince would come again. I prayed not. I did not want to see him.

  A visitor did arrive. It was William Bentinck, and the sight of the man set me shivering, for I knew he was the most favored of my husband’s attendants and that there was a very close friendship between them. I gathered that there must be something very unusual about this man, for the Prince was not one to show affection for the people around him — and he undoubtedly did show some regard for this man.

  Bentinck said: “I come from His Highness the Prince of Orange. He has asked me to bring this to you.”

  With that he bowed and put a casket into my hands and, with the air of a man who has completed a mission, he begged leave to retire, bowed deeply and was gone.

  I was left holding the casket. Elizabeth was staring at it with curiosity.

  “Is Your Highness going to see what it contains?” she asked.

  The two Annes showed a curiosity to match Elizabeth’s, yet I stared at the casket with repulsion, as though I expected venomous snakes to emerge, because it came from him, that man who struck fear into me such as I had never known before, who in a few weeks had ruined my happy and peaceful existence.

  Trembling, I opened the casket. Therein lay several jewels, among them a pendant of rubies and diamonds on a golden chain.

  Elizabeth held her breath in admiration.

  “They are beautiful!” cried her sister.

  “You must try on the pendant,” said Anne Trelawny.

  “It is the custom to send jewels on the morning after the wedding,” said Elizabeth.

  I felt the cold jewel on my neck as Anne fastened the chain. I was thinking, I shall never be able to forget. And this is only the beginning.

  “Is it not beautiful?” cried Elizabeth. “Think what it costs!” Her eyes squinted. I thought, she is envying me. Oh, if only she were in my place and I in hers!

  I said: “Take it off and put it back in the casket.”

  They looked surprised, all of them. Even Anne Trelawny did not understand. They were all overwhelmed by the beauty and costliness of the jewels.

  I saw him briefly the next day. He hardly looked at me. I think that night of horror had not pleased him either. My hopes rose at the thought that perhaps it would not be repeated.

  The day was taken up with receiving deputations and congratulations. It seemed that everyone was pleased about the wedding except my father and stepmother and, of course, the married pair.

  That night I lay in my marriage bed and waited. For a long time I lay there, listening for his footsteps. Once I dozed and awoke with a start. It was well into the night before I could believe, with an overwhelming joy, that he was not coming to me.

  * * *

  I WAS AT ST. JAMES’S, our dear home. It was some days since I had seen my sister Anne. She had been too ill to be visited, they said. She must rest. I wanted to talk to her and I was sure, however ill she was, she would want to see me.

  My ladies were all talking about the Prince of Orange. I knew they thought he was very strange. They were saying that there was nothing of the ardent lover about him. He did not spend any time alone with me and when it was necessary for us to be together, he hardly looked at me; he never seemed to show the least sign of affection for me.

  He was eager for all ceremonies to be over. I expected he was as bored with the continual congratulations as I was, but I felt that if he kept away from me it was the best thing that could be hoped for in a situation which would have been more intolerable if it were the reverse.

  Two days after the wedding Mary Beatrice’s baby was born.

  My father came to see me and I could see at once that he was very pleased, though he embraced me with an expression of mingled anxiety, commiseration, understanding and self-reproach for what had been done to me, and tenderness. I wanted to tell him of my miseries and let him know that I was aware that what had come about was due to no fault of his.

  “My dear,” he said, “I have come to tell you that I have a son.”

  My first thought was: how cruel that it should be now instead of a week before when he might not have married me.

  “A son,” he repeated. “Yes, a son.”

  “And the Duchess?”

  “She is well and overjoyed, of course.”

  “And the child?”

  “He will survive.”

  “Dear Father . . .”

  “Dearest daughter, if only . . .”

  It was no use talking of it, but it was comforting to know that he understood.

  “The Prince, your husband, will not be pleased,” he said.

  I shook my head. “He should have been born before . . .” I did not finish, and my father took me into his arms and held me against him.

  I said I wanted to see the Duchess and he told me she was very tired just now, but soon she would be receiving visitors and I should be the first.

  When he had left me, I felt a certain pleasure because my husband would be cheated of his hopes. He had married me because there was a fair chance that one day I should inherit the throne. In spite of his love of his country, which was the most stable Protestant state in Europe, he longed for the crown of England, and to obtain it he was ready to marry the girl whom he despised and now he was saddled with her and his hopes of the crown were fading fast. It was his just desert.

  I wanted to see my sister, but they continued to say she must not be disturbed. I could not bear to be parted from her any longer. I decided I would insist on seeing her.

  When I went to her apartments, Dr. Lake appeared, as he had before.

  I said firmly: “I have come to see my sister.”

  “Pardon me, Your Highness, but you cannot do that. The Lady Anne is very ill and it is the Duke’s order that you shall not visit her.”

  “Are you saying that my father has given orders that I shall not see her?”

  “That is indeed so. Your Highness, I have to tell you that the Lady Anne is suffering from smallpox and your father is anxious that you shall run no risk of being infected.”

  “Oh no ... no,” I cried. “And ... er ... Lady Frances?”

  “Lady Frances is also suffering from the same, Your Highness.”

  I was horrified, but I said: “I want to see my sister.”

  “That is not possible,” replied Dr. Lake. “The Duke’s orders were very firm on that point.”

  I knew that this was another example of my father’s love and care for me.

  He had his son now, his little heir to the throne, but I believed he loved his daughters as he could never love any other of his children. And one was stricken with the dreaded disease which was very often fatal and he was going to lose the other to a man for whom he could not care.

  * * *

  MY MISERY on account of my own desperate situation was overshadowed by my fear for my sister. I shuddered to think of her suffering from that affliction from which few survived, and if they did escape there was often a lifelong reminder in those ugly pockmarks which marred the complexion. The Prince of Orange had such marks on his face.

  I had seen very little of him since the wedding night. I fancied he must have felt as ashamed as I did. He was only doing his duty, of course. T
hat was how he would see it. How different he was from the King and his courtiers, who sinned so joyously! There was no joy in my husband.

  He came to St. James’s and I was in a panic when Elizabeth Villiers told me he was on his way to see me. She hovered very respectfully in the background. When he entered, she curtsied and lowered her eyes. His gaze lingered on her for a few seconds before he turned to me.

  There was no love in his eyes; there was nothing but that coldness. I believed he was already deeply regretting the marriage, the importance of which had been so greatly lessened.

  He said: “Prepare to leave for Whitehall at once.”

  Leave my sister! I would not do it. I felt stubborn and angry. I loved my sister deeply. I knew I should have to go very soon, leaving all that I loved and cared for, but until that moment I would not leave the place where she was. Suppose she called for me? I had to be there.

  I heard myself say, “No!” in a voice which surprised me by its firmness.

  He stared at me incredulously. He had told me what I should do and I had refused without preamble. I could see that he was convincing himself that he had not heard right.

  He said: “You will leave at once.”

  “No,” I repeated. “I shall not leave my sister.”

  He looked amazed. I was aware of Elizabeth Villiers, watching me closely. There was silence.

  Then Elizabeth said: “Your Highness, I will prepare for our departure.”

  I stood very still. I did not care what happened to me. I was not going to leave St. James’s one moment before I had to.

  “Do you know that there is smallpox in this place?” he asked.

  “Yes,” I answered.

  “Your sister and others have fallen victim to this plague. It is folly to stay here one moment longer than need be. So prepare to leave at once.”

  I cried passionately: “I do not care about the smallpox.”

  I saw a faint color appear under his pale skin. It made the ravages of the disease more noticeable. I did not care what he said. I was still under my father’s care and he would understand. But this man did not know anything about love, of caring for people so much that one must be near them, however great the danger. I could not leave Anne now.

  “This is folly,” he said quietly. “You do not know what you say.”

  I was determined now to stand out against him. I wondered why he did not tell Elizabeth Villiers to go.

  He turned suddenly and strode out of the room. I looked at Elizabeth. I fancied there was a certain amusement in her sly eyes.

  She said: “Should Your Highness have been so vehement? After all, there is pox in the place. He is your husband. You have defied him. He will not like that ... and after his disappointment about the newly born baby!”

  * * *

  MY FATHER CAME TO SEE ME that day.

  “So,” he said, “you have refused to leave your sister.”

  I nodded.

  “The Prince is not pleased. In fact, he is determined to leave for Holland at the earliest possible moment.”

  I went to him and buried my face against him.

  “He is not a happy man at this moment,” I said. “He was hoping the child would be a girl or stillborn. He married me only for the reason that one day I might have inherited the crown. I am glad he has been cheated of that.”

  “The treaty was important to him, but he would not sign it until he had seen you and after the marriage. Also, my dear daughter, he liked what he saw or there would have been no marriage.”

  “No. He hates me, as I do him.”

  “This is just the beginning. He is a fine man. Your uncle has a great respect for him.”

  “My uncle always seems to me to be laughing at him.”

  “He is amused by his rather abstemious conduct and his stern religious views. But as a man ... as a statesman ... he is reckoned to be one of the best in Europe. You will be proud of him, Mary, one day.”

  “I wish he had never come here. I wish we did not have to be friends with the Dutch.”

  “But you will like the Dutch. They are good, law-abiding people. They are devoted to their Prince and they will be to their Princess. And you will like them when you see how much they will like you.”

  “You have come to comfort me. I suppose it is to prepare me for my departure.”

  He was silent, and I knew that I was right.

  “There is to be a special ball in two days’ time,” he said. “For the Queen’s birthday. The King thinks the following day would be a good time for you to leave.”

  I caught my breath. “So soon?”

  “It may be that the weather will prevent it.”

  “But it has to come,” I said sadly.

  He was silent for a while, then he said: “Lady Frances, I fear, will not be with you.”

  “She is very ill, I know.”

  “And makes no improvement.”

  “I am so anxious about Anne.”

  “Anne is young. We can hope. I cannot believe that God will be so cruel as to take both my daughters from me.”

  We clung together in silence.

  At length he said: “Lady Inchiquin will take the place of Lady Frances. She is a mature, married lady.”

  “Another of the Villiers family!”

  “They have found favor with the King. He wants you to have people about you who will help you through the first difficult days which always follow starting a new life in a strange country. The two Villiers girls who have been with you here, Elizabeth and Anne, will be there, and also Anne Trelawny. I know she is a favorite of yours. Then there will be Henry Wroth’s girl, Jane, and Lady Betty Selbourne. They are both pleasant creatures. So you will have familiar faces about you.

  “This has all happened so quickly,” I said piteously.

  “Sometimes it is better that way. Oh, my dearest, how I shall miss you!”

  There was nothing we could do but mingle our tears.

  * * *

  I HATED EVERY MOMENT of that ball. It was a glittering occasion to celebrate not only the Queen’s birthday but our marriage.

  What mockery! I knew the Queen was not completely happy. She loved the King devotedly and it was not possible to hide from her his many infidelities. So how could she be happy? And as for celebrating our marriage — William was far from pleased with it and, as for myself, it had ruined my life. What an occasion for a ball!

  Not once did William speak to me during the evening. He was not the man to grace a ball. Brusque, plainly dressed, what a contrast he made to the King and my father! I thought how well he would have suited Oliver Cromwell; he had no place in our glamorous court where good manners, appearances, wit and grace were so important. He stood out among the rest, dour, ungainly, disapproving, and displaying such an assurance of his wisdom and worthiness that I began to wonder whether there might be some truth in it.

  Everyone had noticed his neglect of me. I think the King was amused by it. I could imagine his comment: “My poor nephew. To be disappointed at the post! This little fellow whom the Duchess had produced has a good chance of survival. What a way to treat a God-fearing man! Is there no reward for virtue? What are they doing up there, neglecting their own, for the sake of the sinners?”

  Anne Trelawny was very angry. She was worried at the time because of the illness of her father who was at St. James’s. It was not a healthy place to be in and I supposed William was right when he had suggested my leaving. My refusal to do so was another piece of folly in his eyes.

  Anne said: “It was cruel the way in which he behaved at the ball. He is nothing but a monster. I am sorry but I cannot help saying it.”

  Jane Wroth, whom I liked because she was warmhearted and natural and spoke before she thought of what effect her words might have, said: “That is true. He is nothing but a Dutch monster.”

  Sarah Jennings, to whom I should soon say good-bye, because naturally she would be staying with my sister, commented: “He reminds me of Caliban. He looks as th
ough he is plotting something.”

  She felt free to speak of him thus, I supposed, because I should soon be gone, and he with me.

  I heard them talking about him later. They called him the Dutch monster, Caliban.

  And this was my husband.

  * * *

  THE TIME HAD COME. There could be no further delay. My father had given orders at St. James’s. Anne, who was now dangerously ill, was not to be told that I was leaving, for he feared the effect it might have on her in her weak state. As for myself, I was expressly forbidden to go near my sister, for fear of catching the infection, so I must leave without saying good-bye. I wondered what further blows fate could deal me.

  I was realizing that I was really fond of Lady Frances and was deeply sorry that she was not accompanying me, that I was a little afraid of Elizabeth Villiers, and did not really care for her sister Anne. I did have Anne Trelawny though, and frivolous little Jane Wroth and lively Betty Selbourne were very pleasant to be with.

  I spent the night before I was due to sail writing two letters to my sister Anne. I sent for the Duchess of Monmouth and asked her to give them to my sister as soon as she was well enough to receive them. I wanted her to know that I was thinking of her and how it grieved me to leave her.

  William had not approached me since our wedding night, and it was becoming more and more clear to me that the experience had been as unpleasant to him as it had been degrading to me.

  I think I began to like him a little better then, although I had not been in the least displeased to hear those whispered comments in which he had been referred to as the Dutch monster and Caliban.

  He found me a disappointing wife now that I was further removed from the throne, but I saw that he did not hurt me out of malice. He just acted naturally and we shared our regret for a marriage which need never have taken place.

  On that dreaded day I left St. James’s and went to Whitehall to say good-bye to the Queen.

  Queen Catherine was a gentle, kindly lady. She had trouble of her own, but still had sympathy to spare for me. She understood my feelings and reminded me of how she had come to England to marry a man she had never seen.