Courting Her Highness

by Jean Plaidy

  The realization came to Abigail that she was no longer merely the chambermaid to pour the tea, to fetch and carry the Queen’s fans, cards or shawls, and that these men, who were clearly going to be important in the country’s affairs had discovered this startling fact even before she had.

  Mr. Harley was talking to the Queen of Daniel Defoe. Abigail seated herself on a stool close to the Queen’s chair, where Anne liked her to be, and listened. Mr. Harley was now trying to plead for Defoe. What an extraordinary voice he had; it was inharmonious, and he all but stuttered; yet he made his points with a brilliance and tact which was admirable.

  “Your Majesty’s reign will be one remembered through the ages,” he was telling Anne. How had he known that that was one of the dearest wishes of her heart? “Conquest, yes, Madam. That makes for greatness, but there is something more valuable, more endurable: Literature.”

  “I believe you have a wonderful collection of books, Mr. Harley.”

  “To collect books is a hobby of mine, Madam. And I believe that at this time our country has a greater contribution to make to literature than ever before.”

  The Queen folded her hands. What pleasant conversation! What an accomplished man! Yes, she had heard of the people he mentioned and it was admirable, quite admirable, that they found so much in the times to inspire them.

  “Sometimes, it does not inspire them to admiration, Madam,” suggested St. John.

  “It is of slight importance,” retorted Mr. Harley. “It matters only that they are inspired.”

  Mr. Harley led the conversation this way and that. He mentioned Jonathan Swift, Matthew Prior, Joseph Addison, Richard Steele, William Congreve, John Dryden and at last he came to the point of the discussion: Daniel Defoe.

  “I believe he is under sentence for some misdemeanour,” said Anne, frowning.

  “For writing a pamphlet, Madam.”

  Anne shivered. “I would not compare such a man with Mr. Dryden whose work I admire. Such amusing plays! I think we should have one performed for my birthday, Hill. Remind me.”

  “Yes, Madam.”

  “Had he been a less brilliant writer, Madam, he would now be free.”

  Anne nodded. “Such amusing plays,” she answered.

  Mr. Harley had a way of bringing the conversation back to what he wanted to say, and he had come to talk of Daniel Defoe for whom he obviously had a great admiration. Abigail realized at once that his idea was to have the man released from Newgate. But he did not know Anne if he thought that because she found his company stimulating she would grant any request. These people underestimated their Queen; she could be as determined as any of them to have what she wanted. She never raged and stormed as some people were apt to do. But she made her point and clung to it as stubbornly as any mule.

  She had not invited Mr. Harley and Mr. St. John to the friendly intimacies of the green closet to discuss the affairs of a scribbler who had foolishly been caught up in politics and in consequence found himself in Newgate Jail.

  Abigail inwardly laughed. It was so amusing to listen to Mr. Harley on the theme of Defoe while the Queen repeated at intervals. “Such a clever man, Mr. Dryden. Hill do remind me. We will have the play at St. James’s for my birthday.”

  And when they left they must have been deeply disappointed, for they had gained nothing, in Abigail’s opinion, but perhaps a little understanding that the Queen was not what they had believed her to be.

  She would have been surprised if she could have heard their conversation as they sauntered across the path.

  “What did you think of her, St. John?”

  “Scarce a beauty and devilish sly.”

  “It may well be that her mental accomplishments make up for her lack of physical attraction.”

  “She’s quiet as a mouse. They call her the shuffling little wretch at court, so I heard. Danvers and the rest are pleased to put on her all the most unpleasant tasks.”

  “Danvers and the rest could well be fools.”

  “Come, Master, don’t tell me you’re taken with the woman.”

  “Mightily taken.”

  “And you not a man for the wenches.”

  “Your mind runs along wearisomely well-worn paths, Harry. Did you know there are other games more amusing, more exciting than those of the bedchamber?”

  “An impossibility,” answered St. John.

  “Rake! Libertine! You’re missing much in life.”

  “You are proposing to play games with Mistress Hill?”

  “Perhaps. She’s a deep one that. Worth watching. Who is she, do you think?”

  “Brought to court by Viceroy Sarah, being some distant relation in service, which could not be tolerated, of course. Connection of Her High and Mightiness a serving wench! Never! Better to have her at Court—in a post of spy, you understand.”

  “So she is a Marlborough spy! I doubt it, Harry. I doubt it very much.”

  Robert Harley was smiling complacently. He was well pleased with his visit to the green closet.

  Abigail would have been surprised, for he had failed completely to do anything for Daniel Defoe. She did not guess then that he had achieved his main object. He had seen Abigail Hill and had decided that he had not been mistaken in her.

  It was on the night of the 26th November that the great storm broke over London.

  The Queen slept through the beginning for she could sleep through most things, but the sound of the rising wind which seemed to shake the very battlements of St. James’s Palace kept Abigail awake.

  She rose from her pallet on the floor in the Queen’s room and wrapped her robe about her, for she was certain that even Anne could not continue to sleep through such noise. Even as she did so the chamber was lightened by a brilliant flash of lightning followed immediately by the loudest clap of thunder Abigail had ever heard.

  “What is it?” called Anne. “Hill! Hill!”

  “I am here, Madam. It’s the thunder and lightning. It seems to be a bad storm. Shall I make some tea or would Your Majesty prefer brandy?”

  “I think brandy in the circumstances, Hill.”

  Abigail had disappeared, but before she was back there was another violent clap and the sound of falling masonry.

  “I think, Madam, that it might be wise to leave your bed.”

  There was Hill with a warm robe to put about the Queen’s shoulders.

  “Shall I need this, Hill?”

  “I am afraid the draughts might bring on the shoulder pains, Madam.”

  “You are right, Hill. Of course you are right. Oh dear … what is happening?”

  “It’s a very violent storm, Madam.”

  “And right overhead. Oh dear me … Hill. There again!”

  The Queen shut her eyes. Abigail knew that whenever any disaster threatened she thought of the wrong she had done her father and that some curse had come upon her.

  “It’s only a storm, Madam.”

  “I do hope damage has not been done to the poor, Hill.”

  “We must see what can be done about it, if that should be so, Madam.”

  “Yes, yes, Hill.”

  “My angel. My dearest.” George was bursting into the apartment, a robe about him, his wig, having been put on in a hurry, awry. He was wheezing painfully. “Vot is this? You are safe, my angel. Ah, thank Got. Thank Got.”

  “I’m safe enough, George. I have Hill here. You must not get so excited, dear love. You know it brings on the wheeze. Is that Masham? Oh, Masham, is His Highness warmly clad? I do not want him to take a chill again.”

  “Yes, Your Majesty. He is wearing his warm underwear.”

  “I want no more chills.”

  “Masham,” said the Prince. “We need a little something for the cold to keep out.”

  “Yes, Your Highness.”

  “Hill,” said Anne, “brandy for his Highness. Oh dear, who is that screaming?”

  It was some of the maids of honour who were terrified of the storm. “Bring them in, Hill. We will al
l be together.”

  Abigail obeyed, and all through that horrifying night she remained beside the Queen.

  That was the most fearful night Abigail had ever lived through and it was not until the next morning that the furious gale had abated; by that time it had left behind tremendous damage.

  The streets were blocked with fallen masonry; trees had been uprooted by the hundred; the Thames was blocked with broken craft of all description and many battleships had been damaged in the North Sea.

  All through the days that followed news of the disaster was brought to the Queen. Fifteen of her warships with countless smaller craft had been destroyed, hundreds of merchant ships were missing; the sea had swept inland; the rivers had overflowed; houses had been demolished.

  There had never before been such a storm in living memory; all prayed that there never would be again.

  The south of England lay shattered beneath its impact, although in the north it had been scarcely felt, and it was said that nowhere in London had it struck so fiercely than at St. James’s Palace where part of the battlements and many of the chimneys had been wrenched off. In the parks, trees had been pulled up and flung aside as though by some giant hand—trees which had stood there for many, many years.

  “Nothing,” said the Queen, “will ever be the same again.”

  They were sad days which followed the great storm as news of disaster after disaster kept coming in.

  Anne was horrified to learn that a stack of old chimneys in the episcopal palace of Bath and Wells had fallen and that the Bishop and his wife, Dr. and Mrs. Kidder, had been killed in their beds.

  “What terrible disaster, Hill! It is like a judgment.”

  Then the news reached the Court that the recently built Eddystone Lighthouse had been swept into the sea and that its architect Mr. Winstanley had gone with it.

  “It is like a judgment,” repeated the Queen.

  Abigail, who knew how the Queen’s thoughts were running, refrained from mentioning the cause of the Queen’s remorse—her disloyalty to her father. Instead she said: “Madam, you will doubtless decide to help those who have suffered from the storm.”

  “I shall indeed, Hill.”

  “And perhaps a service to thank God for bringing us safely through the storm and asking him not to send such a one again.”

  “Oh, Hill, of course. Of course. That is what we must do.”

  So the Queen’s thoughts were turned from the possible curse which might have fallen upon her and gave her mind to good deeds.

  “Madam,” said Abigail, “in the streets they begin to call you Good Queen Anne.”

  Good could come out of evil then. The storm had been quite terrible, but it did help her people to understand how much she cared for their welfare.

  She sent for Godolphin and they arranged that there should be a fast throughout the country—a public fast with special services in the church.

  There should be a general proclamation.

  “Hill,” she said, when Hill was massaging her painful limbs, “I sometimes think that good can come out of evil.”

  “I am sure you are right, Madam.”

  Soon after the great storm the Archduke Charles of Austria was expected to spend a few days in England on his way to Spain to claim the throne.

  He had been proclaimed King of Spain in Vienna and had met the Duke of Marlborough in Düsseldorf that October. There he had presented the Duke with a diamond encrusted sword and earnestly thanked him for all he had done.

  It was important therefore that the Duke be in England to receive the visitor when he arrived. Sarah was delighted to see her Marl. No matter what success or failure they had to suffer, for both of them these reunions were the most enjoyable periods of their lives. Some might maliciously say it was fortunate for John Churchill that he did not have to live day after day with Sarah without hope of escape; they might hint that the great felicity of the marriage—which none could deny—was based on the long absences, the fact remained that both could be completely happy in those short weeks when they were together.

  Sarah raged about the follies of the Queen, the intractability of their daughter Mary who—at her ridiculous age—was trying to make a most unsuitable match; she might talk of the absurd knighting of bodice-makers, the difficulties of bringing son-in-law Sunderland to heel, her suspicions of Robert Harley and Henry St. John—of whom Marl and Godolphin seemed to have such a high opinion—but all the same there was no joy like having her husband home with her—safe within her sight.

  And the same applied to Marlborough. He might be one of the most ambitious men alive; his heart was deep in military affairs; he longed to continue the war, but he yearned all the time to be at Sarah’s side. None but himself saw her soft, tender and gentle, for she had no softness, tenderness nor gentleness for any but him.

  Marlborough, with the Duke of Somerset, went to Portsmouth to greet Charles of Austria; and it had been arranged that Prince George should go to Petworth, the Duke of Somerset’s mansion, there to greet the guest in the name of the Queen and bring him on to Windsor.

  “I do declare,” said Anne, “that I am a little worried for Mr. Morley to make the journey at this time of the year.”

  “It’ll do him good,” countered Sarah, who was now at Court superintending all the preparations for the visit.

  “But you know, Mrs. Freeman, how bad his asthma has been this winter. He was bled three times in forty-eight hours and it was only the blisters that relieved him.”

  “A little more action would be good for him.”

  “Dear Mrs. Freeman, you enjoy such rude health yourself that you do not always understand the weakness of others.”

  Sarah allowed the faintest look of exasperation to cross her face.

  Hill would have understood my anxiety, thought the Queen; and dismissed the thought at once. It was disloyalty to dear Mrs. Freeman, and it was such a pleasure to have her back at Court. There was not the same peace, but how vital Mrs. Freeman was, and what a pleasure to look at those flashing scornful eyes and to listen to the invective which came tripping from that fluent tongue. One felt so alive with Mrs. Freeman about. And how handsome she was! One forgot how handsome until one saw her—with her beautiful golden hair hanging about her shoulders or dressed high for a state occasion.

  All the same she was worried about George and she did wish Mrs. Freeman would have been a little sympathetic. The roads would be even worse than usual at this time of the year after the bad storm.

  So George had gone off to Petworth, and when he returned he would be accompanied by their august visitor with Somerset and dear Mr. Freeman.

  It was clear that Sarah believed this was as much her occasion as anyone else’s. Who, for instance, had made it possible for Charles of Austria to go to Spain and lay claim to the throne? Marlborough! Whose military genius was deciding the fate of Europe—and England? The answer was the same. And on whom did Marlborough depend for counsel and comfort and to fight his battles at home. His Duchess.

  She behaved as though the Queen were her puppet. She all but ordered her; but not quite. Anne never argued; she would nod and smile and then go her own way; or sometimes make up her mind, find the phrase she needed to express it, and go on repeating it at intervals.

  Nothing could have maddened Sarah more, but at the same time even she could not be blind to the warning it implied. John had cautioned her a hundred times. He was, of course over-cautious; but in her calmer moments Sarah did admit to herself that the Queen was a stubborn woman who could at times, as she put it, brandish the orb and sceptre.

  It was evening when the party arrived at Windsor. Anne had ordered that every alternate man in the guard of honour should hold high a lighted flambeau, and the sight was impressive. The Queen, with Sarah—who should have been behind her—almost at her side, stood at the top of the staircase to greet her guests.

  The Archduke was a delicate looking young man, handsome yet with a melancholy expression, and graceful ma
nners; his blue coat with its gold and silver galoon was very becoming.

  Poor young man, thought Anne. He looks tired.

  He stooped and kissed the hem of her gown, then he kissed her cheek.

  Sarah exchanged glances with John. But for you, she was reminding him, that young man would not be on his way to Spain. I hope they realize this.

  John returned the smile. Never did a man have a more faithful champion.

  Before meeting for supper the company would retire to their apartments and the guest taking the Queen’s hand led her to hers and, when that was over, Prince George conducted the Archduke to his.

  Anne was pleased to see Hill in the apartment quietly waiting to be of use, and for a moment she thought how pleasant it would be if instead of going down to the banquet she could visit the green closet where she could lie back in her chair and leave everything to Hill.

  Almost immediately it was time to assemble before supper and the ceremonies began. All the ladies of the Court must be presented to the Archduke. He seemed to like them, for he kissed them all with a little more heartiness than seemed necesary and, during dinner when he was seated at the right hand of the Queen, he kept rising to attend to the wants of some lady.

  Anne glanced about the table at Sarah who was completely absorbed in Mr. Freeman and he in her, at George who was completely absorbed in, to him, the most serious business of life—eating and drinking.

  What a handsome young man! thought Anne. My boy would be a young man now. Would she never have a child? Fruitless pregnancies came and went and she had almost accepted them as part of her life. They were no more inconvenient than the gout and the dropsy. But never a child.

  How morbid she was—and at a banquet! And this was such an important occasion. When that young man was King of Spain how friendly England would be with his country for he would be grateful for ever—and it was all due to the Freemans.