James’s eyes were shining. “A glorious day for England!”
“So say you? And who else James, who else? How many of my now loyal subjects would, on that day, rise up against me. The English are a lazy people, James. They shrug aside what would make a civil war elsewhere; but when their rights are touched on, when they make up their minds to take a stand, they stand firmly … more firmly than any other people in the world. That is what we have to remember—unless we are prepared to gamble.”
“You were always a gambler.”
“But like all good gamblers I don’t take a risk until I see the chances of a win to be in my favor.”
“And so …”
“This is a secret, James. Our sister will shortly be coming to England. My sweet Minette, how I long to see her! It is so long since I have done so. She will be Louis’s ambassadress. Even my closest ministers will not know what the treaty contains.”
“And you will sign this treaty?”
“I shall think on it, James.”
“You need to turn to the truth, Charles … you need this fervently.”
“I need money even more,” answered Charles lightly.
Charles and James were more friendly than they had been for a long time. The plans which the King was considering and which were known to his brother brought them close together; but the fact of their sympathies in religion was an even closer bond.
James was reconciled to his brother’s flippancy, Charles to James’s sentimentality. They were bound together in a common endeavor: to bring Catholicism back to England and—though James did not feel as strongly about this as Charles—never to go wandering again.
They were together on a hunting expedition in the New Forest when a messenger from France presented himself to Charles.
It was clear from his attitude that he brought bad news; and when they heard it it stunned them.
Their mother, Henrietta-Maria, was dead.
They thought of her—the dynamic little woman, whom many people said had in a large measure helped Charles I to his end. James remembered her raging against his marriage, refusing to receive Anne, doing everything she could to make their lives wretched. Yet, she had been his mother and she had suffered deeply.
Charles thought of her as she had been in the days of his childhood. “Mam,” who had imperiously guided her children, and sought to rule their lives. He had never been her favorite, and on his restoration she had wanted to rule England through him. They had had their differences; but she was his mother. Then he thought of Henriette—his Minette—who had been the Queen’s favorite child. Poor Minette, what must she be suffering now! And his grief was more for his sister than for his mother.
The brothers returned to Hampton and the Court went into mourning.
There was mourning at Richmond too, where the Duchess remained with her little son and daughters.
Charles came to see them there; he told Mary how her grandmother had had to leave England and how her Aunt Henriette, who he hoped would shortly come to visit him in England, had escaped to France with her governess, Lady Dalkeith, dressed in tattered clothes, and how she had been called Peter by her governess during this perilous journey because she was too young to understand and referred to herself as Princess, which on her baby tongue might be mistaken for Peter.
Mary never tired of hearing stories of her family’s adventures; and indeed she believed that no other family could ever have experienced such stirring events.
Whenever Uncle Charles came, the occasion seemed a gay one, even when it was a time of mourning.
The Duchess was pleased to see the King’s interest in her eldest daughter. James loved the children too; they would have two powerful people to look after their interests, she thought.
And when she retired that night she said to herself: “Death is in the air.”
She was right. The following May Charles met his sister Henriette at Dover. There he secretly signed the treaty with Louis XIV, pledging himself to join France in an invasion of Holland and to confess his conversion to Rome. There was one clause which had decided Charles to sign. He could declare his conversion at a time of his choosing. That was what he clung to, for who was to say when was a good time to make such a declaration. It might well be that there would never be a good time.
But Louis would pay his pension all the same.
He was distressed that he could not spend longer with his beloved sister; but her husband the jealous Philippe, would not allow her to tarry even on the business of his brother, Louis XIV.
So Charles must content himself with this brief glimpse of his beloved sister; and even while he mourned to lose her, his eyes alighted on one of her beautiful maids of honor. Her name he learned was Louise de Kéroualle and she was a Breton; he begged his sister to leave her in England, but this Henriette told him she could not do because she was responsible to the girl’s parents.
However, Louise and Charles exchanged looks and he knew that when he sent for her she would come to him.
So Henriette left in triumph, having received the signature for which she had come, to return to the King of France whom she loved and to her husband whom she hated; and she was a little sad to be leaving the brother whom she loved, for she knew that for the sake of the King of France she had persuaded him to do a reckless thing.
Charles was gallantly gay, knowing that he would not suffer because he was determined not to. He would receive Louis’s money and keep his side of the bargain—in the words of the treaty—“when he considered the time had come to do so.”
It was not such a bad arrangement, to let the King of France finance him for the sake of a vague promise. The only risk was that what he had promised should become known to his subjects. But he doubted not that he would know how to deal with an emergency should it arise.
Henriette returned to France and almost immediately news came that she was dead. Poisoned, said the rumors, through drinking iced chicory water.
When Charles heard the news he went to his apartments and stayed there. Never had the Court seen the King so stricken, and there was an air of melancholy everywhere.
The Duchess of York murmured: “Another death in the family. Oh, yes, indeed, death is in the air.”
The Duke and the Duchess were reading letters which had been brought to them at Richmond, where they now spent the greater part of their time. The Duchess found it difficult to conceal her illness and kept to her apartments for days at a time. When the pain threatened she took sedatives containing opium and thus kept it at bay. But she knew that she was coming near to her end. For this reason her main preoccupation was with the future life. She was reading a letter from her father—a sad man in exile—for she had thought it necessary to tell him that she had become a Catholic.
He was disturbed. She knew that he believed the source of his troubles had been her union with the Duke of York, but she was convinced that this was not so. His overbearing manner, his criticism of the King’s way of life had become unsupportable to Charles; moreover it was natural that the King should want younger ministers, men such as Buckingham, more like himself.
She was a foolish woman, wrote Clarendon. She should take great care. In every way was the Church of England superior to that of Rome. He knew her obstinacy, however, and he could understand from the mood of her confession that she was convinced and would stand firm. Therefore he was giving her a word of advice. If she wanted to keep her children at her side, then she must keep also her secret. Once she confessed that she was a Catholic, the King would be forced by the will of the people to take them from her.
These words made her ponder, for she knew there was much truth in them.
In his apartments James was also receiving disturbing news. This had been carried to him by a Jesuit, Symond, who had brought it from Pope Clement IX.
James had wanted to know whether the Pope would give him a dispensation if he, a Catholic, kept his religion secret and worshipped openly in the Church of England.
> The answer was No. As a true Catholic he must proclaim himself as such, no matter what worldly advantages were lost to him.
Neither the Duke nor the Duchess were enjoying reading their letters.
James had been ill and was now convalescing at Richmond and it gave him great pleasure when Mary sat in his bedchamber and read or talked to him. She wished that she could have been happier in his company; she could not understand why she did not feel—as she could only express it—comfortable. She had listened to conversations in the nursery and whenever she was with her father she remembered these; she had a vague and unpleasant idea of his activities, and inwardly she shrank from him because she could never rid herself of images which came into her mind.
Then there was her mother who seemed daily to grow more ugly. Mary promised herself that she would never eat to excess, for she believed that her mother’s bloated and unhealthy appearance was entirely due to the enormous amount of food she consumed. Anne, who had inherited her mother’s appetite, should be warned.
It was the earnest wish of the Duke and Duchess to live these weeks as a happy family, to prove to themselves that their efforts to marry had been well worthwhile. The Duke remained at Richmond, faithful to his wife; the Duchess had grown gentle and uncritical, in fact she was often too exhausted to be anything else.
But with the children—Mary, Anne, and little Edgar—she attempted at times to be gay; and sometimes they would play games together; but there was an unnatural gaiety about those games which Mary detected; and those weeks which should have been so happy were overshadowed for her by a lack of ease. A sense of doom hung over her family and because she did not understand why it was there, who had caused it to be there, and what it was, she was all the more fearful.
There was a hush throughout the Palace. Mary, Anne, and little Edgar were in the nursery with Lady Frances and the Villiers girls. Even Elizabeth was subdued.
The Duchess of York had given birth to a daughter who had been named Catherine after the Queen. The infant was weak, though still living, but the Duchess was sinking and there was little hope of recovery.
The gentle Portuguese Queen Catherine had come to her bedside and was with her now. The Duke was there too and there had been much mysterious comings and goings.
Mary with Anne and Edgar waited in silence to hear what was happening; all day long they waited and no one came to tell them.
The Duke knelt by her bedside, remembering moments from the past which now seemed to him to have contained complete happiness. Never again would she upbraid him for his infidelity; never would they talk together of the mysteries of faiths. His eyes were wet with tears. He wanted her to live, for he could not imagine life without her.
His recent illness had weakened him and he wept easily. He thought of the children in the nursery, Mary, Anne, Edgar, and the new baby who, like Edgar, already had the mark of death on her.
“James,” whispered Anne.
“My dearest?”
“Stay with me till the end.”
“I could not bear to leave you.”
“You must, James, soon, for the end is near.”
“Do not speak of it.”
“So you cared for me in very truth? Do not weep then, but rejoice. Soon I shall be past all pain.”
“You are content to go, my love?”
“The pain has been great, James, but I die in the true faith. Do not let anyone come to my bedside and attempt to dissuade me. I know the way I am going. It is the chosen way.”
“Have no fear,” said James.
“And you believe as I believe?”
“I do.”
“Then I am content.”
When a messenger had entered the room to say that Bishop Blandford was outside, James left the sickroom and went to him.
“Your Grace,” said Blandford, “I trust I am in time.”
“The Duchess cannot see you,” James replied. “She is a Roman Catholic and does not wish to be disturbed now with attempts to bring her back to the Church of England.”
“Your Grace, allow me to see her. I will not attempt to dissuade her. I will speak to her as to a Christian of either Church.”
“If you will swear to do this you may see her. I will not have her disturbed.”
The Bishop promised and went to the Duchess’s bedside.
When he had left, having kept his promise, James sent for Father Hunt and certain people whom he knew to be of the Catholic faith. The last rites were performed and when this was done the Duchess asked her husband to come near to her.
He was holding her in his arms, the tears streaming down his cheeks, when she died.
James asked that Mary be brought to him; he wanted to see his favorite child alone.
As soon as she entered the room Mary knew what had happened for he stood looking so lonely and desolate; and when he saw her he held out his arms.
“My dearest daughter, we are alone now. She has gone.”
He picked her up and rocked her in his arms as though she were a baby.
“I have my children,” he said. “Thank God she has left me them.” He began to talk about her mother, telling of her virtues and how they had loved each other with a rare devotion; he trusted that when Mary married she would make as happy a marriage as that of her parents.
As happy a marriage as that of her parents? But what of the rumors? What of Margaret Denham … and others? What of the quarrels she had overheard? Had he forgotten? Could it be that he was not truthful?
He talked of when she married. She knew in that moment that she never wished to marry. She would like to live forever with her dear sister Anne.
“I don’t want to marry, Father,” she said.
He smiled and stroked her hair.
“So you will stay with your old father and comfort him, eh?”
It was not what she had meant, but the thought seemed to please him so she said nothing.
The Duchess was buried in Henry VII chapel at Westminster, and it was noticed that the Duke of York looked more and more to his elder daughter for consolation.
THE BRIDE FROM MODENA
Soon after the death of the Duchess of York two new girls were introduced to the household at Richmond—Anne Trelawny and Sarah Jennings; and with the coming of these two the power of the Villiers was undermined, Anne Trelawny becoming Mary’s great friend and Sarah Jennings, Anne’s. Elizabeth Villiers was furious but there was nothing she could do about it; and she was beginning to realize that she had not been very clever because now that Mary was growing up she was becoming more important and the attitude of those around her was changing.
Mary herself was aware of this. “When I have my own household,” she confided to Anne Trelawny, “I shall dismiss Elizabeth Villiers.”
As yet she was far from that happy state.
Young Edgar died very soon after his mother, to be followed almost immediately by the new baby Catherine. The Duke was very sad and declared that he could only find comfort in the company of his daughters.
“Why does death always happen to us?” Mary asked him.
He held her tightly and put his cheek against hers. “It is happening all over the world,” he explained. “It is a sad fact that many are born not to reach manhood or womanhood. But we must be good to each other, my little daughter, for you and Anne are all I have to love now.”
She looked steadfastly into his face and thought of the rumors she had heard. “The Duke of York, like his brother, is a great lover of all women.” Whispers. Laughter. There were many women, according to what she had heard. Then how could she and Anne be the only ones he had to love?
“You have been hearing talk of me,” he said, and she felt the blood hot in her cheeks. Now he was going to tell her something shameful, something that she believed she would rather not hear.
“You have heard that I have been ill. It’s true I believe that I was going into a decline; but my health has improved, dearest Mary. I shall be with you for a long time yet.�
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Her relief was evident. So he was referring to his ill health not that vaguely mysterious shameful life. He saw it and misconstrued the feeling which prompted it; his eyes became very tender.
“My dear little one,” he said, “it is your love which makes life bearable for me.” He stroked her hair. Then he said: “Mary, have you thought what Edgar’s death means?”
“That we shall never see him again.”
“Something besides. If the King has no children and when he and I are dead, it will be your turn.”
She looked alarmed and he said: “Oh, that is for the years ahead, but your uncle and I will not live forever. And then, Mary, you could be Queen of England, for I shall never marry again.”
She was very grave and he kissed her gently and said: “Do not be unhappy, dear child. We will not talk of the far, far distant future. Here is the present. We have lost dear ones, but let us remember that we have each other.”
Elizabeth Villiers came into the schoolroom to find Mary there alone. Mary picked up a book and prepared to leave.
Elizabeth was defiant. She had been foolish but she was not going to admit it, for she knew Mary would always consider her an enemy.
“I suppose,” said Elizabeth, “that you are thinking now Edgar is dead you will be Queen of England. That will never be.”
“You seem to know so much. Does His Majesty ask you to share his counsels?”
“You never will be Queen. Your father will marry again.”
“He will never marry again.”
Elizabeth laughed and Mary turned away. But Elizabeth’s words stayed in her mind.
Charles was well content. He had a new mistress whom he adored in Louise de Kéroualle, the girl who had come to England to comfort him after the loss of his sister; she it was whom he had seen in Minette’s suite and coveted; he guessed of course that Louis had sent her to spy on him, but she was so desirable and the very fact that she was probably working for Louis added a piquancy to her charm. Charles was sure of his ability to look after himself as far as both Louis and Louise were concerned. There had as yet been no occasion to proclaim his faith to his country and he told himself sardonically that there might well never be—and he was receiving the installments of his pension from the King of France. A very satisfactory state of affairs.
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