How frightened Mary was when she stood before them all. They applauded her kindly; she saw her father looking anxious on her behalf, seated near her uncle. He was kind and she wished that she could love him as he loved her. There were times when she did love him dearly as now; but she could never forget the rumors she had heard of him. She did not fully understand his relationship with those women who had caused her mother so much anxiety; but she imagined what took place between them; it was vague and horrible and she tried to shut her mind to it; but there were occasions when pictures crept in unbidden.
Then she noticed Frances Apsley watching her intently. Their eyes met and Frances smiled.
“She wants me to succeed,” thought Mary. “She will be unhappy if I do not.”
Mary was determined then to dance as she never had before.
The music had begun and her legs felt heavy; but there was Jemmy smiling and whispering: “Come on. It’s only a game after all.”
And then because of Jemmy, Frances Apsley, and her father, it became the fun it had been when they had practised at Richmond and she danced as well as she ever had.
She was delighted to see Margaret Blagge’s success. She looked so beautiful in her shimmering dress—the perfect Diana. Surely, thought Mary, she must be enjoying the approval of the spectators.
Sarah Jennings tried to get nearer to the audience that she might be noticed; as for Anne, she performed with a carelessness which everyone seemed to find amusing.
Dryden’s epilogue was read and they all knew that the ballet had been a success. The King was delighted—particularly with his nieces; he saw this for an excellent beginning of Court life for them.
James was almost in tears; nothing could have given him greater pleasure than the success of his daughters. The King declared that such shimmering talents must not be hidden when he congratulated John Crowne, Mr. Dryden, his nieces, Jemmy, and all the dancers.
In the dressing room where the company had prepared themselves, Mary found Margaret Blagge in great distress.
“I was wearing it about my neck when the ballet began. I cannot understand it. How could I have lost it?”
Mary asked to know what and when Margaret replied that it was Lady Suffolk’s diamond, she was horrified.
“But it must be on the stage.”
“I have searched everywhere. Oh, my lady Mary, what shall I do? It is worth eighty pounds. I cannot replace it. I don’t possess eighty pounds. What shall I do? No one will ever trust me again. And to think I tried so hard not to borrow it. This is a judgement. I knew it was sinful.”
To see the lovely maid of honor so distressed, upset Mary. It seemed to her a terrible calamity to have borrowed a valuable diamond against one’s will and then to have lost it.
“No one will ever trust me again,” sobbed Margaret.
“We must look everywhere you have been.”
“They have already done so. My maids have looked. I have looked. There is no sign of it. I daren’t tell Lady Suffolk.”
“Are you sure you’ve looked everywhere?” asked Mary.
“I … I think so.”
“I will look. I am rather good at finding things. It is big enough and it sparkles so, it ought not to be difficult to find.”
“That’s why I greatly fear that someone has found it and kept it.”
“Oh, poor Margaret. I will look and if I can’t find it perhaps I could ask my father what is the best thing to do.”
“Lady Suffolk will never forgive me, I know. I shall have to replace it and I don’t see how I can.”
Mary went off purposefully; she would search in every place where they had been.
She made her way to the stage, passing the anterooms on the way; she wondered whether Margaret had gone into any of these and forgotten. Mary would search every one because she could not bear to see lovely Margaret so unhappy.
She searched the first of these without success, and went to another. There was no light in this room except that which came through the window, but there was a full moon. She hesitated. Would it be possible to find the diamond in this light? It was big and sparkled, so perhaps it would be visible. She would take a good look and then perhaps call for candles. She heard a sound and knew at once that she was not alone. Someone else had come to this room.
She was about to say that she was looking for a lost diamond when, her eyes having become accustomed to the light, she saw them, and recognition was instantaneous. It was Jemmy and Henrietta Wentworth, and she knew what they were doing.
She stood for a few seconds and then ran from the room.
Jemmy and Henrietta! But Jemmy was married.
She was shocked and horrified: and there was some new emotion too which she had not experienced before. She was not sure what it was; she only knew that she had been fond of Jemmy, and was horrified that he could so betray his wife.
She ran out of the room and on to the stage. How foolish of her, for the hall was crowded and she would be seen.
“Is anything wrong?”
Mary turned round; she was looking into the lovely face of Frances Apsley.
“So … it is you,” stammered Mary.
“You seem distressed, my lady.”
“Yes … yes … I believe I am.”
“If I could help you …”
“I do not know.”
“If you feel that you could confide in me …”
“Yes, perhaps I could.”
Frances Apsley took Mary’s hand and led her into an anteroom, similar to that in which Mary had seen Jemmy and Henrietta Wentworth, but this one was lighted.
“There, let us sit down.”
They sat in one of the window seats and Mary leaned against Frances and felt comforted.
“I don’t think I can tell you,” she said. “It was … disgusting. It was someone I know.”
“I think I understand.”
“Do you? But that is clever of you.”
Frances smiled. “I am a good deal older than you.”
“I am eleven,” said Mary.
“That makes me nine years older than you.”
“You are very wise and beautiful.”
Frances laughed. “I think you may not be very discriminating.”
“I only know,” said Mary, “that when I saw you I knew that I had never seen anyone so beautiful.”
“When you come to Court you will meet many beautiful people.”
“Perhaps,” said Mary. “But when I see perfection I know it. I am so honored that you spoke to me. Do you know, that does not seem important any more.”
“I am glad. I am sure it was not of any great importance.”
“No. It is only when things like that happen to people of whom one is very fond … And I was fond of …”
Frances laid a hand over that of the Princess. “Don’t think of it. It is best forgotten.”
“Meeting you has made it seem unimportant. Your name is Frances. I think it is a lovely name—but not lovely enough for you, of course. I want to go on talking to forget that. Do you understand?”
“Yes,” said Frances, “I understand. Let us talk of the ballet. You danced beautifully, and of course you were the center of the play. Diana was charming.”
“Oh, that reminds me. She is so distressed. I was looking for it when …” Mary turned to Frances. “You are so wise. Perhaps you can help me comfort her. Margaret Blagge has lost a diamond which belonged to Lady Suffolk, and she is terrified because she is afraid she will have to replace it and she is not rich.”
“It will likely be found.”
“Yes, Frances, but if it is not? Poor Margaret is almost ill with grief. You see she did not want to dance in the ballet because she thinks dancing sinful, and she did not want to borrow the diamonds. It is very sad.”
Mary’s long dark eyes were expectant as she lifted them to the face of her new friend.
“Have you told your father?” asked Frances. “He might be able to help.”
“Do you think he would?”
“I am sure that if you asked him he would want to do it … just to please you.”
“You are right, Frances. Oh how clever you are. Let us go to him at once.”
“You wish me to come?”
“Yes, I want to show him that I have a new friend. He will be so delighted that I have found you.”
Frances laughed. “I do not think so,” she said.
“But you are wrong. He wants me to be happy. He loves me very much and I …”
She frowned. She did love him; if only she did not have to imagine … what she had seen this night with Jemmy!
She hated it. It was degrading and humiliating. But she would not think of her father and Jemmy. She had a new friend—Frances Apsley—and their relationship would never be sullied by degrading actions.
“Let us find my father,” she said. “I will ask him, because I cannot bear that Margaret should be so unhappy.”
The Duke of York was in the company of a handsome woman but when he saw his daughter coming toward him he turned from her.
“Something is wrong, my dearest?” he said.
“Father, I wish to speak to you. Frances thinks you may be able to help us.”
James smiled at the young maid of honor whom he knew slightly, she curtsied and he led them out of the hall.
“Now, tell me what is wrong,” he said, when he had shut a door and they were in that anteroom which Frances and Mary had just left, and Mary explained how Margaret had been forced to act against her conscience and not only dance but borrow diamonds, one of which she had lost.
“And what sort of a diamond is this?” asked James.
“It is worth eighty pounds.”
James touched his daughter’s cheeks lightly with the tips of his fingers. “Well, sweetheart, that does not seem such a mighty sum. What if I promise to find a diamond to replace this one—that’s if it cannot be found.”
“You mean that you will give it to Margaret so that it need not be known that she has lost one?”
“If that would please you.”
“It pleases me very much.”
“Then so shall it be.”
Mary smiled shyly from her father to Frances Apsley. “This is a very happy night,” she said.
“That night,” wrote Mary to her new friend, “was the most important in my life because in it I met you.”
Everything had changed. Not only were she and her sister frequently at Court, not only were they present at Court functions, but Mary was soon deep in a new and exciting friendship.
Frances filled her thoughts; when she was with Frances that seemed to her the greatest happiness in the world. She adored Frances—the way she walked, talked, looked. Life was suddenly full of pleasure for she had a friend such as she had never had before; and the love she felt for her sister Anne was a mild affection compared with the passionate devotion Frances inspired.
Everyone at Court was ready to be charming to the Princess Mary. The King had no legitimate heirs and until the Duke of York produced a son, Mary could well be the future Queen: it was known that the King had a special interest in his nieces and that meant that all those who were ambitious should share this.
The girls remained at Richmond Palace under the care of Lady Frances Villiers, but Henry Compton, whom the King had appointed as Governor of their studies, did not greatly care whether they studied or not. Mary, who since the days when she had wished to please her father had developed an interest in knowledge, continued to work hard, but Anne rarely looked at her books.
“My head aches,” she would say. “And my eyes are watering.”
Anne’s eyes were her excuse to be lazy. But she was so good tempered that no one minded; and she continued to use her affliction whenever she wanted to escape from something which bored her. The new life suited her admirably. To be petted, to be continually given presents of sweetmeats (for her weakness was now becoming well known) to be often at Court, to spend her evenings with the cards, a dish of sweets beside her, to be constantly in the company of her dear friend Sarah and sister Mary, what more could she ask from life?
Mary might study French with Pierre de Laine until she became proficient. Anne would listen to her sister reading in that language and clap her plump hands.
“My darling sister, you are so clever. It does me good to hear you. I wish I were more like you.”
“You could learn as easily.”
Anne laughed. “Oh, it would strain my eyes. And I could never be as clever as you, my dearest.”
“You are lazy,” Mary would say in the indulgent voice she had used to her sister when they were children; and Anne would merely laugh.
“One clever daughter is enough for Papa.”
Sometimes Anne would attempt to draw, for she had a certain talent. The Princess’s drawing teacher, Mr. Gibson, who was a dwarf, did all he could to encourage her; and often she would sit with her sister lightly sketching. Mrs. Gibson helped her husband in teaching art for she too was an artist; and together these little people were one of the wonders of the Court for they had produced nine ordinary sized children. Gibson had belonged to Queen Henrietta-Maria before his marriage and was a specially privileged person in the household.
A pleasant life, made wonderful for Mary by this deep friendship. When she was at Richmond she constantly longed to be at St. James’s because Frances lived there with her parents Sir Allen and Lady Apsley. Their friendship was unusual, Frances had said, because she was so much older than the Princess; and this gave it a piquant flavor. Yet the difference in their ages seemed unimportant for Frances was as attracted by Mary as Mary was by Frances.
There was always so much to talk about; and to sit close beside Frances, holding her hand, seemed to Mary complete happiness. Mary realized that this was how she had wanted to love her father and perhaps Jemmy; but she never could because between them was the shadow of some shame, not quite understood but ever present. Lampoons had been written about them; they were untrustworthy because of this; they were in a sense shameful and could never enjoy a relationship of idealistic love such as that which existed between Frances and Mary.
“Frances,” said Mary on one occasion, “I shall never marry. I could not bear to marry. I shall call you my husband and I shall be your wife, and perhaps one day we can leave the Court and have a little house together.”
Frances laughed and said it was because Mary was young that she talked in this way; but Mary shook her head, and when she next wrote to Frances she called her her husband and signed herself her loving wife.
She was sitting with her sister one day drawing with the Gibsons when Lady Frances came into the room. She was carrying a letter in her hand, and Mary started up in dismay for she recognized it as one which she had written to Frances Apsley.
Lady Frances dismissed the dwarfs and Princess Anne and when they had gone she put the letter on the table.
“My lady,” she said, “this is your handwriting?”
Mary admitted that it was.
“It is addressed to ‘my dear husband’ and signed ‘your wife Mary’.”
Mary did not answer.
“And addressed to Frances Apsley. What does it mean?”
“It means,” said Mary, “that she is my dear friend and … I wrote to her.”
“You seem very fond of her.”
“She is the dearest person in the world.”
“H’m,” said Lady Frances. She picked up the letter and tapped the table with it. “I do not think you are wise to write so extravagantly to this young woman.”
“But I say nothing that I do not mean.”
Lady Frances was faintly worried.
As soon as Lady Frances had disappeared the Princess Anne came quietly to her sister who was sitting thoughtfully at the table—the letter which she had taken from Lady Frances still in her hand.
“What was wrong?” demanded Anne.
“I am accused of writing extravagantly to a friend.”
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“What friend?”
“A very great friend.”
“Please tell me,” wheedled Anne, sidling up to her sister.
Mary wanted to talk of Frances Apsley and having begun found it difficult to stop. Frances was perfect, she explained, so good and unsullied, there was no one in the world as beautiful or as good as Frances and Mary loved her passionately.
Anne was interested.
“I have seen her,” she said. “I want to be her friend too.”
“You always wanted to copy me, Anne.”
“Not always,” her sister corrected her. “You eat like a little bird.”
“And you like a lion. Yes, that’s true.”
“But all the same,” said Anne, “if you have a dear friend, I must have one too.”
Mary Beatrice was no longer the serious girl who had wanted to be a vestal virgin. She found great pleasure in the entertainments which were the fashion at her brother-in-law’s Court. No one had been more thrilled to see the pageant which had featured her husband against the Duke of Monmouth when they had reconstructed the siege of Maestricht for the amusement of the Court. How thrilled she had been to see James in action as a general, building trenches and giving orders and showing what a brilliant strategist he was. The King looked on with great amusement and many witty asides to his friends. Charles realized as fully as anyone present that there was more than play in the rivalry between his brother and his natural son. James wanted to show the Court that he was a better general than Jemmy could ever be, while Jemmy was burning with zeal to show them that youth, energy, and boldness were a better choice than age and experience.
Such a situation was bound to amuse Charles and his friends, but it was impossible to know whose side Charles was on. He doted on Jemmy, but he was never a fool where his affections were concerned and saw the loved one’s faults as clearly as the virtues. In any case, Charles was not a man to love for virtue. He knew that his handsome brash Jemmy was so fond of his father largely because of what he hoped to attain through him, and that his exasperating brother was a man of honor. He never forgot that James was the legitimate heir of England and that although the people deplored his religious views they would always remember that he was the legitimate son of a King.
The Three Crowns Page 13