The King liked to amuse himself, surrounded by the fair ladies whom he favored at the time; as he was far too kindhearted—and too lazy—to dismiss those who no longer excited him, there were always a gathering of beauties about the throne. Monmouth could be relied on to enliven the company.
Besides the banquets and balls which celebrated the Protestant marriage, there were revelries in the streets. This was a defeat for popery, said the people. God save the King and the Princess Mary!
But while the bridegroom glowered and made it clear that he was heartily sick of England, his perfidious uncle, his sullen father-in-law, and his constantly weeping bride, and while the bride could not restrain her distaste for her marriage and her repulsion for her bridegroom, the revelries went on.
The Duke of York was cool to the bridegroom and it was clear that he was longing to shatter his hopes by becoming the father of a son in the next few days. Mary Beatrice, hourly expecting, had yet time to feel sorry for her little stepdaughter who had been more like a sister to her.
And in her apartments the bride’s only comfort was in weeping, which she did so frequently that it was quite impossible to hide the fact, and when she was receiving ambassadors or other state officials who had come to congratulate her, the tears would start to flow.
Two or three days after the wedding William came to her apartments when she was alone. She started up when he entered, her hand to her throat. He frightened her because he always looked so contemptuous and severe.
“Weeping again?” he said, in his cold voice.
She did not answer and he went on: “It would seem I have cause for grief. You have a stepbrother.”
Mary stood up, her fear forgotten. “So … it has happened.”
“Your stepmother has given birth to a son and your father is jubilant.”
He was looking at her with disdain, and she knew what he meant. It was as her uncle had suggested it might be: the marriage was disappointed. Now that she had a stepbrother she had lost her place in the succession, and William was thinking that the marriage was no longer the desirable union it had been a few days ago. He was saddled with a foolish child who spent most of her time in tears, who was quite insensible of the honor he had done her, and had no longer a crown to bring him which would have compensated for all these failings.
“We depart for Holland at the earliest possible moment,” he said sharply, and left her.
There followed days of ceremony and waiting for inevitable doom during which the son of the Duke and Duchess of York was christened Charles after his uncle, and the King himself, with the Prince of Orange in attendance, acted as the boy’s sponsor, while Lady Frances Villiers stood as proxy for his fifteen-month-old sister Isabella.
Three days after the christening Mary was in her apartments being prepared for yet another ball when Sarah Jennings—always first with any news—burst in with her usual lack of ceremony.
“My lady,” she cried, “Lady Frances is very ill. There is great consternation throughout the palace because they are saying it is smallpox.”
Mary stood up, startled out of her grief. “You must not go to her, naturally,” said Sarah practically.
“But I must be assured that she is well looked after.”
“That is being taken care of. We are not to go near the sickroom. Those are firm orders.”
Mary stared at her reflection. The curls bunched on either side of her head gave a look of coquetry which was incongruous with that sad little face.
Lady Frances ill of the smallpox! Her secure and happy world was disintegrating. What next? she asked herself.
There was the unexpected joy of a visit from Frances Apsley. They embraced fervently.
“Oh, Frances, what shall I do? How can I endure this?”
“My dearest Mary-Clorine, you must endure it. It is cruel, but it had to be. You must write to me every day. We must comfort each other with our letters.”
“And not to see each other … ever!”
“We may be able to arrange meetings.”
“Oh, Frances, dearest husband, you say that to comfort me. Have you seen … him?”
“Yes, my dearest.”
“Then you know.”
“He looks stern. He looks as if he could be cruel. But you must remember you are a Princess, and he gains much by this marriage, a fact which you must not let him forget.”
“He terrifies me, Frances.”
“He is only a man, beloved—and not very old.”
“He is years older than I.”
“You think that because you are so young. You must not show your fear.”
“How can I hide it, dearest husband? How can I? Oh, Aurelia, beloved, it is you with whom I should be leaving the Court. Do you remember my dream of a cottage in the country?”
“I remember, my love, but it was a dream which we knew could never be a reality.”
“Aurelia, you will remember me always. You will never forget your poor Clorine who loves you more than she can express. You must never forget that only your letters will assure me of your fidelity. You must write to me … every day … every day …”
They could only assure each other of their undying love. They met and made their vows; but they knew that there could not be many more meetings.
Lady Frances Villiers was dying and the Princess Anne had taken the smallpox.
Mary was in desperation. She had been fond of Lady Frances and to contemplate her death made her very sad; but the fact that Anne was in danger, terrified her. Her distasteful marriage no longer filled her mind; if Anne could be well again she would be ready to accept anything, she told herself.
She wanted to go to her sister, to nurse her herself, but she must not even see Anne—and this when there was so little time left to them!
William came into her apartments and told her that she was to prepare at once to leave St. James’s Palace for Whitehall.
“Although I cannot visit my sister yet I wish to be close to her,” she answered.
“Do you not understand anything?” he asked coldly.
“I certainly do not understand what you mean,” she retorted.
“There is smallpox in this place and it is possible that you may catch it.”
“I wish to remain near my sister,” she said stubbornly.
“It is obvious that you have no conception of what this means—I begin to think you have little conception of anything!”
“I know that the smallpox is deadly. It is killing Lady Frances.” The tears came to her eyes again, and William turned away impatiently muttering: “Tears. Tears. Can she offer me nothing but tears?”
“She was my guardian … she was like a mother to me. And now that my darling Anne …” Her voice broke.
William said impatiently, “Prepare at once to leave for Whitehall.”
“No,” she retorted firmly.
He gave her a look which contained more than contempt. It might have been hatred; then he left her.
That she should openly defy him was something he found very hard to forgive. If they had been in Holland, he assured himself, he would have enforced obedience; it was not so easy here where she was surrounded by her family and friends. So she stayed at St. James’s—the little fool. What if she succumbed to the smallpox? She might die—as he almost had, and would have, but for his dear friend Bentinck. She might be disfigured; how could she hope to please him then? With her pretty delicate complexion and almond-shaped eyes she had pleased him—before she had known he was to be her husband, then her reluctance to accept him, her actual repugnance had so wounded him where he was most vulnerable, that he intended to make her very sorry for her actions. If she were disfigured by smallpox, if she failed to bring him the crown of England—of what use was she?
Had he been a more passionate man he would have hated her; as it was he merely disliked her.
But because she had humiliated him, he was determined to humiliate her.
Everyone noticed that at the ball wh
ich Charles had insisted should be given in spite of the smallpox being in St. James’s Palace, Mary’s husband ignored her completely; he would not dance with her nor sit with her if he could avoid it; but when he had to do so he showed his indifference by not addressing a single remark to her.
His conduct was noted.
What a sullen clown the Prince of Orange is! was the general comment, and many felt sorry then for the Princess Mary.
The Princess Anne was in a state of high fever.
“I must stay in England until my sister is better,” declared Mary.
“We shall sail as arranged,” William told her.
She looked at him pleadingly, but he pretended not to see her. She had refused to leave St. James’s for Whitehall when it was known that he had commanded her to; and he had in fact gone to Whitehall and left her at St. James’s—and everyone had noted that the bride and groom already had separate lodgings. He had shrugged aside her recalcitrance. Let her wait till she was without her family to support her. Then she would see who was the master and she would be forced to obey him.
They were to sail on the sixteenth of November and as the fifteenth was Queen Catherine’s birthday the King had said there should be a ball which would celebrate his wife’s birthday and at the same time be a farewell to the Prince and Princess of Orange. Since the newly married pair would be leaving on the next day, they should retire early and say good-bye to all their friends at the ball.
Mary was dressed in the jewels which he had given her, but their luster only called attention to her wretched appearance. So much crying had made her eyes swollen and she could not disguise her misery.
Anne was desperately ill; Mary did not know when she would see Frances Apsley again; and the next day she would say good-bye to her family and leave with William.
If only Anne or Frances could have accompanied her she felt she could have borne her wretchedness more easily. Frances could not come because her father was ill; and who should be her attendants had been settled by the King and her father. The Villiers were well represented. Barbara Castlemaine had seen to that; so Elizabeth and her sister Anne were to be in the suite in addition to a cousin of theirs—Margaret Boyle, who was Lady Inchiquin. Lady Inchiquin, being married and more mature than the others, had been given the post of head of the maids; she it was who would keep them in order and pay their salaries. Mary was delighted that her friend, Anne Trelawny, was coming with her and that her nurse, Mrs. Langford, would be there too. She believed she could have been almost happy if she could have substituted Frances Apsley and her sister Anne for Elizabeth Villiers.
But here she was on what would very likely be the very last night she would spend with her family; and instead of throwing herself on to her bed and giving vent to her misery, she must go down, receive congratulations, and try to smile while she accepted good wishes.
She would not have believed a few months ago that life could change so much.
In the ballroom a glittering company was assembled.
The King smiled kindly at his niece and led her in the dance.
“Would I were King of the winds, Mary,” he said, “instead of merely of these Islands. Do you know what I would do? Send forth my commands and there would be such a gale that no one—not even the Prince of Orange—would dare set sail.”
“If that were possible,” she sighed.
He pressed her hand. “Troubles come and go,” he said. “There was a time when I thought I should never return to England … but I did.”
“Your Majesty was a King … and a man. I, alas, am only a woman.”
“Do not say ‘only,’ my dear niece. In my opinion women are the most delightful of God’s creations. I cannot command that wind, Mary, but I might pray for it. Though perhaps the prayers of sinners are never answered. What think you? Or is one more likely to receive blessings because one rarely asks for them?”
He was trying to amuse her; she loved him; but her sad smile told him there was only one way of relieving her misery and that was to free her from this marriage.
When the dance was over the King took her to her father who smiled at her with pride and told her that she looked beautiful.
“Such jewels,” he said. “They become you well.”
She shook her head and he, fearing that the tears would start again, said quickly: “The Duchess and I will visit you in Holland. Dear child, you are not going to the other end of the world.”
“Anne …” she began.
Anne. He thought of his beloved daughter who lay desperately ill and his expression darkened. To lose one daughter to Orange and the other to death would be unbearable.
“Anne shall come with us,” he said. “You will see, Mary, that we shall take the first opportunity.”
She nodded. “I shall wait for that day,” she assured him.
“And your stepmother sends her love to you. She wishes that she might be with you … to comfort you. She says that she knows how unhappy you are. And she calls you her dear little Lemon—because you are paired with an Orange.”
Mary smiled. “Pray tell her I love her … and the little boy.”
“The little boy is frail, Mary, but we believe he will live.”
“I shall pray for him,” said Mary.
“Daughter, we shall pray for each other. We shall all remember, shall we not, that we are of one family. Although we are apart, that is something we shall remember till we die.”
Mary nodded. “And my dearest Anne …”
“She does not know that you are leaving England. We fear the news would make her very unhappy and she needs all her strength.”
“Oh, Father, how sad life can be!”
“Mary, I beg of you, do not weep here. You are watched, and tears do not please your husband.”
“There seem to be so many things about me that do not please him.”
James’s face hardened. “If he should be unkind to you, Mary … let me know.”
“Of what use?” she asked.
“I would find a way of saving you.”
“Would that you had thought of it before the marriage.”
“Oh, Mary, my dear, dear daughter, circumstances were too strong for us.”
She remembered those words later. Circumstances were too strong. She reflected then that it was a phrase used by those who wished to excuse their weakness.
The hands of the clocks were approaching eight—that hour when she must leave the ball, take off her satin gown and her jewels, and prepare herself for the journey.
All those who would accompany her were in her apartment, many of them chattering with eagerness, for the journey to Holland was for them an adventure. Even Anne Trelawny could not keep the excitement out of her eyes. The Duke of York had taken her aside and asked her (because he knew that of all her ladies his daughter loved her best) to take care of Mary and let him know if aught went wrong with her. Anne Trelawny believed she had a special mission. Lady Inchiquin could not hide the pleasure she found in her new authority. Jane Wroth, a pretty girl, was frankly looking forward to the adventure. Anne Villiers was heartbroken on account of the serious illness of her mother, but nevertheless glad to be going to new surroundings; then there was Elizabeth, subdued and different, so that Mary wondered whether she was capable of deeper feelings than she had imagined. Elizabeth had changed very much of late and Mary, who was always ready to forgive, now accepted the fact that their childish quarrels must be forgotten.
They took off her jewels and carefully put them away; they helped her change her dress.
Then the party set off for Gravesend.
There was after all a respite. Mary remembered the King’s words and wondered whether his prayers had been answered, for such a gale arose that it was impossible to sail and the party were forced to return to Whitehall where, said the King, they might have to reconcile themselves to a long stay.
As he said this he smiled at Mary and she thought then that her uncle would be one of those whom she would
most sadly miss.
William was angry. His great desire now was to be back in his own country. He stood glowering at the windows watching the river and listening to the howling wind. The King said they should occupy themselves with a little amusement while they waited. There should be dancing or cards. What did his nephew think?
Neither, said William, were diversions which appealed to him. He preferred to watch and wait for a change in the wind.
It was two days and nights before there was a change; then William gave rapid orders. They were to set out at once before the wind changed again; the King smiled tolerantly and took barge with the Queen and Duke and Duchess of York, the Duke and Duchess of Monmouth, and the bride and groom.
Mary looked back at her home as they sailed along the river and exerted all her control that she might not distress and exasperate with further tears. But she was unable to restrain them. How could she sail along this beloved river without asking herself when she should see it again? How could she look back at St. James’s Palace without thinking of dearest Anne whom she might never see again, of Frances, the true husband to whom she had not even been able to say good-bye.
Queen Catherine was beside her. “My dear Mary,” she said in her quaint accent, “you will make yourself ill with so much crying. This is no worse than what happens to us all. Why, when I came to England I could not speak English and I had never even seen my husband.”
“Madam, you came into England,” replied Mary sadly. “I am going out of England.”
Those who heard those words knew there was nothing to be done to comfort her.
The Prince heard them and his expression was grim.
Good-bye! Good-bye!
The words seemed to go on repeating themselves in her brain. They had started on their journey at last, for although William had been told that it was unwise to set sail, he would not listen. He would wait no longer, and was determined to reach Holland without further delays.
The Three Crowns Page 22