He stood on deck, watching the louring clouds being harried across the sky.
“Your Highness.” The captain was at his elbow. “We should not go on. We must put into Sheerness, and wait there until the storm blows itself out.”
He was furious; but the expression on his pale face did not change.
“Very well,” he said, “to Sheerness.”
And he thought: Nothing will induce me to go back to Whitehall. I’ll have no more tearful farewells. I never knew a woman could shed so many tears. But when we are in Holland it will be different.
Wistfully he looked across the stormy sea. How he longed to shake the dust of England off his shoes forever … No, not forever. But until that time when he could come back—not as a Prince, but the King. For if this child did not live … and it was a sickly child … well, then, this humiliating ordeal, these tears of his silly little wife, would have been well worth the enduring.
The wind had dropped suddenly and the ship was becalmed; there was nothing to be done but to go ashore at Sheerness. Mary felt a faint relief because as yet she was still in her own country.
Sheerness had little hospitality to offer royal guests, so the Prince, his Princess, and some of their suite, took coach to Canterbury where they put up as ordinary travelers.
William was quick to sense the mood of the people and their approval of the Protestant marriage was obvious. They would have preferred the child which had been born recently to the Duke and Duchess of York not to have been a boy because it was very probable that he would be brought up as a Catholic; and if he came to the throne, which if he reached manhood he certainly would, there would be a Catholic monarch. Their attitude delighted William; it seemed to him that the birth was not quite the calamity he had thought it to be. He was anxious to ingratiate himself with the people and finding himself short of money with which to pay for the stay at the inn he asked the Corporation for a loan, letting it be thought that he had been reduced to this state by the meanness of his uncles. Although the Corporation would do nothing, Dr. Tillotson, the Dean of Canterbury, brought money and gold plate to the inn and begged the Prince to accept it.
William did so with expressions of gratitude which delighted Tillotson who was certain that if—and this was not exactly unlikely—the Princess Mary were ever Queen of England and William, her consort, King, they would remember the Dean of Canterbury.
The news of the royal party’s state spread through the neighborhood with the result that good things were constantly brought to the inn for the royal table.
The fact that messages were arriving on behalf of the King and the Duke of York, inviting the Prince and Princess to return to Whitehall, was not known to the people; and William felt that, after all, those days of idleness at Canterbury were not wasted.
It was while they were at Canterbury that news of the death of Lady Frances Villiers reached them. Mary felt more desolate than ever, and thought sadly of the past when Lady Frances had ruled her life. But there was little time for brooding.
On Sunday the twenty-fifth of November William and Mary attended a service in the Cathedral; the next day, when the party prepared to embark at Margate, the rain pelted down and the wind began to howl; Charles sent a message to his nephew reminding him of his warnings about weather and once more suggesting a return to Whitehall until a more clement season.
Mary, hearing of this, was hopeful, but William soon put an end to that.
“I will not be delayed much longer, even by wind or weather,” he declared.
A few days passed; then he decided. The wind would now be behind them, and would help to blow them across the sea.
They set out, carried along by the fierce wind; and all the ladies—with the exception of Mary—were seasick.
“As for me,” said Mary, “I am only sick at heart.”
The journey was not long, thanks to that violent wind, and on the morning of the twenty-ninth of November Mary had her first glimpse of her husband’s country as the Montague, the ship which had carried them safely across, arrived at the fishing village of Terheyde—not a great distance from The Hague.
AT THE ORANGE COURT
It was several months since Mary had left England; and the new life was strange no longer; there were even occasions when she ceased to mourn for England for a week at a time. Her sister had recovered and wrote now and then; regularly, loving letters came from Frances which brought her image clearly to Mary’s mind, and Frances provided her greatest comfort.
She was changing; perhaps she was growing away from childhood. She did not understand her feelings for the reserved man who was her husband. One thing she had learned: he expected complete obedience and if he did not receive this he could make her wish that she had not defied him. He never harmed her physically; what she found so difficult to endure was his coldness, the manner in which, by a short sentence, or a disdainful look, he could convey utter contempt.
Should she care? Strangely enough she did. She tried not to think of him but he had a way of forcing himself into her thoughts. He was, after all, her husband; and she was at heart a romantic, longing for an ideal relationship; she wished that their marriage could have been an example to all young people, and would have been prepared to give the obedience he demanded for a little tenderness, a little outward display of affection which would have soothed her. Perhaps, she told herself, I grew up among those who showed their feelings too readily. When her father, her uncle, Jemmy, Frances, and Anne loved they made no secret of the fact; they considered it no shame to care deeply for another person. But could William ever care deeply for another person?
Lovemaking was almost like a state duty. It was desirable to have an heir; and that was the sole purpose of their embrace. It was true in a way and William was too honest to make any pretense. All the same, it would have been comforting and very pleasant if at times he could have behaved a little like a lover.
He often disapproved of her actions and when he did so never failed to point out her folly. She must cease to be such a child, he told her; she must learn better sense. These scoldings invariably produced the tears which irritated him but which she could not restrain. She cried too easily, just as she laughed too easily—or had in the old days.
A certain wistfulness was becoming apparent in her attitude toward William. She wanted him so much to be a beloved husband.
She understood that he had little time to be, because he was such an indefatigable worker. She noticed that while many people in Holland respected him, there were one or two, whose duty it was to live close to him, who loved him. There was no mistaking Bentinck’s feelings, which were something near idolatry. A man who could inspire such devotion, Mary assured herself, must be worthy of it. If only he would be kinder to her! If only he did not always seem so contemptuous!
She saw very little of him during the day; they sometimes supped together, but he never discussed state matters with her, and when she timidly attempted to, he dismissed her questions with exasperation.
There were times when she wrote vehemently to Frances—“her dearest best beloved husband”—and told her how she longed to see her, how she would never forget their love and hoped Frances would not do the same. Sometimes she would weep because of the sadness of her thoughts; then she would try to curb her tears, remembering how he despised them.
There was enough to occupy her days; she wrote numerous letters, for she had always felt happy with a pen in her hand; she sewed, a talent at which she excelled and her needlework was very much admired by the Dutch; she had her collection of china and her plants; William was interested in plants too; he had helped to plan some of the palace gardens; she showed great interest in them but as yet he had received her congratulations coolly.
She had begun to realize that life was never completely wretched, just as she supposed it was never completely happy. From the day of her arrival she had sensed the approval of her husband’s subjects. She was so much more friendly than William, and the people l
iked it, while at the same time she had a natural dignity and air of royalty which appealed to them. She walked beside her husband with a meekness which was apparent; and she was attractive; her dark hair and eyes being unusual in this land of the flaxen-haired; she danced exquisitely and played delightfully on the harpsichord, viol, and lute. The people clearly believed that their Prince had made a worthy match; and since she was the heiress to the English throne—for the little boy who had “disappointed the marriage” had died shortly after his birth—she was very welcome in Holland.
Mary sensed this and it helped her to settle down more happily.
The cleanliness of her new country delighted her, for after the shabbiness of St. James’s and Whitehall the palaces were magnificent. There were three at The Hague. The Hague itself, the Old Court, and the Palace in the Wood. It was at this last that Mary had taken up residence and to her surprise she quickly grew to love the place which was situated about a mile from The Hague in one of the most beautiful settings Mary had ever seen, surrounded by oak trees and magnificent gardens.
To compare these palaces with those at home surprised her, because her husband’s were so much more modern than those of her uncle. The murals were exquisite and the domed ceiling of the ballroom with its Vandycks was fascinating. In all the palaces there were pictures and some of these represented Mary’s intimate relations. Her aunt, William’s mother, was there; and there was one which delighted her of her martyred ancestor Charles I portrayed trampling on anarchy. There were portraits naturally of William the Silent, the Dutch hero; and when Mary heard stories of his greatness she thought he was very like her husband who bore the same name and could, as reasonably, have been given the title of Silent.
Her husband was a man of ideals. That she must accept. When she listened to stories of William the Silent she began to picture her husband as the hero of them. This pleased her; and she found that William was often in her thoughts—not so much the brusque indifferent husband of reality, but the hero, the idealist, who, because he was so concerned with righting the wrongs of his country, had little time to become a romantic lover.
The little group sat over their needlework, and they were all occupied with their own thoughts.
Mary was thinking of home and wondering what her sister was doing. Talking, she guessed, with Sarah Jennings. Perhaps writing to Frances, her dear Semandra. Mary was momentarily jealous. Lucky Anne to be so near the loved one.
She glanced away from her needlework, for her eyes often tired her and although she loved to do fine work she did feel the need to rest continually.
Elizabeth Villiers was smiling at the pattern of her tapestry as though she found it slightly amusing. She had changed since she had come to Holland. The death of her mother has made her more gentle, thought Mary.
Then there was Elizabeth’s sister Anne, who had always been gentle—so different from Elizabeth—meek and kind. There was Jane Wroth and dear Anne Trelawny. Were they dreaming of home as they worked?
She would have been surprised if she could have read their thoughts, for Mary was inclined to endow others with her own innocence.
Anne Villiers was thinking of William Bentinck, who had begun to show that he was interested in her. She had been interested in him from the moment she had first seen him. Anne Trelawny was telling herself that the Princess was being badly treated by her boor of a husband. Caliban! Anne secretly called him, a name given him by Sarah Jennings before they left England. Anne loved Mary dearly; every time she saw the tears start to her eyes she felt furiously angry; and it occurred to her that someone ought to tell them at home how badly her husband behaved toward her.
Jane Wroth was dreaming of her lover William Henry Zuylestein who but a few weeks before had succeeded in seducing her. He had promised to marry her and she was wondering whether he would, because it was doubtful if here in Holland they would consider the daughter of Sir Henry Wroth, an English country gentleman, worthy to marry into the Dutch royal family—for Zuylestein was royal, although on the wrong side of the blanket, and the prince accepted him as his cousin and was in fact quite fond of him; he had loved the young man’s father who had been an illegitimate son of his grandfather’s, and his guardian until the de Wittes, disliking his influence on the Prince, had removed him in favor of their man. The elder Zuylestein had been suspected of being deeply involved in the murder of the de Witte brothers and when he had been almost hacked to pieces in battle many thought this was in retribution.
But he was dead and his son was a kinsman of the Prince—and the lover of Jane Wroth.
Jane could not think of the future beyond this night. They had an assignation. He was so dashing, handsome, and so persuasive that it was impossible to say no. How different from the Prince. Poor Princess of Orange, with a husband who was scarcely a man! She would have no conception of the ecstasy enjoyed by her maid of honor.
There was another in that little circle who was thinking of the Prince of Orange. Elizabeth Villiers felt certain of eventual victory, and it might be tonight. Perhaps tomorrow. The circumstances would have to be exactly right; but it was coming nearer. He was pretending that this was not so, which was natural enough, but she would know how to act when the moment came.
She was a sensual woman; and oddly enough his very coldness appealed to her. She would destroy that coldness which should be reserved for others, never for her. It would be a constant battle and that was what she wanted; she did not ask for an easy victory. After all, she had been patient enough.
Not yet to bed after all these months! she thought ruefully. And the first time we met … before the marriage … I knew it would come.
She had believed she had been foolish in alienating Mary when, in the days of her adolescence, she had been unable to curb her sharp tongue and had been so envious of the Princess. The King and the Duke had doted on her so and she was a silly little thing with her constant tears, her sentimental ideas, and her pretended relationship with Frances Apsley. Dear husband indeed! Her real husband’s infidelity would be her just deserts. In any case she would never know how to manage William. She, Elizabeth Villiers, would know perfectly, and she would do so for as long as it interested her. Which might be for a very long time, because not only was he ruler of this little country but one day he could become King of England, for if Mary ever inherited the throne, it was certain that William would still be her master—and the one who ruled the sovereign was the true ruler.
Her unusual eyes with the slight cast in them were enigmatic, which was as she intended them to be. No one was going to guess what thoughts were going on in her mind.
Mary said suddenly: “My eyes are tired with this close work. Let us put it away and sing for a while. I have a fancy for the lute.”
“Your Highness sings so sweetly to the lute,” said Elizabeth Villiers gently.
How she has changed! thought Mary. She is growing older and wiser. I believe she begins to be a little fond of me; perhaps we all grow closer together when we are far from home.
Elizabeth brought the lute and watched Mary while she played and sang so prettily, and they all joined in the choruses.
It could well be tonight, thought Elizabeth. It must be tonight.
William was deeply concerned by matters of state and his personal life.
How could he trust his English allies? Charles was the most slippery friend with whom he had ever had to deal. How could he be sure what his uncle was planning with the French while he feigned friendship with Holland? And the Duke of York hated him. The fact that he was now his father-in-law had not altered that; it might even have increased his hatred. William knew that there were people at the Court of The Hague who made it their business to inform James that his daughter was not treated with the respect due to her. Her chaplains, Dr. Lloyd and Dr. Hooper, were not to be trusted. They suspected that he was trying to make a Calvinist of her. They were wrong. He was far more tolerant in his outlook than they were; he had always hated the thought of religious pe
rsecution; it was strong in one who was a true son of a land which had suffered more from bigotry than any other. William the Silent had fought against the Spanish Inquisition, its intolerance and religious persecution, and stern Calvinist that he was, William would like to see tolerance in Holland.
Yet those two prelates reported ill of him, although Mary would not say a word against him he was sure. She was reckoned to be beautiful and he supposed she was. She had never aroused great passion in him, but then he was not a passionate man; he did not believe that any woman was going to play a very important part in his life. To plan a battle was to him the most exciting adventure; the seduction of any female a mild diversion.
Was this entirely true? He thought of the woman who was never far from his thoughts. She was unlike all other women he had ever known; those extraordinary eyes with the cast were fascinating; she was clever, he knew, and she read his thoughts. He pictured himself making love to her—not with any heat of passion, but as he thought of it—efficiently. His body had not been fashioned to make of him a great lover. He was no Charles or James of England, and well aware of the differences between himself and such men. All the better, he had told himself; he would never be diverted from important state matters through his desire for a woman.
Yet, secretly, he longed to be an ideal of manhood; and it was no use pretending the physical side of such an idea did not exist. The perfect man must be virile. What ideas were these! He was a man with a mission, the leader of a small country which could at any moment be in acute danger from her enemies. It was absurd to allow the thought of a woman to occupy his mind for a moment.
He had a wife who was a beautiful young girl, but he could never forget those eternal tears. He believed he would always dislike women who cried. She had been happy before she had known she was to marry him. What a different creature she had been! He had been quite excited at the prospect of marrying her; and then they had presented to him that red-eyed, sullen child. He could never forgive those who insulted him and Mary had insulted him in a manner he would never forget. He thought fleetingly of Elizabeth Charlotte, the companion of his childhood, whom many had thought enchanting. She was married now to Philippe, brother of Louis XIV. He had once thought she might be his bride, but he had no regrets there. She would have been impossible to subdue.
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