The Three Crowns

by Виктория Холт

  His thoughts went back to the fiasco of the wedding night: Mary’s shuddering body; her repulsion. These could not inspire desire in a man who was never passionate. Because she had insulted him he took pleasure in humiliating her; even if he tried he could never show any warmth toward her. Yet now she was changing; she was ready to be friendly. Friendly indeed! He did not want her friendship.

  And there was one thing which he longed for and yet dreaded. He had married her for the sake of the three crowns: England, Scotland, and Ireland. Those he was sure were the crowns Mrs. Tanner had seen about his head when he was born. And if Charles and James were dead and there was no male heir, it would be Mary who was acclaimed as Queen of England. And William? Her consort! He would never accept that. She should never be Queen to his consort. He wanted to talk to her, to make her sign a document in which she resigned all her rights to him. But that would not be possible. There would be the English to stand in the way of it. They had not liked him, many of them; and they did like Mary. Of course they liked her; she was meek, she did as she was told.

  “By my ancestors,” he swore, “she shall do as she is told … as I tell her.”

  As he went toward his own apartments, he had an idea that he would meet Elizabeth on the way. She would have arranged the encounter for she was eager to become his mistress. He had read that in those amazing eyes; and he was eager too … in his mild way. He liked her eagerness; she was clever; she hid her feelings from others while she showed them to him. He was convinced that she was no ordinary woman.

  When he saw her he paused and said it had been a pleasant day.

  She curtsied charmingly, he thought, and there was a faint flush in her cheeks. He suddenly wanted to touch those cheeks and he put out a thin white finger and did so.

  She caught his hand and kissed it. He had never felt so excited by a woman.

  She had thrown herself against him and lifted her eyes to his face.

  “Let me not wait longer, my lord.”

  The choice of words exhilarated him. She was in deep need of him, and she was merely putting in words what she had told him in looks and gestures before.

  His heart was beating a little faster. This was how he felt when he achieved a victory on the battlefield—a great man, a man whom the world looked up to and forgot his lack of inches.

  He put out a hand and touched her. She put her lips on his and he was caught for a moment in her passion.

  “I beg of you … tonight … my lord.”

  He said in a cool voice. “I will see that I am alone at … midnight.”

  She gave a little sigh which in itself made him feel like a conqueror.

  That night Elizabeth Villiers became the mistress of the Prince of Orange. He was astonished and greatly bewildered. He knew that he had missed something in his life before, without being aware of it. He wondered how he was going to do without Elizabeth Villiers.

  Elizabeth did not wonder, for she was determined that he never should.

  Mary was pregnant. At first she told no one because she wanted to be absolutely sure; she imagined William’s pleasure which would be restrained but nonetheless deep for all that; she could also imagine his contempt if she had made a mistake.

  How wonderful to have a child of her own! It was difficult, keeping the secret; she wished her sister Anne were here so that they could whisper together about this enchanting prospect. Anne would immediately want to have a child. Had she not always wanted to imitate her sister?

  If Frances were here, how she would enjoy confiding in her! But Frances was her “dear husband” and how incongruous it was to have to tell one’s husband that one was about to have another man’s child!

  Frances, of course, must be the first one to know. It was long since she had written to her dearest one, but before she had believed herself to be pregnant she had suffered from the ague which had attacked her since her stay in Holland. Anne Trelawny said that the climate did not suit her; and Anne was very grave when she said this, meaning more by the climate than the weather.

  Dear Anne, she loved Mary so much that she was ready to be angry with anyone who did not share her tender devotion. It was useless to explain to her that William was a man whose mind was occupied with noble ideals so that the follies of his wife seemed trivial and at times he showed his contempt for them. There! She was doing what she did so often. Making excuses for William’s neglect and even cruelty to her.

  It is because I am beginning to understand him, she told herself.

  All the same, what fun it would have been if Frances were in truth her husband and they were to have this child. How different indeed! Gentle, loving Frances instead of harsh, stern William. Was it because women were able to give more to love; men such as her husband had their careers to occupy the greater part of their minds; their loves were diversions. Even her Uncle Charles—reckoned to be one of the greatest lovers of his day—was never entirely involved with a woman.

  The cottage in the wood; the little piece of land to be cultivated; the dogs they might have had. The world would have passed them by and she would have cared for the comforts of her dear husband who would have been capable of giving her all the love and protection she needed in another little house in the wood.

  But that was not the way of the world. The love of two women was frowned on, because it was unproductive. Poor Lady Frances Villiers had deplored the writing of those passionate letters. Yet it seemed to Mary that there could be a closer bond between two of the same sex. Herself and Frances, William and Bentinck. In Frances’s company she was happier and more relaxed than she could ever be in any man’s; and William, she was sure, had more respect for Bentinck than any other person.

  But the first one to know that she believed she was to have a child must be her beloved Frances, so she went to her closet and taking up her quill began to write. She wanted Frances to know that she was the first to hear the news and that she had not even told her stepmother who had begged her “dear Lemon” to give her such news as soon as she believed it possible.

  “I would hardly give myself leave to think on it and nobody leave to speak of it so much as to myself. I have not yet given the Duchess word though she has always charged me to do it. But seeing it is to my husband I may, though have reason to fear because the sea parts us and you may believe it is a bastard …”

  She paused and smiled thinking of Frances reading that.

  “… If you have any care for your wife’s reputation you ought to keep this secret since if it should be known you might get a pair of horns …”

  Those ever ready tears came into her eyes. It was a game of make-believe. William would call it the utmost folly. Was it?

  Was she growing older? Was she beginning to stretch out for reality and was there a desire to escape from fantasy? How could she and Frances ever share a cottage in a wood? How could they live in comfort and peace? What child’s letters were these she was writing, what silly pretense! She would have been happiest living with Frances; but she was William’s wife; she was pregnant by him. That was the reality of life and she should accept it. One must stop craving for that old relationship; she must accept the reality and banish the shadow. But how could she when he was so cool, so disdainful and for her there must always be the ideal.

  Perhaps when she held his child in her arms it would be different. Perhaps she would grow up then. As yet she wanted the comfort Frances could give her. She could not release her hold on one dream until she could take hold of another.

  She took up her pen and wrote:

  “Dearest Aurelia, you may be very well assured though I have played the whore a little, I love you of all things in the world. And though I have spoken to you in jest, for God’s sake don’t tell it because I would not have it known yet since it cannot be above six or seven weeks at most, and when you hear of it by other people never say that I said anything of it to you.”

  She laid down her pen.

  She pictured Frances reading the letter. It wou
ld make her smile; perhaps it would make her long for the companionship of her little “wife.”

  It may be, thought Mary, that I shall never see her again.

  When William heard of the pregnancy he was more pleased with Mary than he had been since the wedding; his smile was restrained but nevertheless it betrayed his pleasure.

  “I trust,” he said, “that you will take every precaution for the sake of the child. I insist that you do. There must be no more dancing …” His lip curled distastefully. “No more games of hide-and-seek in the woods. It may well be that now you are to become a mother—and a mother of my heir—you will agree that it is beneath your dignity as Princess of Orange to indulge in such pastimes.”

  Mary replied: “I wish you could have seen my father—who was a great Admiral—sitting on the floor playing ‘I love my love with an A’.”

  “I consider myself fortunate to have been spared such a sight.”

  Mary flushed and wished she had not spoken. He looked at her coldly and she was terrified that the tears would come to her eyes. The fact was that because she so fiercely tried to suppress them they came even more readily.

  With others she could be the dignified Princess; with him she was the foolish child who wept when scolded or disappointed or afraid.

  When the child is born, she promised herself, it will be different.

  She wanted it to be different. She longed for him to smile at her, just once, in approval.

  Mary was sitting with her women, painting a miniature while the others took it in turns to read aloud to her.

  She was happier than she had been since she had heard she was to marry. When she had taken her exercise in the gardens that morning William had joined her; he had walked beside her, and her ladies had fallen into step behind them. He had said very little but then, of course, he never did; but he had looked at her not unkindly, a little anxiously, watching she guessed for some outward sign of pregnancy.

  She had laughed aloud. “Oh, William, it is not noticeable yet.”

  His mouth had tightened. He was shocked by open reference to a delicate matter. She knew he was asking himself what he could expect of one who had been brought up so close to the licentious English Court.

  “I trust you are taking good care.”

  “The greatest,” she answered fervently.

  He glanced sideways at her and there was something in the look which pleased her. She knew that she was beautiful; her dark hair was abundant and she wore it after the fashion which was prevalent at Versailles—drawn away from her face with a thick dark curl hanging over her shoulder. It suited her; and her almond-shaped eyes were softer because they were myopic; her shortsightedness gave her a look of helplessness which was appealingly feminine. She was growing plump and her white shoulders were rounded. She had changed a good deal from the young girl he had brought to Holland.

  But she seemed to displease him and she wondered why. She did not know that he could never forget her rejection of him in the beginning, that he was constantly wondering what would happen if she attained the throne, and whether she and the English would refuse to let him take precedence. That was very important to him. There was one other matter which disturbed him. As a husband he was deceiving her. He had taken a mistress from among her very maids of honor, and this troubled his Calvinistic soul; but he could not give up Elizabeth Villiers. He had believed it would be a brief affair—to be quickly forgotten; but this was not so. Elizabeth was no ordinary woman; she fascinated him completely. He talked to her of his ambitions and she listened; not only did she listen but she talked intelligently. She made it her affair to study that which was important to him. She was edging her way into his life so that he felt as strongly for her as he did for Bentinck. For the friend who had saved his life he had a passionate devotion; the strength of his feelings for the young man had on occasions alarmed him; that was another blessing Elizabeth had brought to him. She had shown him that while he was not a man who greatly needed women, he was a normal man.

  He could not do without Elizabeth and every time he saw his wife he wished fervently that Elizabeth Villiers had been the heiress of England and the sentimental over-emotional young girl her maid of honor.

  But now that his wife had conceived he need not often share her bed; and since she was clearly trying to please him he was disliking her less.

  Once she had given him a son—a William of Orange like himself—there would be a bond between them and he would forgive her her childishness.

  Yet his conscience disturbed him and for that reason he felt more critical of her; he was constantly looking for reasons why he should have taken a mistress. He had to justify himself not only to those who might guess his secret, but to himself.

  But that morning in the gardens they had seemed to come a little closer.

  She asked him to show her the part he had planned and he did so with a mild pleasure. She was ecstatic in her praise—too fulsome. He waved it aside and she said pleadingly: “William, after the child is born, may I plan a garden?”

  “I see no harm in it,” was his gruff reply; but he was rather pleased to show her the crystal rose he had planted himself; and then he took her to the music tree.

  The ladies exchanged glances.

  “Caliban is a little more gracious today,” whispered Anne Trelawny.

  “Caliban could never be gracious,” replied Lady Betty Selbourne. “He could only be a little less harsh.”

  “My darling Princess. How does she endure it!” sighed Anne.

  Elizabeth was aware of them and she was a little uneasy. When she became a mother Mary would inevitably become more adult; she was beautiful, something which Elizabeth never could be. But she was a little fool—an over-emotional, sentimental little fool, and Elizabeth Villiers assured herself she need never worry unduly about her.

  Both Mary and Elizabeth were thinking of that morning in the gardens and neither were listening to the book.

  Mary put a hand to her forehead and said suddenly: “This puts too big a tax on my eyes. Have done. I will walk in the gardens for a while.”

  Anne Trelawny shut the book; Lady Betty took the miniature from her mistress and laid it on a table; and the Princess went to the window to look out on the garden, so green and promising on that bright April day.

  But as she stood at the window she gave a sudden cry and doubled up with pain.

  Anne Trelawny was at her side at once. “My lady …”

  “I know not what is happening to me …” said Mary piteously, and she would have fallen to the floor had not Anne caught her.

  She lay in bed, pale and exhausted. Throughout the Palace they were saying that she might die.

  She had lost the child but she did not know this yet. No one could account for the tragedy, except that some perversity of fate often decreed it to be difficult for royal people who needed heirs to get them.

  Her ladies waited on her, each wondering what the future held. Elizabeth Villiers could not stay in Holland if her mistress died. But could she? Was her position strong enough? She did not believe the Prince would lightly give her up. Jane Wroth was wondering what she would do if parted from Zuylestein; Anne Villiers was thinking of William Bentinck.

  Only Anne Trelawny was wholeheartedly concerned with her mistress.

  It is his fault, Anne told herself. He has never treated her well. He has neglected her and been cruel to her.

  She went to Dr. Hooper, the Princess’s chaplain, and together they discussed the Prince’s cruel treatment of the Princess.

  “It is his harshness which has made her ill,” insisted Anne. “Every day he makes her cry over something.”

  “It is no way to treat a Stuart Princess,” agreed Dr. Hooper. “I doubt her father would allow this to go unremarked, if he knew.”

  When Mary recovered a little the Prince came to see her. She looked at him apologetically from her pillows. His expression was cold and it was clear that he blamed her.

  She had behave
d with some lack of propriety; she had not taken enough care of this precious infant.

  When he had gone Mary wept silently into her pillows.

  William showed the letter he had received to Bentinck; and there was a cold anger in his eyes.

  Bentinck read: “I was very sorry to find by the letters of this day from Holland that my daughter has miscarried; pray let her be carefuller of herself another time; I will write to her to the same purpose.”

  Bentinck looked up at his friend. “His Grace of York?”

  “Suggesting that I do not take care of his precious daughter. He is insolent. He never liked me. He was always against the marriage. A foolish man.”

  “I am in agreement,” added Bentinck.

  William’s eyes narrowed. “He grows more and more unpopular in England as he reveals himself as a papist.”

  “The people of England will never accept a Catholic monarch.”

  “Never,” said William. “Bentinck, what do you think will happen when Charles dies?”

  “If the people of England will not accept James …”

  “A papist! They won’t have a papist!”

  “He is the rightful heir … the next in succession. The people of England want no papist … at least the majority do not … but they have a great feeling for law and order.”

  William nodded. “Ah, well, we shall see. But in the meantime I do not care to receive instructions from my fool of a father-in-law.”

  “Your Highness should ignore him. There is no need to do aught else.”

  William nodded. He slipped his arm through that of Bentinck and gave one of his rare smiles. Bentinck was a comfort to him, a friend on whom he could rely completely.