The Three Crowns

by Виктория Холт

  Bentinck and Elizabeth, they were his real friends. And although neither of them spoke of this—it being too dangerous a subject—yet each was thinking that one day William would be the ruler not only of Holland, but of England too.

  Mary recovered slowly from her illness; but no sooner had she returned to her normal life than she became pregnant again. This delighted her. She was determined this time to show the Prince that she could give him his heir. She was very careful; she never danced, although she loved dancing; she did not ride; she sat with her women and all her conversation was of the child.

  Her father wrote warningly from England.

  He hoped that she would go her full time. She must be careful of herself; he had heard that she stood too long which was bad for a young woman in her condition. He would have her remember it.

  She smiled, recalling those days when she had sat on his knee and he had delighted in her. He had been a good father to her, never showing her the least unkindness. He had never been stern or harsh.…

  She flushed. She was thinking hard thoughts of her husband, which was wrong.

  William came to her apartment—a thing he rarely did since her pregnancy. She often reminded herself that he believed the sexual act should be performed for one reason only—the procreation of children.

  He is right, she thought; he was often right. It was because he lived by a righteous code that others believed him to be harsh; and if he was harsh with others he was also harsh with himself.

  “I have news from your father,” he said.

  “Oh!” she clasped her hands together delightedly. He wished that she did not betray her feelings so readily—joy or sorrow, it was always the same.

  “I have a notion he thinks we ill-treat you here.”

  “Oh … no. I have said nothing.”

  He raised his eyebrows. “Nor could you in truth.”

  “No … no. Assuredly I could not.”

  He was eyeing her sternly.

  “He is sending over two people to … inspect us, I believe.”

  “To … inspect us.”

  “Pray do not repeat everything I say. It is both foolish and monotonous.”

  “I … I’m sorry, William.”

  “And try not to stammer when you speak to me.”

  “N … no, William.”

  His cold eyes took pleasure in her embarrassment. At least she was in awe of him.

  Now he was going to watch the transports of joy.

  “You have not asked who these … spies are to be.”

  “Oh, not spies, William. How could they be!”

  He said: “Your sister and your stepmother are coming to Holland incognito … very incognito, as your father says.”

  It came as he expected. The flush to the cheeks, the tears to the eyes. She was half laughing, half crying. When would she grow up?

  “Oh, William … I’m so happy.”

  “You had better prepare to receive them,” he said.

  There was Anne, plump and pink; there was Mary Beatrice, dark and lovely. Mary could not take her eyes from them. She could only embrace first one then the other and kiss them and cry and laugh over them.

  “My dear, dear Lemon,” said Mary Beatrice. “You must control yourself or the Orange will be displeased with us for over-exciting you.”

  “How can I help being over-excited when you are here … my precious ones, my darlings. Besides, William has gone away.”

  “Does he often go away?” asked Anne.

  “State affairs occupy him all the time,” explained Mary.

  “He should have been here.” There was a hint of criticism in Anne’s voice.

  “Do not forget we came very incognito,” her stepmother reminded her.

  They were lodged near the Palace in the Wood and would only stay for a few days.

  “You see, it is not a state visit,” Mary Beatrice explained, “and how could we stay ‘very incognito’ for longer?”

  There must be reunion with the maids of honor. The Princess Anne wanted to chat all the time about what was happening at the English Court. She embraced the Villiers sisters, Betty Selbourne, Jane Wroth, and Anne Trelawny.

  “It has seemed years and years since I saw you,” she declared.

  She explained to Mary how desolate she had been when recovering from smallpox she had heard that her darling Mary had left for Holland. “What I did without you I cannot say,” she said. “If it were not for Sarah I should be quite, quite desolate. Oh and sister, I have such news of Sarah! It is a secret as yet … Only I and my stepmother are supposed to know. But I must whisper it to my own dear Mary. Sarah is married!”

  “Sarah! Married!” cried Mary delightedly. “Her husband must be a brave man.”

  “Oh, Sarah would only marry a brave man! She would never tolerate a coward.”

  “I meant, dearest Anne, that he will have to be brave to stand up to Sarah.”

  “He is, dearest sister, he is. I’ll whisper his name. John Churchill. You remember John?”

  “Arabella Churchill’s brother,” said Mary, and her happiness was slightly clouded. Her father’s relationship with that woman was a matter which had bewildered her childhood and turned her to fanciful dreams because reality had seemed somehow unpleasant.

  “Arabella found him his place in the army, some say, and Monmouth helped him too. But he is very handsome, Mary, and so charming, and so devoted to Sarah … and she to him, although she does not show it so much. But she is determined to make a great man of him and you know Sarah always has her way.” Anne laughed. “He was very, very gay … and then he fell in love with Sarah and now they are married there will be no more philandering. But it is very, very secret.”

  “Why should it be secret?”

  “Because the Churchills will be quite furious. Sarah is so fascinating and clever and attractive but she is very, very poor and the foolish Churchills think she is not good enough for John. Sarah will show them.”

  “Sarah will, I doubt not.”

  “But our friendship will never, never change … even though she is married. We have sworn it.”

  “And Frances?”

  “Dear, dear Frances. She sends loving messages. She will never, never forget you. I have letters for you.”

  Oh, what a happy time this was!

  Her stepmother told her how at home they talked constantly of their dear Lemon. The King said he wished they had not married her into a foreign land because he missed her. As for her father, he was more melancholy than any.

  “I shall think of you thinking of me when you have gone,” Mary told them sadly.

  Anne wanted to examine her sister’s wardrobe; she chattered about the latest fashions in England.

  Those were the happiest days Mary had experienced since she had arrived in Holland; and when William came to the Palace in the Wood and was gracious to the ladies she was delighted.

  Alas, the stay had only been intended for a short one and very soon the ladies took their departure.

  Anne embraced her weeping sister.

  “At least, dearest Mary,” she said, “we have proved that we are not so far apart as we thought; I shall come again, very incognito, to see my darling sister, for I cannot be happy for long away from her.”

  Mary Beatrice fondly embraced her dear Lemon; and they left Holland for England where they were able to tell the Duke of York that they had found his daughter happy.

  Shortly after they had left Mary had her second miscarriage. There was no reason for it.

  She was desolate. Sadly she missed her visitors. If they had been here they could have comforted her. She could not understand what had happened this time. Had she not taken every care?

  William would blame her. She was young and foolish; and she could not even do what any peasant could: produce a healthy child.

  “Oh William, William,” she cried into her pillows, “it seems I am doomed to disappoint you.”

  Mary had finished supper when William came to
her apartments. Although his expression betrayed nothing, she guessed he had some reason for coming at this hour; she had seen less of him since the second miscarriage and she had begun to wonder whether he believed her incapable of bearing a child and therefore saw no reason why he should not neglect her.

  She felt her heart begin to beat faster as with a cold peremptory gesture he waved a hand and dismissed her women.

  When they had gone he strolled to a table and picked up a book there, frowned at it and muttered: “I suppose Dr. Hooper persuades you to read these books.”

  “Well … he … he gave me that one.”

  William gave the book a contemptuous push. “I expected it.” He studied her and still she could not guess what was behind the look. “The man is as much a bigot as your father,” he said at length.

  Mary flinched; she hated any criticism of her father and she knew that her husband was continually critical of him, disliking James as heartily as James disliked him. What she would have given to bring them together and make them friends.

  “He is as fanatically against Calvinism as he is against popery.” He gave that half smile which was more like a sneer. “If ever I have anything to do with England Dr. Hooper will never be a Bishop.”

  This was almost as wounding for Mary was very fond of both Dr. Hooper and his wife and she was afraid that the visit meant William was contemplating sending them back to England.

  But this was not the case … not yet at any rate.

  William did not look at her as he said: “Your father is on his way to Holland.”

  “My father!”

  She stopped in time. Her habit of repeating everything irritated him. Oddly enough she only did it with him.

  “He is paying a visit to his daughter. He is so anxious for her welfare that he will come and see for himself. That is what he tells me. In actual fact he is coming to Holland because they will no longer tolerate him in England.”

  “No longer tolerate my father!” she was stung to protest. “But England is his home. He is the heir to the throne.”

  “He is a papist. That’s the root of the trouble. The English will not have a papist on their throne. That is why your father is being sent into exile.”

  “But they will have to have him …”

  “The English are not a people to be told they have to have what they do not want, I believe.”

  Mary’s eyes were wide with horror. “But it cannot be as bad as that. They can’t be turning him out?”

  “You, I suppose, will be fully aware of what is going on in England—even though you have been out of it for so long.”

  It was cold sarcasm and her cheeks burned, but because her father was being attacked she lost her fear of her husband in the need to defend him.

  “I know this: my father is a man who has served his country well. When he returned from his victories at sea the people treated him like a hero.”

  “And now they treat him like an exile.”

  “It is not true.”

  William raised astonished eyebrows.

  “I do not believe it,” she said, and there was no trace of tears now; her voice was firm, her color high; and she looked very beautiful. She said in a voice which matched his for coldness: “When may I expect my father?”

  William felt temporarily defeated. “In a few days, I dare swear. As soon as the favorable wind carries him here …”

  “Then I must prepare to give a good welcome to the heir of England.”

  As she moved away from him, William felt alarmed. She was growing up, and this interview had given him a glimpse of a different woman. This was not the docile wife. Her father had a great influence on her. That was bad. He would have to be very watchful. Not that he feared James would make her change her religion; she was a firm Protestant. But he was her father and a deeply sentimental and emotional woman would doubtless have her head stuffed with notions of filial duty.

  He must never forget that when James died—or was turned from the throne—it was Mary who was next in succession. He would never submit to playing the part of consort. Mary must therefore be conditioned to accept her husband as supreme in all things; and if that meant turning her against her father then that must be done.

  THE UNFAITHFUL HUSBAND

  In spite of his dislike of his father-in-law William received him with respect. He met the royal party on their arrival and conducted them, surrounded by a guard of three thousand, to the Palace at The Hague.

  As soon as the formal greeting was over James asked after his daughter, making many inquiries as to her state of health and expressing his concern.

  “Your climate here is not good,” he said. “It is damp and cold.”

  “I believe it to be very little different from that of England,” retorted William.

  “There’s a world of difference. Ours is far more clement. Has not Mary suffered from ill health since she has been here? The ague! Those two miscarriages! She rarely had a day’s illness before she came to Holland.”

  As James was the most tactless of men and William never made any concessions to flattery, there was certain to be friction.

  William conveyed the fact that he was well aware why James was in Holland; and he strongly hinted that that reason would not endear him to a nation which was firmly Protestant and still remembered the miseries of the Spanish Inquisition.

  Before they reached The Hague both knew that the visit was going to be an uneasy one.

  When James and his wife were alone with Mary they embraced her tenderly. James held her at arms’ length and studied her; then they wept together. It was a great joy to Mary to be able to weep in comfort.

  Mary Beatrice said: “Our only happiness at this time is to be with our dear Lemon.”

  “Is it true,” asked Mary anxiously, “that you have been turned out of England?”

  “I fear so, Mary,” James confessed. “I have many enemies and do you know who is foremost among them? Monmouth.”

  “Oh, no.” Mary shook her head. She would always be especially fond of Jemmy and although she knew he behaved shamefully now and then she had always tried to make excuses for him. She would never forget how he had come to Richmond and been so kind to her, teaching her to dance. She believed that the reason she danced so well—and dancing was one of her greatest pleasures—was due to Jemmy’s tuition.

  “He goes about the country calling himself the Protestant Duke. He is always urging Charles to legitimize him and you know what that means.”

  “The King loves him dearly.”

  “The King can be foolish when he loves—as we have seen with Castlemaine and Portsmouth.”

  “Most men can be foolish over their mistresses,” said Mary, glancing at her father.

  “Monmouth has made everything so much more difficult. I have always had my enemies and they have prevailed upon my brother to send me out of England. It is a polite kind of exile.”

  “The King was deeply moved when we left,” Mary Beatrice reminded him.

  “Oh, yes, he did not want us to go. But he had to accept it. My only comfort during these days is in my family … my dear wife—my dear daughters, you, Mary, dear Anne, and little Isabella.”

  Mary thought: And your mistresses—unless you have very much changed, which I greatly doubt.

  And she wondered why she felt her sympathy for her father touched by criticism. Was she beginning to think a little like her husband?

  “Father,” she said, “all your troubles are due to your religious beliefs.”

  “Well, I shall not be the first to be victimized for that reason. Mary, while I am here I want to talk to you about religion.”

  She stiffened. “I do not think it would be any use,” she said quickly. “I respect your views, father, but I have mine; and they are far removed from Rome.”

  “Oh, you are becoming a little like your husband. Do not, I pray you, become a Calvinist.”

  “I belong to the Church of England, Father, as I was taught from a ch
ild. It is a faith which suits me well and in which I believe.”

  “Hooper has been instructing you, I’ll be bound. Here is a sad state of affairs—a father who is not allowed to have charge of his own daughters.” James shook his head and looked melancholy. “You were taken away from me when you were beginning to grow up. They were afraid I would influence you, I … your own father. Anne wanted to come with us, in fact was coming … but the people did not wish it. They feared that I … her father … might influence her, might turn her into a Catholic. That is the state your father is reduced to, Mary. Here you see him … an exile from his country.”

  “It is very sad,” said Mary; and she thought: But if you were not a papist none of it would have happened. She was beginning to see through William’s eyes.

  William could not hide his distaste for his father-in-law and James, aware of it, found his position becoming more and more uncomfortable. He was turned away from his home because he was not wanted there, and however much Charles expressed his regret he showed clearly that he was ready to accept the demands of his brother’s enemies. And so he had become a guest at his son-in-law’s Court—but not a welcome one.

  One night he awoke in his apartments with griping pains, alarming Mary Beatrice as for some minutes he could do nothing but groan and press his hands against his stomach.

  “What can it be?” cried Mary Beatrice fearfully. “I must call for help.”

  But James shook his head. “We are here in a strange country, an enemy’s country. How do we know what that enemy plans against us?”

  “James, you think William is trying to poison you!”

  James groaned aloud. “My body tells me someone has.”

  She was hastily scrambling out of bed, but he detained her.

  “Wait awhile. I fancy the pain grows less. Perhaps they have not succeeded this time.”

  “I cannot believe this of the Prince. Our dear Lemon would never allow it.”

  “Do you think Mary has any say in matters at this Court? Have you not seen the manner in which he treats her? My daughter will always be a good daughter to me—but how I distrust her husband!”

  “You are a little better now, James?”