She wept a little.
It was so sad when there were quarrels in families but she must not forget that it was her father who had murdered Jemmy the man she … the man for whom she had had such regard.
Her father was a Catholic. He was trying to foist a child, not his son, on the people of England for the sole purpose of thrusting them back to Rome.
That was wicked. That was evil.
It was something no one should forget or forgive.
James’s flair for projecting himself into trouble had not left him. While the country was listening to the stories put about by his enemies that his wife was pretending to be pregnant he brought forward his second Declaration of Indulgence which he ordered should be read in church on two Sundays. Seven Bishops petitioned him against the declaration, which James declared was rebellion against the King. These Bishops were sent to the Tower.
There was murmuring throughout the country. In Cornwall, since one of the Bishops was Jonathan Trelawny, the brother of Anne who had been sent out of Holland by the Prince of Orange, they were singing
And shall Trelawny die
Then twenty thousand Cornishmen will know the reason why.
And all over England there was equal resentment against the King. How much easier it was to believe of a King that he was preparing to foist a child on the nation in order to secure Catholic rule, when he imprisoned his Bishops because they disagreed with him on what should be done in the churches.
While the Bishops were in prison the child was born.
A boy! The son for which the King, Queen, and their supporters had been praying!
There was deep despair among the King’s enemies which could only be tolerated by disbelief.
William preserved his calm. The birth of this child was the most bitter blow which could have come to him but he gave no sign of this. He sent Zuylestein to England to congratulate the King and Queen.
But before Zuylestein left he was alone with William who said: “You know what I desire of you?”
“To discover the true feelings of the people, Your Highness.”
“Find out what they are saying of the King and the Queen … and the Princess of Orange … and myself. Find out what they think about the opportune birth of this child.”
William waited impatiently for Zuylestein’s return.
The Princess Anne wrote jubilantly.
“The Prince of Wales has been ill these three or four days and if he has been so bad as some people say, I believe it will not be long before he is an angel in Heaven.”
When Mary showed the letter to William, he said: “Let them pray for the Prince of Wales in the churches.”
Mary bowed her head. “How good you are, William,” she said.
And she prayed fervently for the health of the child, for secretly in her heart she wanted him to live. These last weeks had made her look fearfully into a future which filled her with dread.
What was happening in England? Were the people in truth turning against her father? If the child died would they deprive him of his throne and if they did …?
She did not want to be Queen of England through her father’s misfortunes. William desired the crown, she knew that; and she wanted to please William. But not through her father’s misery.
She wanted her father to reform his ways and live in peace with his subjects. And she and William could continue in Holland, which was so much more pleasant since she had told him that she would always want him to rule. That had made him more pleased with her than he had ever been before—and all because she had told him that if ever she were Queen of England he should be the King.
But how could she be happy being Queen of England, even if she could give William his supreme wish and make him King, when it meant that she could only do so through the death or disgrace of her father?
And William, she admitted in her secret thoughts, was still the lover of Elizabeth Villiers.
When Zuylestein returned from England, he was triumphant.
“Your Highness, the Prince still lives and his health is improving, but there are many who believe him not to be the true son of the King. They are saying that the birth was mysterious, that just before the baby was said to be born the Queen asked to have the bedcurtains drawn about her; that the baby was brought into the bed by means of a warming pan. The temper of the people is high.”
William sent for Mary. He told her that he was certain the King and Queen had deceived the nation. The child they were claiming was the Prince of Wales, was almost certain to be spurious.
Mary wept bitterly, contemplating the wickedness of her father, and William made a rough attempt to soothe her.
“What is,” he said, “must be faced.”
“William,” she cried, “I can bear whatever has to be faced, if we face it together.”
He bent toward her and put a cold kiss on her cheek.
It was as though a bargain had been sealed.
The rumors from London persisted; there was scarcely a day when a messenger did not arrive at The Hague with a fresh tale. Each day James grew more and more unpopular. The Bishops had been acquitted but their untimely incarceration had increased James’s enemies by the thousand.
There came that day when William sent for his wife. There was a faint glow of triumph on that usually cold face.
The moment had come.
He said: “They have sent me an invitation.”
Mary waited and he who rarely felt an inclination to smile now found one curling his lips. “Danby, Devonshire, Lumley, Shrewsbury, Sidney, Russell, and the Bishop of London. You might say the seven most important men in England at this time. They tell me they will collect forces for an invasion. They are inviting me to go over there … now.”
“To go there, William? But what can you do? My father is the King …”
“I believe that he will not be so much longer.”
She could not look at the triumph in his face. She thought: I am not worthy to be a Queen. I am only a woman.
And she saw her father setting her on his knee and telling those who came to see him how clever she was. She heard voices from the past: “The lady Mary is his favorite daughter.” And his voice: “My dearest child, we will always love each other.”
And now she was one of those who were against him. He would know that. How would he bear it in the midst of all his troubles? Would he say: Once I dearly loved this ungrateful daughter?
She wanted to cry out: He is my father. I loved him once.
But William was looking at her coldly, and his eyes reminded her of her promise always to obey.
Mary Beatrice wrote to her stepdaughter.
“I shall never believe that you are to come over with your husband, dear Lemon, for I know you to be too good that I don’t believe you could have such a thought against the worst of fathers, much less perform it against the best, that has always been kind to you and I believe has loved you best of all his children.”
How could she read such words dry-eyed?
Oh, God, she prayed, let it be happily settled. Let my father realize the folly of his ways, let him confess his wickedness, … and let William have the crown when my father has left this life.
She must not answer Mary Beatrice because she must always consider her loyalty to William. And William was exultant these days although he was coughing a great deal, even spitting blood, and she worried on account of his health.
Sad days! Oh for that happy time when dear Jemmy had danced and skated here at The Hague, and later when she had sat with Dr. Burnet and William and they had all talked pleasantly together. Dr. Burnet had now married a Dutch woman—very rich and comely—and he was happy; and was no doubt thinking of the time when William was King and she Queen and he would be recalled to his native land.
But her father haunted her dreams, his eyes appealing. “Have you forgotten, my favorite daughter, how I loved you?”
I must forget, she told herself, because I have a husband now.
She steeled herself to forget; she prayed continuously. There must be two idols in her life—her religion and her husband.
She must forget all else.
But it was not easy to forget when she read the letters her father sent her.
He did not believe she was in the plot to depose him; he could not accept that.
“I have had no letter from you and I can easily believe that you may be embarrassed how to write to me now that the unjust design of the Prince of Orange to invade me is so public. And though I know you are a good wife, and ought to be so, yet for the same reason I must believe you still to be as good a daughter to a father that has always loved you so tenderly and that has never done the least thing to make you doubt it. I shall say no more and believe you very uneasy all this time for the concern you must have for a husband and a father. You shall find me kind to you if you desire it …”
Mary broke down when she read that letter.
“I cannot bear it,” she sobbed.
Why must there be this unhappiness for the sake of a crown. Three crowns—England, Scotland, Ireland. And so many to covet them!
She went to William, determined to fall on her knees and implore him to give up this design. But when she stood before him and saw the cold determination in his face, she knew that would be useless. As well ask him to give up his hope of the three crowns. As well ask him to give up Elizabeth Villiers.
And she had sworn always to obey; she must obey him. He was her husband and she had promised herself that hers should be an ideal marriage. It could only be so if she obeyed him absolutely.
She changed her plea. “William,” she said, “promise me that if my father should become your captive, he shall be unharmed.”
William had never been a violent man; it was easy to give that promise.
KING WILLIAM AND QUEEN MARY
William was ready to leave for England.
In spite of his ill health—that terrible cough which racked his body day and night and the ever-threatening asthma—he seemed to have grown younger during the last weeks. The dream was about to be realized; and he could scarcely wait for its fulfillment. Outwardly he was as calm as ever; but Mary sensed the inner excitement.
He looked at her intently and with more tenderness than he had ever shown her before. It might be that he understood her feelings, that he was appreciative of this immense loyalty to him which had forced her to turn her back on her father.
He had groomed her well and was pleased with her. Momentarily he thought of the shrinking girl who had been his bride. She was gone forever. She had turned into the docile wife and if he had the wish—or the potency—he could have made of her a passionate woman.
But such trivial dallyings were not for him. He had a destiny and he was about to grasp it in his frail, but nonetheless eager, hands.
“Mary,” he said, taking her hands, “pray God to bless and direct us.”
She bowed her head; this time the tears did not exasperate him.
“You have been a good wife to me. It is something I shall never forget.”
“And shall always be, William, in the years to come.”
“The years to come …” His expression darkened and he saw the fear leap into her eyes. Again he was satisfied.
“William, you frighten me.”
“We must be prepared for all eventualities,” he said. “I do not go in peace to your father’s kingdom. You must prepare yourself for that. And if it should please God that you should never see me again, it will be necessary for you to marry again.”
“Do not speak of it, William. Such words pierce me to the heart.”
“Then you must steel your heart, for you will be a Queen, Mary, if all goes as it must go for the sake of England and our Faith. I need not tell you that if you marry again your husband must not be a papist.”
He turned away as he spoke for the stricken expression in her eyes moved him as she had never been able to move him before.
“I give you pain by this plain speaking, I fear,” he said quietly. “But I do it only because of my strong convictions. Protestantism must be preserved in England.”
She nodded.
Then she went to him and clung to him; for some seconds he remained unresponsive then he put his arms about her and held her against him.
“I have never loved anyone but you, William,” she declared tearfully; and even as she spoke she saw the reproachful dark eyes of Frances that “dearest husband” who had remained a dear friend; she saw the jaunty ones of Jemmy and for a few revealing seconds she seemed to glimpse a different life, a life of gaiety and adventure which might have been hers if she had married him. She shut out these images. Dreams. Fantasies. Her life with William was the reality.
“William, William,” she cried, “all these years I have been married and have no child. If God does not see fit to bless me with children there would be no reason for my marrying again.”
She delighted him. This failure to produce a child she took upon herself; she did not hint as so many did that William was the one who had failed in that respect. She was a wonderful wife. Only now that he was leaving her did he realize how wonderful.
“I shall pray to God that I do not survive you, William. And if it does not please God to grant me a child by you I would not wish to have one by an angel!”
She was overflowing with her emotions, which on this occasion was pleasant.
“Your devotion pleases me, my dear wife,” said William; and Mary believed she saw a glint of tears in his eyes.
Again she clung to him and he did not resist. His kisses were warmer than they had ever been before.
“You must live, William,” she cried. “You cannot leave me now.”
“If it is God’s will,” he said, “victory will be mine. We will share the throne. God willing, there are good years ahead of us.”
They left the Honselaarsdijk Palace together and Mary accompanied him to the brink of the river and watched him embark.
Throughout Holland the people fasted as they prayed for their Prince’s victory. There was consternation when no sooner had he set out than a tempest rose which scattered his fleet and forced it to return to port.
Mary was frantic with anxiety; her doctors implored her to consider her health; but it was necessary to bleed her and it was a letter from her husband asking her to come to Brill which revived her more than any remedies.
There William spent two hours with her. He told her that there was no real disaster to the fleet and the rumors were being greatly exaggerated in England; he was going to set out immediately but he had wanted to see her once more before he left.
“Oh, William,” she cried, “how happy I am that you should spare me this time … but it only makes the parting more bitter.”
“As soon as I have succeeded in my task I shall send for you.”
She shivered slightly. She saw herself going to England, but she could only go on the defeat of her father. Her exultation in William’s response to her affection had temporarily driven everything else from her mind; but she dreaded returning to the land of her birth, for how would she ever be able to forget her childhood?
“It will not be long, I trust. And should it go against me, you will know what to do.”
He kissed her tenderly once more; and left her.
She went to the top of a tower to see the last of the fleet. Tears blinded her eyes.
It does not matter now, she thought; I can weep my fill for he is not here to be offended by my tears.
“God Save William,” she prayed. “Bring him success.”
She went back to her apartments and shut herself in to pray; but as she prayed for her husband’s success she kept seeing images of her father, and her stepmother; she kept hearing the latter’s voice appealing to her “dear Lemon” to remember her father and all his goodness to her. And she thought too of the newly-born child.
She could settle to nothing. She was continually on her knees. On waking she went to he
r private chapel and was again there at midday; at five o’clock she was back, and again at half past seven she attended a service.
Her prayers were all for William.
“But,” she cried to her chaplain, “what a severe and cruel necessity lies before me! I must forsake a father or forsake my husband, my country, character, and God himself. It is written Honor thy father.… But should not a wife cleave to her husband, forsaking all others?”
She wept. Never, she declared, was a woman confronted by such a cruel decision.
But her dreams came to her help. Why should not her father continue to wear the crown and William be set up as Regent? Thus her father would not be deposed; her husband would rule, and England be saved from popery.
This dream helped her through those dark days.
William had landed safely at Torbay, and the news filled James with alarm. In desperation he sought to win the approval of those whom he had offended. Catholics were not to stand for Parliament; he would support the Church of England; he would restore officials in Church and State who had lost their places due to their opposition of his will.
He appealed for support against the Dutch invasion.
But James was as ineffectual as he had ever been. It was too late to turn his coat now. There were many in the country who, while they deplored his Catholic leanings, did not approve of his son-in-law’s actions. They were asking themselves why William of Orange should be the one to take the crown which, if James and the Prince of Wales were to be dismissed, rightly belonged to his daughter Mary. There were some who did not care to see a daughter working for her father’s downfall, however much the actions of that father were to be deplored.
But James failed to see that he still had a chance.
He was concerned for the safety of his wife and the Prince of Wales; in his anxiety he was ungracious. He sent the young Prince to Portsmouth and kept his wife in London, and decided to march west and deliver a knockout blow to the forces assembled there.
His daughter Anne was popular, and he was sure he would have her support; and he would never believe that Mary, his best loved, would work against him. No, he decided, this was the work of his nephew Orange, whom he had always hated. He cursed the day he had ever agreed to that marriage in which he saw the seed of all his troubles.
The Three Crowns Page 34