Royal Sisters: The Story of the Daughters of James II
Виктория Холт
Jean Plaidy
The haunted sisters
A HUSBAND FOR ANNE
The Princess Anne, walking slowly through the tapestry room in St. James’s Palace—for it was a lifetime’s habit never to hurry—smiled dreamily at the silken pictures representing the love of Venus and Mars which had been recently made for her uncle, the King. Tucked inside the bodice of her gown was a note; she had read it several times; and now she was taking it to her private apartments to read it again.
Venus and Mars! she thought, Goddess and God, and great lovers. But she was certain that there had never been lovers like Anne of York and John Sheffield, Earl of Mulgrave, Princess and Poet.
Her lips moved as she repeated the words he had written.
Of all mankind I loved the best
A nymph so far above the rest
That we outshine the Blest above
In beauty she, as I in love.
No one could have written more beautifully of Venus than John Sheffield had written of her.
What had happened to Venus and Mars? she wondered idly. She had never paid attention to her lessons; it had been so easy to complain that her eyes hurt or she had a headache when she was expected to study. Mary—dear Mary!—had warned her that she would be sorry she was so lazy, but she had not been sorry yet, always preferring ignorance to effort; everyone had indulged her, far more than they had poor Mary who had been forced to marry that hateful Prince of Orange. Anne felt miserable remembering Mary’s face swollen from so many tears. Dear sister Mary, who had always learned her lessons and been the good girl; and what had been her reward? Banishment from her own country, sent away from her family, and married to that horrid little man, the Orange, as they called him—or more often Caliban, the Dutch Monster.
The exquisitely sculptured Tudor arch over the fireplace commemorated two more lovers whose entwined initials were H and A. Henry the VIII and Anne Boleyn had not remained constant lovers. That was indeed a gloomy thought and the Princess Anne made a habit of shrugging aside what was not pleasant.
She turned from the tapestry room and went to her own apartments. Delighted to find none of her women there, she sat in the window seat and took out the paper.
Soon, the whole Court would be reading the poem, but they would not know that those words were written for her. They would say: “Mulgrave writes a pretty verse.” And only she would know.
But it was not always going to be so. Why should they hide their passion?
Her father had always been indulgent, and she preferred to believe he would continue so. Her uncle too, but state policy could come into this—as it had with Mary.
Anne was suddenly frightened, remembering that terrifying day when Mary had come to her, bewildered, like a sleepwalker. “Anne, they are forcing me to marry our cousin Orange.”
Matters of state! A Princess’s duty! Those words which meant that the free and easy life was over. An indulgent father and a kind uncle were yet Duke of York and King of England; and matters of state must take precedence over family feeling.
Anne refused to consider failure. It was a trait in her character which had often exasperated Mary. Anne believed what she wanted to believe, so now she believed she would be allowed to marry Mulgrave.
Reaching her apartment she went at once to the window and, as she had expected, she saw him in the courtyard below, where he had been walking backward and forward hoping for a glimpse of her.
They smiled at each other. He was not only the most handsome man in her uncle’s Court, thought Anne, but in the world.
“Wait!” Her lips formed the words; he could not hear, of course, but with the extra sense of a lover, he understood.
She turned from the window, picked up a cloak, wrapped it round her and pulled the hood over her head. It would help to conceal her identity. Unhurriedly she went down to the courtyard.
He ran to her and took both her hands.
“We must not stay here,” she said.
“But we must talk.”
She nodded and drew him to an alcove in the stone wall; here they could remain hidden from anyone crossing the courtyard.
“My poem …” he began.
“It was beautiful.”
“Did you understand what the lines meant?”
“I think I understand,” she said.
He quoted:
“And therefore They who could not bear
To be outdone by mortals here,
Among themselves have placed her now.
And left me wretched here below.”
“It sounds as though she’s dead,” said Anne.
“It is symbolic. I daren’t tell the truth. You are so far above me … a Princess. What hope have I …”
“You should always hope.”
“You cannot mean …”
“I think they want me to be happy.”
“And you would be happy?”
Anne never troubled to hide her feelings; she was always frankly herself.
“I want to marry you,” she said.
Mulgrave caught his breath with joy, and surprise.
Marriage with the Princess Anne! That thought had entered his head, of course, but he scarcely dared hope. Why, if Charles had no legitimate child—and it seemed unlikely that he would—and James had no son, which also seemed a possibility, and Mary remained childless, well then it would be the Princess Anne’s turn. The prospect was dazzling. Married to the Queen of England! She was not an arrogant woman; one only had to look into that fresh-colored face, those eyes which, owing to some opthalmic trouble which had been with her since childhood, gave her a helpless look, at that body which was already showing signs of indulgence at the table, to realize that her air of placidity was an absolute expression of her true nature. She would be easy going, lazy—a comfortable wife even though she were a Queen.
No wonder he was in love with Anne.
He shook his head. “They would never allow it.”
She smiled at him fondly. “If I begged and pleaded …”
“You would do that?”
“For you,” she told him.
He drew her toward him and kissed her almost wonderingly. She was delightful—gentle, yielding, frankly adoring, and a Princess! He, of course, was a very ambitious man, but this seemed too much good fortune. He must not let her delude him into the belief that it would be easy to marry her.
It was a pleasant state of affairs when ambition and pleasure were so admirably linked. Ever since he had become Gentleman of the Bedchamber to Anne’s father he had observed the royal family at close quarters and consequently knew a great deal about their weaknesses. No one in the country could help being aware of James’s position at this time for already his brother the King had thought it wise to send him into exile on more than one occasion and the Bill, the object of which was to exclude James from the succession, was being discussed not only in Parliament but in every town and village.
Mulgrave had served with the fleet against the Dutch and been appointed captain of a troop of horse. The Duke of York was inclined to favor him; but what would his reactions be when he knew he aspired to marry his daughter?
Looking into the eager face of seventeen-year-old Anne he believed she was too simple—or too determined to have her way—to see the enormous difficulties which lay before them.
He caught her hands. “We must be careful,” he said.
“Oh, yes. We must be careful.”
“This must be our secret … for a while.”
She understood that.
“It would not do for His Majesty to know what is in our minds.”
“He has always been so kind to me,” she told him.
Kind, yes. Kindness was second nature to the King. He would smile at Anne, pat her hand, tell her he was delighted she had a lover; and immediately begin to arrange a marriage of state for her. In one respect Anne was a little like her uncle. There was a laziness in both natures which made them long for a peaceful existence and capable of doing almost anything to achieve it.
Charles was not very pleased with the Earl of Mulgrave at this time because he knew that Mulgrave had helped to increase the strife which existed between James and Charles’s illegitimate son, the Duke of Monmouth. It had become difficult for Charles to banish his brother and not send Monmouth away also; so Monmouth had been exiled too. Charles had seen the necessity, but he remembered that Mulgrave had helped to exacerbate relations between the two Dukes and when he knew of this greatest ambition of all, he might decide he had been too lenient.
Mulgrave wondered how to impress on Anne the need to be very cautious while not letting her believe that marriage between them was quite out of the question. Gentle and yielding as she was to him, so would she be to others; and if it were pointed out to her that she must take a foreign Prince as a husband, would she placidly smile and accept her fate?
“But you understand, my Princess, that we must be very, very careful …”
He stopped and gave a little gasp, for someone had stepped into the alcove.
A rather shrill voice said: “Ah, Madam, I have searched and searched for you.”
Mulgrave was horrified. Here he was, caught with the Princess Anne in his arms; but Anne merely laughed.
“It’s only Sarah,” she said. “My dearest Sarah how you frightened me!”
“Apologies, Madam. But I thought I should warn you. You are being somewhat indiscreet.”
“We thought no one would see us here.”
“I saw you.”
“Oh, but Sarah, you are the one who sees all.” Anne was smiling at her lover. “John,” she went on, gently, “all is well. It is only my dearest friend who would never bring me anything but good. Sarah, you, who are happily married yourself, will understand.”
“I understand, Madam, but at the same time I tremble.”
“Tremble! You, Sarah! When did you ever tremble?”
“For myself, never. For you, Madam … often.”
“You see, John, what a good friend she is to me? I am fortunate indeed to have two such … friends. John has been telling me, Sarah, that we have to be very careful not to betray ourselves. What say you?”
“I should say he is right,” said Sarah. “And the best way, Madam, if you will excuse my saying so, is not to embrace in the courtyards.”
“We were well hidden from sight.”
“H’m,” said Sarah sharply. She peered up at Mulgrave. “You are silent, my lord.”
“My dear lady, you seem well equipped to keep the conversation alive.”
Anne smiled fondly from one to the other. “You must know that I want you two to be friends.”
“Anyone who is Madam’s friend is my friend,” said Sarah.
Mulgrave put in: “That is a great relief.”
“And now,” went on Sarah, “I think, Madam, that I should conduct you to your apartments. I will keep watch while you say your farewells.”
With that she turned her back on them and for a moment they clung to each other.
“John,” whispered Anne, “what shall we do?”
“Nothing … as yet,” he told her. “We must think of a way.”
“Yes, John. You think of a way … but think quickly.”
“I have only one desire in my life.”
“And I.”
Sarah said without turning her head: “I think I hear footsteps approaching. It would be well to go now.”
The lovers looked longingly at each other for a few more seconds; then John dropped Anne’s hand and she went to Sarah.
Mulgrave watched the two young women walk into the palace.
* * *
In the Princess’s apartments Anne was telling Sarah about her love for Mulgrave. Sarah was displeased; she had learned of this through her own indefatigable efforts as she would always discover any intrigue; but it was disturbing that Anne had not confided in her, for it was unlike the Princess to exclude her from her secrets.
Although Sarah was lady-in-waiting to the Duchess of York, she was constantly in the company of the Princess Anne; and before Mulgrave had enchanted the Princess, Sarah had been more important to her than anyone. Sarah was piqued, but she did not show it. Arrogant and overbearing as she invariably was to others, she was careful in her approach to Anne.
Little fool! thought Sarah. Her sister Mary has a husband, and I have a husband; therefore she must have one. She always had to imitate, not having a mind of her own.
So she had chosen to fall in love with the Earl of Mulgrave—an ambitious young man, if ever Sarah saw one; and she was not going to tolerate ambitious people about the Princess, particularly those who would have more influence than Sarah Churchill.
She did not tell her this now; instead she pretended to be pleased.
Anne was explaining how she had loved him from the first moment she had seen him. “And the fact that his name was John … like your dear husband’s … endeared him to me, Sarah.”
“Ah, Madam, you always wish to do as I do.”
“Mary used to say I imitated her. Alas, I can no longer imitate my dear sister.”
“Nor should you wish to, Madam, seeing that the Princess of Orange spends a great deal of her time in tears.”
“Poor, poor Mary, married to that hateful creature.”
“Caliban!” said Sarah venomously.
“I pity Mary,” said Anne, her lips trembling.
“Pity can do her no good, Madam. Let us hope that you never have to make a marriage of state.”
“It will not be necessary,” said Anne complacently. “Mary has done that. I believe I can persuade my father to let me marry for love.”
“It will not rest with your father,” Sarah reminded her grimly. “Remember the position he is in.”
“Poor Papa!”
Poor Papa, indeed! thought Sarah. His future was not very certain. If this Bill succeeded and he was excluded from the throne, unless he had a son it would be the turn of Mary. And after that … Anne.
Sarah was a woman who had to make her way in the world by means of her own wits, and she constantly thanked God that they were sharp ones. She had to fight for herself and her John and she was going to find such a niche for them that would be the envy of the country. Both she and John had come to their present hopeful positions by great good luck; they must work hard to keep them.
John had been wise to choose her for his wife; and she had also chosen wisely. She would make him the greatest soldier in the world; yes, and have the world recognize him as such.
But that meant playing the game of life very carefully; knowing your luck for what it was and exploiting it.
Sarah had been a little shocked when she realized how far the Mulgrave affair had gone; not that she was alarmed; she was certain it could not go much farther. For one thing, she, Sarah Churchill, would not allow it.
“However,” went on Sarah, “the King is kind to lovers.”
“Oh, Sarah,” laughed Anne, “how right you are! And so he should be.”
“But,” went on Sarah sternly, “for the time, you must be careful. This must go no farther than letters and an occasional meeting with another present.”
“You, Sarah, of course.”
“There is no one else you can trust.”
“Oh, Sarah, how wonderful to have you to look after me! All will be well, I am sure. When you think they might have married me to that hateful George who, to my mind, was as bad—or almost—as poor Mary’s Orange.”
Prince George of Hanove
r! thought Sarah. She had been alarmed when that possibility had arisen. She had not liked the little German, who could not speak a word of English and gave the impression that he was not going to try. He was small of stature and uncouth in manners.
Ugh! shivered Sarah. And what place would there have been for John and Sarah Churchill at Hanover? She was glad that had come to nothing.
“A most distasteful man!” she muttered.
Then she remembered that Anne had been complacent enough. Of course Mulgrave had not appeared on the scene at that time; but Anne had shown no qualms, although the creature was so repulsive and would have carried her off to Hanover.
Anne was adaptable. That was why she was such an excellent mistress for an ambitious woman to serve. Serve! Proud Sarah was not one to serve. She wanted to guide her mistress into giving all that was best to Sarah Churchill, that Sarah might make use of it for John, and this clever couple become the most powerful people in the world.
She was not even in the service of Anne, but that of Mary of Modena, Duchess of York, so she would not have accompanied the Princess to Hanover. Nor had she had any intention of going—although with the Duke and Duchess so unpopular that they must periodically be banished from England, she could not see clearly ahead. If the Duke of York were King it would be good to be in the service of his wife; and to be in the service of Anne might mean that one were sent anywhere in the world if she made a foreign marriage—as the Princess Mary had been sent to Holland.
To play this game now was like walking a tightrope, but Sarah knew she was capable of coming safely across.
“Write your love letters,” said Sarah. “I will see that they are delivered. Then … in time … we must think of a plan.”
Anne threw herself into her friend’s arms.
“I am thinking of all I owe you, Sarah,” said Anne.
Sarah was thinking: She grows fatter than ever.
* * *
As soon as Sarah was alone she asked herself how best she could put an end to this unfortunate romance. In the first place she did not care to see Anne more enamored of another person than she was of Sarah herself; and there was no doubt that she was positively besotted about Mulgrave.
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