by Jean Plaidy
The girls made a pleasant picture walking in Richmond Park; four of them were arm in arm—the special friends: the Princesses Mary and Anne with Anne Trelawny and Sarah Jennings. Sarah was such good company and the Princess Anne kept screaming with laughter at her comments.
Behind were two of the Villiers sisters—Elizabeth and Katherine—outside the magic circle of friendship. Mary pressed Anne Trelawny’s arm to her side in a sudden gesture of happiness. It was pleasant to have such a friend; she felt completely at home with Anne Trelawny; and since she had always been devoted to her sister, she was now in the company she loved best. Sarah Jennings was a little overbearing, but Anne thought her so wonderful that Mary accepted her as a member of the quartette.
Princess Anne peered shortsightedly ahead and said: “Let’s go toward that tree over there.”
Following the direction in which she was pointing, Mary could see no tree; but there was a man standing on the grass.
“It’s not a tree, Anne,” said Mary. “It’s a man.”
“Oh no, sister, it’s a tree.”
“It’s a man,” insisted Mary.
Anne turned away and replied: “I’m sure it is a tree.”
“Well, we’ll go and see. I am determined to show you that you are wrong.”
Anne shrugged her shoulders in her lazy way. “Oh, I’m sure it’s a tree. I don’t want to go that way now. Let us go back to the Palace.”
Mary looked reproachfully at her sister. Anne must be taught a lesson, and Mary was going to teach her that she must not make observations and insist that they were true before proving them.
Releasing Anne Trelawny’s arm and taking her sister’s she led her across the grass. As they came near to the object of dispute, it began to walk.
“There,” cried Mary triumphantly. “You cannot doubt now what it is?”
Anne had turned her head and was smiling blandly in the opposite direction. “No, sister,” she said, “I still think it is a tree.”
Exasperated, Mary said: “Oh, Anne, there is no reasoning with you. Let us go back to the Palace.”
As they came within sight of the Palace she forgot to worry about this unfortunate aspect of her sister’s character because she saw the Duke of Monmouth giving his horse to one of the grooms.
A call from Jemmy was always a pleasure.
Monmouth had called on the sisters whom he knew were always pleased to see him. He had thought of a new idea for bringing himself to his father’s notice; not that that was necessary for Charles was always very much aware of him; but Monmouth longed to show how he excelled in all courtly attainments, how much more popular he was than his Uncle James, how much more the people esteemed him than they did his uncle. When Monmouth had first heard that James was to have a young wife he had been angry and depressed. A young wife would probably mean sons, and once a son was born to James, Monmouth’s hopes of being legitimized would completely disappear. It was only while there would be no one to follow James but his two daughters that there was a chance that Parliament would agree to make a male heir by this legitimization; and once the Parliament wished that, Charles, Monmouth was sure, would be very ready—or at least could be easily persuaded—to agree.
Unfortunately James was now married—and to a young and beautiful girl. It was almost certain that there would be issue. Then the bell would toll, signifying the burial of Monmouth’s hopes.
But Jemmy was by nature optimistic and exuberant. He never accepted defeat for long. The marriage was one of the biggest blows to his hopes that could have been given him; and yet almost immediately he began to see a glint of brightness.
The celebrations of the last Fifth of November had been an inspiration to him. Whenever he heard the shout of “No popery” in the streets he rejoiced. James might produce legitimate sons but he was a Catholic and the people showed clearly on every possible occasion that they did not want a Catholic on the throne.
The young Duke of Monmouth had, in the last weeks, become a man deeply interested in matters of religion. He was seen at his devotions frequently; although he continued to live as gaily as anyone at the Court, his conversation was spattered with theological observations. He was ostentatiously Protestant; and already the Protestants were beginning to look on him with great favor.
The seed was being sown. It might not bring forth a good harvest but that was a chance he had to take. Against the Catholic Duke of York, the legitimate successor to the throne of England, there was the Protestant Duke of Monmouth—a bastard it was true, but a little stroke of the pen could alter that.
Perhaps, then, he mused as he made his way to Richmond Palace to ingratiate himself with the Duke’s young daughters, the marriage was not altogether a bad thing. If the young Duchess failed to produce the heir—and he prayed that she would fail to do this—if it were a plain contest between York and Monmouth … well, who could say what the outcome would be? But he must hope there would be no offspring; these young children had a way of worming themselves into the hearts of the people, were they Catholic or Protestant.
He had heard talk too that Charles was thinking of taking the education of Mary and Anne out of their father’s hands since the Catholic marriage. All to the good. Let the people understand that the King was aware of the dangerous influence of Catholicism which had tainted the York branch of the family. It would help them to think more kindly of Protestant Jemmy.
“Hail, cousins,” cried Monmouth, as the sisters hurried to him to be embraced.
“Great news. Can you dance? Can you sing?”
Anne smiled and nodded but Mary replied: “We are not very good, I am afraid, cousin Jemmy.”
“Well, we will soon remedy that. Now listen. I am arranging for a ballet to be performed before His Majesty. How would you like to play parts in it?”
Anne said: “It will be wonderful, Jemmy.”
“But we are not clever enough to perform before His Majesty,” added Mary.
“My father is lenient toward those he loves.” Jemmy, Mary noticed, always referred to the King as “my father,” as though he were afraid people were going to forget the relationship.
“But he does not care to be wearied,” put in Mary sagely. “And I fear that we might do that.”
Monmouth put his head on one side and studied the girls shrewdly. Mary was wise for her age; and there was truth in what she said.
“Suppose,” he suggested, “you danced and recited for me now. Then I could judge whether you were good enough to perform before my father.”
Anne was willing enough. It never occurred to her to worry what people thought of her. If they did not like what she did, she would shrug her shoulders and forget. Mary was different; she hated not to be able to please.
Anne performed carelessly and badly; Mary made too much effort and was equally bad.
“I have an idea,” said Monmouth, “you shall have lessons. Then I think you will be very proficient. I’ve set my heart on your dancing with me before the King. In fact, this has been written with parts for you in mind. So it has to be.”
“Shall we need many lessons, Jemmy?” asked Mary.
“Very many and with the best teachers. Leave this to me.”
It was wonderful, Mary told Anne afterward, to be part of Jemmy’s ballet. Jemmy said that they would be at Court and that it was time they were there.
“I’ve always wanted to go to Court,” Anne answered. “Sarah says we should be there. Sarah would enjoy it … and of course if we were there so would she be.”
“We must do our best to improve our dancing,” said Mary.
“So that we may be invited to go often to Court?” murmured Anne.
“So that we do not disappoint Jemmy,” added Mary.
As a result of Monmouth’s plan, Mrs. Betterton, the principal actress at the King’s Theater, arrived at Richmond in order to instruct Mary, Anne, and their friends on how to speak on a stage, how to walk on to one, how to conduct themselves with grace, charm, and utter na
turalness.
James had readily given his consent to her appointment because he knew how much Charles enjoyed theatrical performances and he thought it a good idea that his daughters should shine before their uncle.
The girls enjoyed their lessons and adored Mrs. Betterton who seemed so gay and amusing to them and made their lessons more of a game than a task.
Mary was happy. Her new stepmother had proved to be a gentle creature who seemed to want to please her as much as she, Mary, wanted to please her stepmother. The grim creature Elizabeth Villiers had tried to conjure up had no likeness to her at all; and it was good to prove Elizabeth wrong. The days when she practised dancing with Jemmy were for her touched with a kind of bliss. Every night when she said her prayers she mentioned Jemmy; she told herself that next to her sister Anne she loved Jemmy; but she was not sure whether, in her secret heart, she did not love him best of all.
He whispered to her that he was going to command John Crowne, the poet, to write a play with a ballet and the principal part should be for her. The part he had chosen for her was that of Calista, a nymph of Diana.
John Crowne was in despair.
He went to the Duke of Monmouth to remonstrate with him.
“My lord, how can I write Calista for the Princess Mary. Have you forgotten that Calista is raped by Jupiter?”
Monmouth laughed. “It will do me good to watch the effect of that on His Grace of York. His dear little daughter raped!”
“Nay, my lord. I would not wish to place myself in jeopardy. The King would not be pleased.”
“You can trust me to put my father in a good mood.”
“Indeed yes, my lord. We know how he dotes on you, but I fear this would not be suitable for a young girl. May I suggest that the rape does not take place, and that Calista succeeds in escaping from Jupiter in time.” He hurried on before Monmouth could protest. “And I could write in a part for the Princess Anne, for I know how the Princess Mary loves her sister to do everything with her. For the younger Princess there will be the part of Calista’s younger sister Nyphe. And for Jupiter …”
Monmouth said sharply: “I have the girl for Jupiter. She will play the part well.”
“Your lordship …”
“Lady Henrietta Wentworth,” said Monmouth smiling. “She will be perfect.”
The proposed play and ballet was being discussed throughout the Court and the King himself had expressed his interest. Jemmy was in charge and Jemmy was probably the best dancer at Court; moreover, Charles was pleased that he was interesting himself in Mary and Anne, who now that they were growing up, would have to take more and more part in Court life. Calista, Charles decided, should provide the Princesses’ introduction to Court.
In Queen Catherine’s apartments, Margaret Blagge, one of the Queen’s maids of honor, was on her knees praying that she might be spared the need to play in Calista. Monmouth had seen her and selected her for the part of Diana the goddess of Chastity. She feared that he was considering the possibility of making an onslaught on her virtue and because he had seen in her one of the few chaste women at his father’s court he would not be satisfied with anyone else to play Diana.
Margaret had been maid of honor to the Duchess of York before her death and after that event had joined the Queen’s household. The laxity of morals practised by those about her made her long to escape from Court. It was not that she wished for life in a convent; she could visualize a future with a husband and children—but away from Court, far, far away.
This revulsion had caused her to find great comfort in seclusion. And now to have been chosen to appear to dance and act before the King—something which she considered immoral in itself—horrified her.
But it was no use protesting. Monmouth insisted. She had refused him what he desired; well, now he would refuse her.
Lady Henrietta Wentworth burst into the apartment—a lovely creature, some years younger than Margaret.
“Why, Margaret, what are you doing? Not on your knees again? And what are you weeping about?”
Margaret stood up. “I am to be Diana in Calista.”
Henrietta smiled. “I can see no reason for mourning. I am to be Jupiter—the bold lover. Do you know I almost rape the Princess Mary. According to Ovid I did, but John Crowne fears the wrath of the Duke of York if aught ill befalls his daughter, so she is going to be allowed to escape me.”
“I would that I could be released from this.”
“Released! My dear Margaret, how many girls do you think would not give all they possessed for your opportunity.”
“Opportunity … to sin!”
“Margaret. What sin is there in dancing?”
“I see it as a sin.”
“You should have been born years ago. You would have enjoyed living under Oliver Cromwell. This Court life is not for you.”
“Then why should I have to take part in it?”
“Because, my dear, in spite of your seriousness, you are very pretty. And the part of chaste Diana was made for you.”
“I have told the Duke that I do not wish to take the part.”
“And what said he?”
“He waved my reluctance aside. He would have none of it.”
“The Duke of Monmouth,” said Henrietta slowly, while a smile touched her lips, “is a man who will always have his way.”
“Not always,” insisted Margaret. “And I cannot play this role. The players are to be most sumptuously clad and covered in jewels. My lord Monmouth must realize that I am not rich. I have no jewels. So therefore he must find someone else to play Diana. I think that will be the answer, don’t you?”
She looked at Henrietta, who did not answer. She was staring into space smiling—her thoughts far away.
Charles summoned his brother and when he arrived told him that he was distressed to have been obliged to come to a certain decision but he believed James would see at once that it was inevitable.
“Since your marriage to your little Catholic, the people have not been pleased with you, James. We may as well face it. You have shown yourself to be too good a Catholic. Even though you don’t profess your Catholicism publicly, all know that you are devout enough in secret. They are complaining that your girls are being brought up to be little Catholics too.”
“But this is not true.”
“Maybe not. But we don’t have to consider what is true but what is being whispered. Whispering can be as damning as the truth. You’ll have to pass over the girls’ education to my jurisdiction, James. There’s no help for it.”
“But they are my daughters.”
“And if neither of us get a son Mary could be Queen and Anne could follow her. It’s for this reason that the people want to see them taken from the care of a Catholic and given a good Reformed preceptor. There’s no help for it, brother. Grin and submit with a good grace. You will see them constantly. It will merely be that I shall put someone in charge of their education.”
“And whom have you in mind?”
“Compton, Bishop of London.”
“Compton. I hate the fellow.”
“A pillar of the Reformed Church, brother; and for that reason I select him. The people will find pleasure in my choice.”
“The people?”
“Yes, brother, they by whom we retain our crown; and unless you have a taste for the wandering life, never let us underestimate their importance.”
James was sad and angry; but there was no help for it. The care of his children was taken from him and given to a man whom he neither liked nor admired.
Elizabeth Villiers was furious because she had not been given a part in Calista although that pushing Sarah Jennings had.
“Why do you think John Crowne has written that part for you?” she asked Mary.
“Jemmy says it is because I should be at Court and this is an introduction.”
Elizabeth blew between her lips. “He wrote the part because until your father has a son you are second in the line of succession and he want
s to be sure of your patronage if ever you are Queen. It is as simple as that.”
“What nonsense!” said Anne Trelawny. “Parts are often written for people. Why shouldn’t the Lady Mary have a part written for her?”
“One doesn’t have to be royal to have a part written for one.” That was Sarah Jennings executing a difficult step. It was obvious that she believed the company would be enchanted by her performance and sooner or later someone would be writing a ballet especially for Sarah Jennings.
One had to smile at Sarah, who clearly believed herself to be the most important person in the schoolroom, for all that she was the most humbly born. The Princess Anne, her constant crony, was beginning to agree with her; and her outrageous conceit baffled Elizabeth Villiers.
The Princess Anne, taking the part of Nyphe, sister to Calista, practised indolently, and looked, Mary thought, very pretty in her costume which set off her round fresh-colored face and chestnut brown hair. Unfortunately the eye complaint which had been troubling her for a long time had had the effect of contracting her lids and this gave her a look of vagueness; but even this was not unattractive because it made her seem helpless, which was appealing. Mary, with her dark hair, long, almond-shaped eyes, and lovely skin was very attractive; no one could doubt that she was a Stuart.
There was great excitement in the Palace when the Princesses and their suite were preparing to leave for Whitehall. Sarah Jennings said that it was the beginning of change; and even Elizabeth Villiers, a little subdued since the coming of Sarah, accepted this. Lady Frances spoke seriously to her daughters. They might not be appearing in the ballet, she reminded them, but any change in the fortunes of the Princesses was a change for them.
Elizabeth Villiers, who was now quite a young woman, was beginning to realize that she had been rather foolish. Sarah Jennings had taught her a lesson. Sarah had chosen the docile Princess Anne for her friend and although she dominated Anne, at the same time made herself so pleasant that the Princess never wanted Sarah to leave her side. Thus Sarah Jennings was becoming more prominent in the circle than any of the others—largely due to her forceful character. It was too late now to ingratiate herself with Mary, for Mary already disliked her heartily; and in any case Mary had chosen Anne Trelawny for her friend.