by Jean Plaidy
Elizabeth Villiers therefore decided that she must be more cautious now; because once Mary was in command of her own household she would certainly dismiss those whom she had no reason to love. But although Elizabeth grew more pleasant, her hatred had not diminished at all, and secretly she greatly enjoyed seeing Mary discomfited.
Riding to Whitehall from Richmond was in itself an adventure. The people came out to cheer the little cavalcade because they already knew that the King had taken the girls’ education under his care and that the Protestant Bishop of London was in charge of them. That the Bishop was no scholar was unimportant; he was a Protestant and in view of their father’s unfortunate leanings those poor children were in need of protection.
Moreover, the fact that Charles was having the girls brought up in the Protestant religion could mean that the evil rumors concerning his own convictions were false. This conjecture gave pleasure to the people.
Arriving at Court, the Princesses were warmly welcomed by all. And what a gay and colorful scene it was! Everyone wanted to do honor to the girls and sought ways of pleasing them—their father and stepmother, the gentle kindly Queen, Jemmy, and their benign and witty Uncle, Charles, the King himself.
Mary in the shimmering dress in which she was to play Calista was both nervous and exalted. She was so anxious to please her father, who wanted her to be a success at Court, but feared that she might disappoint him. When she confided these fears to Jemmy, he laughed at her.
“Why, cousin,” he said, “you look so beautiful that my father and his Court would forgive you however badly you danced. But you won’t dance badly. You’ll enchant them all.”
Jemmy kissed her lightly on the forehead; and she thought earnestly: I must not fail. I must not disappoint Jemmy.
Anne suffered no such qualms. She would do her part and if she was a failure, well then, it would soon be forgotten. Sarah had said so and Sarah was invariably right. All the same Sarah was determined to make a success of Mercury; and Sarah knew she would.
When they were preparing to go on to the stage they were joined by Margaret Blagge and Henrietta Wentworth, the latter radiant in contrast to her companion.
Mary attempted to comfort Margaret.
“Why,” she said, “you look very beautiful. I am sure everyone will say you are a perfect Diana. Your dress is so lovely. What brilliant stones.”
Margaret said: “They terrify me. I had no diamonds to wear and the Duke induced the Countess of Suffolk to lend me these.”
“They become her well do they not?” asked Henrietta.
“So well,” said Mary, “that everyone’s eyes will be upon her.”
Margaret shivered.
“Oh, come,” said Henrietta impatiently, “there is no harm in dancing.”
“I prefer not to,” replied Margaret.
“Is she not foolish, my lady Mary?” asked Henrietta. “Here she has a chance to look beautiful in all those diamonds, to dance before the King and she is ungrateful.”
“I am sorry,” said Mary earnestly.
“You are very good.”
“Nonsense,” cried Henrietta. “This is meant to make everyone happy and surely that is good. You must smile as a compliment to the lady Mary. This is her ballet.”
“You alarm me,” murmured Mary. “I feel everything depends on me.”
“There is no need to fear,” Henrietta soothed her. “Jemmy will be supporting you. He will look after you and see that all is well.”
“I am so grateful to dear Jemmy.”
“As we all are,” added Henrietta.
They turned, for a girl had come into the room.
“I wondered,” she said, “if I could be of help.”
“We can do with help, Frances,” replied Henrietta.
Frances Apsley, maid of honor to Queen Catherine, seeing the Princess, made a deep curtsy. Mary felt a sudden excitement for she had never seen anyone so beautiful and wanted to keep looking at her; the lovely dark eyes were serene; the beautifully shaped head so gracefully bowed, the smooth dark hair so shining; the expression kindly and intelligent.
“My lady,” said Henrietta, “this is Frances Apsley.”
Mary said: “I am pleased to make your acquaintance.”
“It would be an honor to serve you,” answered Frances.
They stood smiling, each completely conscious of the other’s charm.
“Margaret is never satisfied,” Henrietta was saying. “She is complaining that she has one of the best parts in the ballet and is laden with diamonds.”
Margaret was speaking in response to Henrietta’s taunts, but neither Mary nor Frances Apsley were listening.
How frightened Mary was when she stood before them all. They applauded her kindly; she saw her father looking anxious on her behalf, seated near her uncle. He was kind and she wished that she could love him as he loved her. There were times when she did love him dearly as now; but she could never forget the rumors she had heard of him. She did not fully understand his relationship with those women who had caused her mother so much anxiety; but she imagined what took place between them; it was vague and horrible and she tried to shut her mind to it; but there were occasions when pictures crept in unbidden.
Then she noticed Frances Apsley watching her intently. Their eyes met and Frances smiled.
“She wants me to succeed,” thought Mary. “She will be unhappy if I do not.”
Mary was determined then to dance as she never had before.
The music had begun and her legs felt heavy; but there was Jemmy smiling and whispering: “Come on. It’s only a game after all.”
And then because of Jemmy, Frances Apsley, and her father, it became the fun it had been when they had practised at Richmond and she danced as well as she ever had.
She was delighted to see Margaret Blagge’s success. She looked so beautiful in her shimmering dress—the perfect Diana. Surely, thought Mary, she must be enjoying the approval of the spectators.
Sarah Jennings tried to get nearer to the audience that she might be noticed; as for Anne, she performed with a carelessness which everyone seemed to find amusing.
Dryden’s epilogue was read and they all knew that the ballet had been a success. The King was delighted—particularly with his nieces; he saw this for an excellent beginning of Court life for them.
James was almost in tears; nothing could have given him greater pleasure than the success of his daughters. The King declared that such shimmering talents must not be hidden when he congratulated John Crowne, Mr. Dryden, his nieces, Jemmy, and all the dancers.
In the dressing room where the company had prepared themselves, Mary found Margaret Blagge in great distress.
“I was wearing it about my neck when the ballet began. I cannot understand it. How could I have lost it?”
Mary asked to know what and when Margaret replied that it was Lady Suffolk’s diamond, she was horrified.
“But it must be on the stage.”
“I have searched everywhere. Oh, my lady Mary, what shall I do? It is worth eighty pounds. I cannot replace it. I don’t possess eighty pounds. What shall I do? No one will ever trust me again. And to think I tried so hard not to borrow it. This is a judgement. I knew it was sinful.”
To see the lovely maid of honor so distressed, upset Mary. It seemed to her a terrible calamity to have borrowed a valuable diamond against one’s will and then to have lost it.
“No one will ever trust me again,” sobbed Margaret.
“We must look everywhere you have been.”
“They have already done so. My maids have looked. I have looked. There is no sign of it. I daren’t tell Lady Suffolk.”
“Are you sure you’ve looked everywhere?” asked Mary.
“I … I think so.”
“I will look. I am rather good at finding things. It is big enough and it sparkles so, it ought not to be difficult to find.”
“That’s why I greatly fear that someone has found it and kept it.”
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“Oh, poor Margaret. I will look and if I can’t find it perhaps I could ask my father what is the best thing to do.”
“Lady Suffolk will never forgive me, I know. I shall have to replace it and I don’t see how I can.”
Mary went off purposefully; she would search in every place where they had been.
She made her way to the stage, passing the anterooms on the way; she wondered whether Margaret had gone into any of these and forgotten. Mary would search every one because she could not bear to see lovely Margaret so unhappy.
She searched the first of these without success, and went to another. There was no light in this room except that which came through the window, but there was a full moon. She hesitated. Would it be possible to find the diamond in this light? It was big and sparkled, so perhaps it would be visible. She would take a good look and then perhaps call for candles. She heard a sound and knew at once that she was not alone. Someone else had come to this room.
She was about to say that she was looking for a lost diamond when, her eyes having become accustomed to the light, she saw them, and recognition was instantaneous. It was Jemmy and Henrietta Wentworth, and she knew what they were doing.
She stood for a few seconds and then ran from the room.
Jemmy and Henrietta! But Jemmy was married.
She was shocked and horrified: and there was some new emotion too which she had not experienced before. She was not sure what it was; she only knew that she had been fond of Jemmy, and was horrified that he could so betray his wife.
She ran out of the room and on to the stage. How foolish of her, for the hall was crowded and she would be seen.
“Is anything wrong?”
Mary turned round; she was looking into the lovely face of Frances Apsley.
“So … it is you,” stammered Mary.
“You seem distressed, my lady.”
“Yes … yes … I believe I am.”
“If I could help you …”
“I do not know.”
“If you feel that you could confide in me …”
“Yes, perhaps I could.”
Frances Apsley took Mary’s hand and led her into an anteroom, similar to that in which Mary had seen Jemmy and Henrietta Wentworth, but this one was lighted.
“There, let us sit down.”
They sat in one of the window seats and Mary leaned against Frances and felt comforted.
“I don’t think I can tell you,” she said. “It was … disgusting. It was someone I know.”
“I think I understand.”
“Do you? But that is clever of you.”
Frances smiled. “I am a good deal older than you.”
“I am eleven,” said Mary.
“That makes me nine years older than you.”
“You are very wise and beautiful.”
Frances laughed. “I think you may not be very discriminating.”
“I only know,” said Mary, “that when I saw you I knew that I had never seen anyone so beautiful.”
“When you come to Court you will meet many beautiful people.”
“Perhaps,” said Mary. “But when I see perfection I know it. I am so honored that you spoke to me. Do you know, that does not seem important any more.”
“I am glad. I am sure it was not of any great importance.”
“No. It is only when things like that happen to people of whom one is very fond … And I was fond of …”
Frances laid a hand over that of the Princess. “Don’t think of it. It is best forgotten.”
“Meeting you has made it seem unimportant. Your name is Frances. I think it is a lovely name—but not lovely enough for you, of course. I want to go on talking to forget that. Do you understand?”
“Yes,” said Frances, “I understand. Let us talk of the ballet. You danced beautifully, and of course you were the center of the play. Diana was charming.”
“Oh, that reminds me. She is so distressed. I was looking for it when …” Mary turned to Frances. “You are so wise. Perhaps you can help me comfort her. Margaret Blagge has lost a diamond which belonged to Lady Suffolk, and she is terrified because she is afraid she will have to replace it and she is not rich.”
“It will likely be found.”
“Yes, Frances, but if it is not? Poor Margaret is almost ill with grief. You see she did not want to dance in the ballet because she thinks dancing sinful, and she did not want to borrow the diamonds. It is very sad.”
Mary’s long dark eyes were expectant as she lifted them to the face of her new friend.
“Have you told your father?” asked Frances. “He might be able to help.”
“Do you think he would?”
“I am sure that if you asked him he would want to do it … just to please you.”
“You are right, Frances. Oh how clever you are. Let us go to him at once.”
“You wish me to come?”
“Yes, I want to show him that I have a new friend. He will be so delighted that I have found you.”
Frances laughed. “I do not think so,” she said.
“But you are wrong. He wants me to be happy. He loves me very much and I …”
She frowned. She did love him; if only she did not have to imagine … what she had seen this night with Jemmy!
She hated it. It was degrading and humiliating. But she would not think of her father and Jemmy. She had a new friend—Frances Apsley—and their relationship would never be sullied by degrading actions.
“Let us find my father,” she said. “I will ask him, because I cannot bear that Margaret should be so unhappy.”
The Duke of York was in the company of a handsome woman but when he saw his daughter coming toward him he turned from her.
“Something is wrong, my dearest?” he said.
“Father, I wish to speak to you. Frances thinks you may be able to help us.”
James smiled at the young maid of honor whom he knew slightly, she curtsied and he led them out of the hall.
“Now, tell me what is wrong,” he said, when he had shut a door and they were in that anteroom which Frances and Mary had just left, and Mary explained how Margaret had been forced to act against her conscience and not only dance but borrow diamonds, one of which she had lost.
“And what sort of a diamond is this?” asked James.
“It is worth eighty pounds.”
James touched his daughter’s cheeks lightly with the tips of his fingers. “Well, sweetheart, that does not seem such a mighty sum. What if I promise to find a diamond to replace this one—that’s if it cannot be found.”
“You mean that you will give it to Margaret so that it need not be known that she has lost one?”
“If that would please you.”
“It pleases me very much.”
“Then so shall it be.”
Mary smiled shyly from her father to Frances Apsley. “This is a very happy night,” she said.
“That night,” wrote Mary to her new friend, “was the most important in my life because in it I met you.”
Everything had changed. Not only were she and her sister frequently at Court, not only were they present at Court functions, but Mary was soon deep in a new and exciting friendship.
Frances filled her thoughts; when she was with Frances that seemed to her the greatest happiness in the world. She adored Frances—the way she walked, talked, looked. Life was suddenly full of pleasure for she had a friend such as she had never had before; and the love she felt for her sister Anne was a mild affection compared with the passionate devotion Frances inspired.
Everyone at Court was ready to be charming to the Princess Mary. The King had no legitimate heirs and until the Duke of York produced a son, Mary could well be the future Queen: it was known that the King had a special interest in his nieces and that meant that all those who were ambitious should share this.
The girls remained at Richmond Palace under the care of Lady Frances Villiers, but Henry Compton, whom the King had appo
inted as Governor of their studies, did not greatly care whether they studied or not. Mary, who since the days when she had wished to please her father had developed an interest in knowledge, continued to work hard, but Anne rarely looked at her books.
“My head aches,” she would say. “And my eyes are watering.”
Anne’s eyes were her excuse to be lazy. But she was so good tempered that no one minded; and she continued to use her affliction whenever she wanted to escape from something which bored her. The new life suited her admirably. To be petted, to be continually given presents of sweetmeats (for her weakness was now becoming well known) to be often at Court, to spend her evenings with the cards, a dish of sweets beside her, to be constantly in the company of her dear friend Sarah and sister Mary, what more could she ask from life?
Mary might study French with Pierre de Laine until she became proficient. Anne would listen to her sister reading in that language and clap her plump hands.
“My darling sister, you are so clever. It does me good to hear you. I wish I were more like you.”
“You could learn as easily.”
Anne laughed. “Oh, it would strain my eyes. And I could never be as clever as you, my dearest.”
“You are lazy,” Mary would say in the indulgent voice she had used to her sister when they were children; and Anne would merely laugh.
“One clever daughter is enough for Papa.”
Sometimes Anne would attempt to draw, for she had a certain talent. The Princess’s drawing teacher, Mr. Gibson, who was a dwarf, did all he could to encourage her; and often she would sit with her sister lightly sketching. Mrs. Gibson helped her husband in teaching art for she too was an artist; and together these little people were one of the wonders of the Court for they had produced nine ordinary sized children. Gibson had belonged to Queen Henrietta-Maria before his marriage and was a specially privileged person in the household.