The Three Crowns epub

by Jean Plaidy

  She had laughed aloud. “Oh, William, it is not noticeable yet.”

  His mouth had tightened. He was shocked by open reference to a delicate matter. She knew he was asking himself what he could expect of one who had been brought up so close to the licentious English Court.

  “I trust you are taking good care.”

  “The greatest,” she answered fervently.

  He glanced sideways at her and there was something in the look which pleased her. She knew that she was beautiful; her dark hair was abundant and she wore it after the fashion which was prevalent at Versailles—drawn away from her face with a thick dark curl hanging over her shoulder. It suited her; and her almond-shaped eyes were softer because they were myopic; her shortsightedness gave her a look of helplessness which was appealingly feminine. She was growing plump and her white shoulders were rounded. She had changed a good deal from the young girl he had brought to Holland.

  But she seemed to displease him and she wondered why. She did not know that he could never forget her rejection of him in the beginning, that he was constantly wondering what would happen if she attained the throne, and whether she and the English would refuse to let him take precedence. That was very important to him. There was one other matter which disturbed him. As a husband he was deceiving her. He had taken a mistress from among her very maids of honor, and this troubled his Calvinistic soul; but he could not give up Elizabeth Villiers. He had believed it would be a brief affair—to be quickly forgotten; but this was not so. Elizabeth was no ordinary woman; she fascinated him completely. He talked to her of his ambitions and she listened; not only did she listen but she talked intelligently. She made it her affair to study that which was important to him. She was edging her way into his life so that he felt as strongly for her as he did for Bentinck. For the friend who had saved his life he had a passionate devotion; the strength of his feelings for the young man had on occasions alarmed him; that was another blessing Elizabeth had brought to him. She had shown him that while he was not a man who greatly needed women, he was a normal man.

  He could not do without Elizabeth and every time he saw his wife he wished fervently that Elizabeth Villiers had been the heiress of England and the sentimental over-emotional young girl her maid of honor.

  But now that his wife had conceived he need not often share her bed; and since she was clearly trying to please him he was disliking her less.

  Once she had given him a son—a William of Orange like himself—there would be a bond between them and he would forgive her her childishness.

  Yet his conscience disturbed him and for that reason he felt more critical of her; he was constantly looking for reasons why he should have taken a mistress. He had to justify himself not only to those who might guess his secret, but to himself.

  But that morning in the gardens they had seemed to come a little closer.

  She asked him to show her the part he had planned and he did so with a mild pleasure. She was ecstatic in her praise—too fulsome. He waved it aside and she said pleadingly: “William, after the child is born, may I plan a garden?”

  “I see no harm in it,” was his gruff reply; but he was rather pleased to show her the crystal rose he had planted himself; and then he took her to the music tree.

  The ladies exchanged glances.

  “Caliban is a little more gracious today,” whispered Anne Trelawny.

  “Caliban could never be gracious,” replied Lady Betty Selbourne. “He could only be a little less harsh.”

  “My darling Princess. How does she endure it!” sighed Anne.

  Elizabeth was aware of them and she was a little uneasy. When she became a mother Mary would inevitably become more adult; she was beautiful, something which Elizabeth never could be. But she was a little fool—an over-emotional, sentimental little fool, and Elizabeth Villiers assured herself she need never worry unduly about her.

  Both Mary and Elizabeth were thinking of that morning in the gardens and neither were listening to the book.

  Mary put a hand to her forehead and said suddenly: “This puts too big a tax on my eyes. Have done. I will walk in the gardens for a while.”

  Anne Trelawny shut the book; Lady Betty took the miniature from her mistress and laid it on a table; and the Princess went to the window to look out on the garden, so green and promising on that bright April day.

  But as she stood at the window she gave a sudden cry and doubled up with pain.

  Anne Trelawny was at her side at once. “My lady …”

  “I know not what is happening to me …” said Mary piteously, and she would have fallen to the floor had not Anne caught her.

  She lay in bed, pale and exhausted. Throughout the Palace they were saying that she might die.

  She had lost the child but she did not know this yet. No one could account for the tragedy, except that some perversity of fate often decreed it to be difficult for royal people who needed heirs to get them.

  Her ladies waited on her, each wondering what the future held. Elizabeth Villiers could not stay in Holland if her mistress died. But could she? Was her position strong enough? She did not believe the Prince would lightly give her up. Jane Wroth was wondering what she would do if parted from Zuylestein; Anne Villiers was thinking of William Bentinck.

  Only Anne Trelawny was wholeheartedly concerned with her mistress.

  It is his fault, Anne told herself. He has never treated her well. He has neglected her and been cruel to her.

  She went to Dr. Hooper, the Princess’s chaplain, and together they discussed the Prince’s cruel treatment of the Princess.

  “It is his harshness which has made her ill,” insisted Anne. “Every day he makes her cry over something.”

  “It is no way to treat a Stuart Princess,” agreed Dr. Hooper. “I doubt her father would allow this to go unremarked, if he knew.”

  When Mary recovered a little the Prince came to see her. She looked at him apologetically from her pillows. His expression was cold and it was clear that he blamed her.

  She had behaved with some lack of propriety; she had not taken enough care of this precious infant.

  When he had gone Mary wept silently into her pillows.

  William showed the letter he had received to Bentinck; and there was a cold anger in his eyes.

  Bentinck read: “I was very sorry to find by the letters of this day from Holland that my daughter has miscarried; pray let her be carefuller of herself another time; I will write to her to the same purpose.”

  Bentinck looked up at his friend. “His Grace of York?”

  “Suggesting that I do not take care of his precious daughter. He is insolent. He never liked me. He was always against the marriage. A foolish man.”

  “I am in agreement,” added Bentinck.

  William’s eyes narrowed. “He grows more and more unpopular in England as he reveals himself as a papist.”

  “The people of England will never accept a Catholic monarch.”

  “Never,” said William. “Bentinck, what do you think will happen when Charles dies?”

  “If the people of England will not accept James …”

  “A papist! They won’t have a papist!”

  “He is the rightful heir … the next in succession. The people of England want no papist … at least the majority do not … but they have a great feeling for law and order.”

  William nodded. “Ah, well, we shall see. But in the meantime I do not care to receive instructions from my fool of a father-in-law.”

  “Your Highness should ignore him. There is no need to do aught else.”

  William nodded. He slipped his arm through that of Bentinck and gave one of his rare smiles. Bentinck was a comfort to him, a friend on whom he could rely completely.

  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 rea
son 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.”