by Jean Plaidy
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 appe
aling 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 her 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.
He rode to Salisbury.
The shock of the invasion had been too much for him. Everyone else it seemed had been expecting it, except him. He had refused to believe the Dutch had set sail even when his trusted spies told him so; and when the fleet had been scattered he had assured himself that that was the end of the fine dreams of the Prince of Orange!
Now William was actually in England and he was marching to destroy him. At Salisbury James’s nose suddenly began to bleed so violently that he was forced to rest there before joining the army under Churchill at Warminster.
Churchill and Grafton were reckoned to be two of the finest soldiers in England. The Orange would not be able to stand up long against them.
He should be at Warminster now, conferring with Churchill, but must lie on his bed while they tried to stem the bleeding. He could rely on Churchill, who had received great good through Anne, whose great friend was Churchill’s wife, Sarah.
He had good generals; he had his dear daughters on whom he would rely, for nothing would convince him that Mary did not deplore what her husband was doing. It had been an unhappy marriage; Orange had deceived her with Elizabeth Villiers. My dear Mary, he thought, when Orange is my prisoner, when he is no longer in possession of his head, you shall tell your old father of your troubles and he will seek to make you happy.
A messenger to see the king. A messenger from Warminster!
“Show him in. Doubtless he comes from Churchill.”
“Your Majesty, Churchill is no longer at Warminster. He has left with his men …”
“Left? For what destination?”
“Torbay, Your Majesty. He is joining Orange. Grafton is with him. They have gone over to the enemy.”
James lay back on his pillows.
He saw defeat very near.
Churchill gone! Grafton gone! And there was one other. Prince George of Denmark, husband of the Princess Anne, had joined with Churchill and Grafton. They no longer served the King of England but had gone to Orange.
“There is a conspiracy in my army,” said James.
“Sire,” was the answer, “you no longer have an army.”
He must return to London, he must see his daughter at once.
She would comfort him. His dear Anne! Her husband was a traitor, even as Mary’s was; but George had always been a weak fellow, never much use.
In desperation he rode toward his capital. When he had seen Anne his faith would be restored. They would stand together; the people loved her; she was a Protestant as William was; they would prefer to see her on the throne rather than this foreigner who had no right to it while Mary and Anne lived.
But in London came the last defeat.
The Princess Anne had left hurriedly with Lady Churchill.
He knew what this meant; his daughter had deserted him.
So they are both against me, mourned James. My little girls. My Mary! My Anne!
He could see them so vividly—one dark, one fair, and he could recall his delight in them.
Charles had envied him his children and they had brought great joy to his life … when they were children and afterward.
He was a family man; the happiest times of his life, he believed, had not been when he was with his mistresses, but in the center of his family.
My daughters, he mourned, whom I loved with all my heart—and they have placed themselves among my enemies.
Mary Beatrice tried to comfort him.
“They cannot succeed,” she cried. “They are so wrong, so cruel. You are the King.”
“They do not intend that I shall remain so.”
“You think they will make William King? Never! He is not the heir. Even if they will not accept the Prince of Wales, Mary comes before him. She is your daughter. She would never agree to take your place.”
“He will set himself up with Mary. It was for this reason he married her. Would to God I had never allowed the marriage.”
“I am sure Mary will never agree to force you from your throne.”
“Mary is his creature … Anne is against me. I have lost both my daughters.”
“You have your wife,” she told him. “You have your son.”
“I bless the day you came to England.”
She closed her eyes and momentarily thought of it; the fear of this roué whom she had grown to love; the years of jealousy; and she was almost glad that he was brought so low for she was the one who could help him now; his mistresses could give him nothing but passing pleasure; she could give him unfaltering love and devotion.
“What should I do without you?” he asked.
“What should we do without each other?”
She saw that a slip of paper had been pushed under the door and withdrawing herself from his arms went to it.
It was a lampoon about the Prince of Wales having been brought to her bed in a warming pan.
She dropped it to the floor with a cry of distaste. James picked it up and read it.
“We are in danger,” he said. “You and the boy must leave England without delay.”
The Queen and the Prince of Wales had fled to France. Before the end of the year James had followed them. This was success beyond that for which they had dared hope. William was in London, and it would not be long before Mary must join him.
She was afraid.
There was no longer need to pray for William’s safety, the revolution was over. The people had accepted William, although Mary was the Queen. William’s position would d
epend on her, but he had no qualms; nor need he have. All that he desired should be his.
And now Mary must prepare herself for the great ordeal. What would she find on her arrival in England?
She did not want to think too much of it; yet she must make ready.
Elizabeth Villiers would make ready too. She had been calm and self-effacing during the difficult weeks, withdrawing herself from Mary’s society as much as possible. She would of course leave for England when Mary went and both of them could not help wondering what her position would be when she was there.
Would William after the long absence have forgotten his mistress? Mary believed he would; his new responsibilities would be great; and she, Mary, would be the Queen, and he the King, to rule through her grace. He would not forget that; and surely he would not insult the Queen by continuing to keep a mistress?
No, thought Mary, this would be the end of Elizabeth’s influence.
Elizabeth knew otherwise. While he lived, she was certain, he would never do without her.
She, far more than Mary, eagerly awaited the call.
Elizabeth and her sister Anne had not been on good terms since Bentinck had quarreled with William over his treatment of Mary; Anne had of course sided with her husband, which Elizabeth looked upon as treason in the family. They had tried to turn William away from her toward his own wife. She could not forgive that.
She envied Anne her children—there were five of them—and her happy married life; but of course she would not have exchanged her own lot for that of her sister, for although her position was precarious the adventure and ambition involved delighted her.