I thought: she will be different when the child is born.
There were times when I was quite alarmed. She was so enormous. She had always been inclined to be fat, of course. I remembered how she used to sit with our mother, nibbling at the sweetmeats which always seemed to be at her side. She was still the same.
When I remonstrated with her, she shrugged her shoulders.
“It is the baby,” she said. “This one is going to be a giant.”
Anne was very affectionate toward her husband, and he to her. How different from William and me! Of course, George was ineffectual, but how kind and pleasant to everyone. He lacked William’s wisdom; he could never have been a great ruler, but what a charming man he was! And how contented Anne was with her marriage and her babies, who appeared regularly, even though none of them survived.
Yet, at times I believed that Sarah Churchill was more important to her than George. She always liked to have her close. Perhaps she felt with Sarah around she need not bestir herself to talk, for Sarah talked incessantly. She was giving herself special airs, too.
The custom was to distribute honors at a coronation, and this had been done. For instance, Gilbert Burnet had become Bishop of Salisbury and William Bentinck was now the Duke of Portland and John Churchill was the Earl of Marlborough. Sarah was very pleased to be Lady Marlborough and Anne was, of course, delighted by Sarah’s triumph.
It was indeed a close relationship—dominating on Sarah’s side, submissive on Anne’s. I think Sarah ruled Marlborough himself in the same way as she did Anne.
When Anne had chosen the names of Mrs. Morley and Mrs. Freeman for herself and Sarah, she had asked Sarah to choose which she would have and, with a touch of humor I always thought, Sarah chose Mrs. Freeman. Nothing could have been more apt.
Between myself and Sarah there was a certain animosity. There was something in our natures which grated on each other. Sarah, of course, must show a certain respect for the Queen, and naturally she could not offend me openly; but I did wonder whether, in private, she tried to turn Anne’s mind against me.
I traced her dislike back to that incident of the two pages, which had happened while I was in Holland. It was when Anne had taken up her residence in the Cockpit, those apartments which were more or less attached to the Palace of Whitehall and where Lady Castlemaine had once had her lodgings.
There had been a rearrangement of staff and Anne had needed two more pages in her household.
People in special places, as Sarah was, had the privilege of selling positions in those households where it could be advantageous to be installed, and Sarah had succeeded in selling these places for the sum of £1,200, which was very profitable for her; but since these were posts in the household of the Princess Anne, who could inherit the throne one day, the price seemed reasonable enough to the families concerned.
She must have been congratulating herself on the sale, when it was discovered that the two pages were Roman Catholics. This was something which we could not accept, for it was at the time when there was a great deal of feeling working up against King James; and Anne, of course, was said to be a staunch Protestant.
I wrote to Anne and told her that the two pages must be dismissed without delay. This created a difficult situation, for Anne would know of Sarah’s profitable deal and the Churchills were always in need of money and sought to find it wherever they could. But, in view of the gathering storm, there was nothing to be done but dismiss the pages.
Sarah was very reluctant to give up the money, which by right she should refund to the families who had paid it for the posts which were not now theirs. There was a certain amount of bargaining and in the end it was agreed that Sarah should keep £400 and refund the rest.
This had been done and Sarah was very disgruntled. She blamed William and me—first for discovering the religion of the pages, and then for insisting on their removal.
I knew the money was of great importance to Sarah and the loss of £800 would never be forgiven.
I was always conscious of her enmity and I did not trust her.
ANNE’S CHILD WAS NEARLY DUE. The hot weather had come and she was more lethargic than ever. I began to worry about her. She had taken childbearing as she did everything else, and it did not greatly disturb her; and now, in the heat of summer, she just lay about, placidly waiting. I was far more anxious than she was.
She had taken up residence at Hampton Court. She was as fond of the place as I was and I was glad that she appreciated the improvements which William had brought about.
William was often at the palace. He was keeping a watchful eye on events in Ireland and was not very pleased about the support my father was getting there. He talked of it to me a little and said that we must be ready to face James if the need arose.
We often walked in the gardens together. I was very proud of them, having helped to create them. He used to take my arm, instead of my taking his, and I knew it was because he sometimes needed support. He tired easily but would not admit that this was the reason.
I saw looks of amusement on the faces of some of the English, who had not taken to William any more than he had to them. I was taller than William and getting plump. I might seem almost sylphlike when compared with Anne; but it was different when I walked side by side with William.
Sarah said with a smirk: “I saw you and the King walking together … he taking your arm. Such a good example to married people!”
She knew why he took my arm and she wanted to remind me of his relationship with Elizabeth Viliers. Sarah was no friend of mine.
One hot July day, Anne’s baby was born. I had insisted on being with her and I was so relieved when I heard the cry of a child. It was a boy. How pleased everyone would be!
Anne herself was in a state of ecstasy, and I was overjoyed to see her raised out of her indifference. I had not seen Anne, the mother, before, and the state certainly became her.
She looked almost beautiful, peering at the child with her myopic eyes, demanding: “Is he well … every limb of him?”
She was assured that the child was in perfect health and the strength of his voice was like sweet music to us all. A boy! An heir to the throne!
People crowded into the chamber. William was there. George, the father, was highly emotional, proud, delighted, gazing down on his wife and son with adoration in his eyes.
It was a touching and moving scene.
Anne said: “We shall call him William, after the King.”
William looked gratified. I knew he was thinking that the boy had come at the right moment. The people would be pleased. The child would be brought up as a Protestant and he would be heir to the throne. At last there was a Protestant male heir and the menace of King James, now trying to raise an army in Ireland, had receded a little.
This was a very important little boy.
I TOOK IT UPON MYSELF to share in the nursing of my little nephew. Anne was rather weak after her ordeal, and was quite happy to sink back into a state of lethargy. It was a great delight to hold the baby in my arms. He seemed a bright little fellow. William had already created him Duke of Gloucester, and I am sure no child ever had a warmer reception into the world.
However, it was not long before there began to be fears for his health. He grew thin and fretful. Was it going to happen all over again? The familiar pattern, the birth, the hopes that this one would survive, and then the weaknesses which began to show?
It was unbearable to watch little William grow weaker every day. He put on no weight whatsoever and we could not understand what ailed him. Poor Anne was despondent. The others had been stillborn or lived their brief spells. Not little William, too.
We were filled with gloom. The child could not live much longer. Each morning, when I rose, I would say to my women: “How fares the Duke of Gloucester?” and they would have the answer ready, knowing that the question would be asked.
“He is poorly, Your Majesty, but he lives.”
Then one day, when the b
aby was a month old and not expected to live through until September, I was told that a woman was there, who wished to see me most urgently.
“A woman,” I said. “What woman?”
“She is carrying a young child, Your Majesty. A rather big, strong woman.”
“I will see her,” I said.
She was brought to me. She was plainly dressed in a garb I discovered to be that of a Quaker; she had fresh skin, clear eyes and was obviously healthy. She was carrying a plump baby of about the same age as William, but how different this child was from the little Duke. He had smooth round cheeks, and what struck me most was his look of sleek contentment.
She did not bow to me, nor show me the respect due to me, nor did she express any surprise that I had deigned to see her.
In fact, she treated me as a woman like herself.
I said: “Who are you?”
“I am Mrs. Pack,” she told me. “I have come here on an errand of mercy because I believe the young Duke is dying.”
She spoke bluntly and to the point, in a straightforward, honest way which immediately won my respect. She was very different from the sycophantic people who surrounded me and she went on without preamble: “I believe I can save the boy’s life.”
“How?” I demanded. “He is already surrounded by those who seek to do that.”
“It may be that they do not know what is wrong.”
“And you, who have not seen him, do?”
“I would take him to my breast. I would give him of that milk which the good Lord has given me in good plenty that I may save the Duke. A voice came to me in the night telling me what I must do.”
I wondered if she were a little mad, but she did have an air of simple piety about her which impressed me. Moreover, my anxiety about the baby was so great that I could not turn away from the flimsiest hope of saving him.
I said to Mrs. Pack: “Come with me.”
I took her into the room where the baby lay whimpering in his cradle, and to the astonishment of the nurses, I said: “Take up the child, Mrs. Pack, and show me what you can do.”
Mrs. Pack, with simple dignity, laid her own child in the cradle beside little William. She then took him in her arms and, seating herself, undid the buttons of her bodice and gave her breast to him.
There was quietness in the room. I saw the child, his lips at her breast, and I heard him; he was sucking eagerly.
Mrs. Pack sat there, smiling benignly. There was a look of saintliness about her in her simple gray gown and the manner in which she held herself, as though there was nothing unusual about her being in the royal apartments suckling the Duke of Gloucester.
What delighted me was to see the child satisfied, and after he had had his fill, he fell into a deep sleep.
I went along to Anne and told her what had happened. She wanted to see Mrs. Pack without delay, and I took her with me to the nursery where little William was. He looked frail but it was wonderful to see him sleeping quietly.
Anne questioned Mrs. Pack, who responded with that dignity which had already surprised me, and she talked with a lack of self-consciousness, showing that she was not in the least overawed.
Mrs. Pack said that the baby was not getting the milk he needed and that was the reason for his weakness. Her milk was good and wholesome and she had enough for two. She had come on the Lord’s business and she believed she could transform the Duke into a healthy child.
Anne immediately asked Mrs. Pack if she could stay and feed the Duke with her own baby, a proposition which was accepted.
It was extraordinary, but from that day William began to grow stronger. It was a fact that the lower classes seemed to rear their children more easily than royalty. It must be something in the milk. Mrs. Pack’s child was as healthy as any child could be and the Lord or nature had endowed her with enough milk to feed two. It seemed a miracle.
So Mrs. Pack became a member of the household—not always an easy one. I heard she was no respecter of persons. I am sure she had many a tussle with Sarah Churchill, but even that lady’s imperious ways could have little effect on the Quaker, who saw all men and women as equal, and was allowed to act as she pleased since she had saved little William’s life and continued to keep him healthy.
I was as grateful to her as Anne was, and we would allow no one to upset her. I loved my little nephew and greatly regretted that he was not my son. He was growing into a very bright child. Anne adored him and she and George gloated over him together. I was continually sending toys. I was glad he was at Hampton Court because that gave me many opportunities of seeing him. Mrs. Pack continued her reign in the nursery with her child and under her care young William grew stronger every day.
Unfortunately, my relationship with my sister was deteriorating. Anne irritated me more and more. I liked lively conversation and I wanted to be with people who could share in it. In Holland, I had lived in such seclusion that I had been starved of it, but I was not going to allow that to happen here. I was the Queen and I would not be shut away as I had been when I was Princess of Orange. Occasionally I reminded myself that it was I who had allowed William to become the King and not merely my consort as many people thought he should be. I wanted Anne to remember who I was—not too formally, of course, but on occasions, and I thought she should make some effort when I was present.
It was not only her slothfulness. I fancied she sometimes annoyed me deliberately. I suspected that Sarah Churchill encouraged her in this. Sarah was my enemy but I was not going to allow her to poison my sister’s mind against me. I tried to find out what Sarah said to her in secrecy about people, including myself. But Anne, careless as she was about most things, could be sly and secretive if anything was said about Sarah.
I was sure the matter of Richmond Palace had been suggested by Sarah.
Richmond Palace was enshrined in our memories as the home of our childhood—a time when we were ignorant of the misfortunes of life and had believed we were to go on living blissfully forever.
Anne needed a place to live, for she could not stay indefinitely at Hampton. As a princess in line to the throne, and moreover mother of an heir, she needed a home of her own, and Sarah had persuaded her to set her heart on Richmond.
It would be wonderful to go back there, she insisted.
“So healthy for dear little William,” and she was sure her dear sister would put no obstacles in the way of her having it.
As soon as I looked into the matter I knew why Sarah had chosen Richmond.
Sarah had always disliked William. It was she who had given him the name of Caliban all those years ago, and her feelings toward him had not softened. William had commented on Marlborough with typical candor. “A good soldier—one of the best—which is why he holds his position in the army; but a vile man, not to be trusted, not entirely honest. But, for his military skill, he shall retain his position.” And, presumably, be given an earldom, I thought.
I could imagine Sarah’s comments to Anne. William might not have a good opinion of John Churchill, and what sort of opinion did Sarah have of William? Morose, graceless, without courtesy, an oaf … Caliban. True, Churchill had deserted James to support William. That would have been because he saw James’s cause as hopeless. John Churchill was no fool—nor was Sarah. They knew whose side they had to be on—and that was the winning one. But that did not prevent them from criticizing those who did not appreciate the Churchills as they should be.
I soon realized that Sarah had persuaded Anne that Richmond would be an ideal home, because she knew that by asking for it she would be creating an awkward situation.
Madame Puisars, Elizabeth Villiers’s sister, already owned a lease on the palace which had belonged to her mother, Lady Frances Villiers, who had been our governess. When Lady Frances died, she left the lease to her family. Therefore, to allow Anne to take possession would mean evicting Madame Puisars.
I could see that Sarah wanted to call attention to the favors shown to the Villiers family, and so discounte
nance William, and, though his liaison with Elizabeth was not exactly a secret, to bring it into prominence.
I was sure William had other matters with which to concern himself at this time. The news from Ireland was becoming more dis-quietening. My father was rallying men to his side and there were skirmishes between his supporters and those soldiers whom William had stationed there. And now Anne must come along with this trivial matter of Richmond Palace when there were plenty of other places which she could have taken.
“No,” said William, irritated that he should have to give a moment’s thought to such a matter. “The Princess Anne cannot have Richmond Palace. Madame Puisars already has the lease and there is nothing to be done about it.”
Anne was sulky. Nobody cared for her, she said. She was thrust aside … of no importance. Other people … the Villiers family … came before her.
“I wonder you allow this,” she said to me.
There was a faint smile about her lips. What did Sarah Churchill say to her during their cozy chats? They would talk of the meek Queen who submitted to her husband’s tyranny and even accepted his infidelity without complaint. They knew full well how many other queens had done this. Anne had the example of our own father and uncle. I could imagine Sarah saying, that was different. Their husbands had at least treated them with courtesy. They did not behave like Dutch boors; and those queens were not queens regnant married to a king who was so only because of his wife’s good graces toward him.
And so the rift between myself and my sister widened, and there was a new cause for it. This time it was money.
When we had arrived in England, Anne had been receiving an annuity of £30,000 a year as a marriage settlement; and when the Duke of Gloucester had been born Anne had asked for this sum to be raised to £70,000. Nothing had come of that.
Now, to our amazement, the question had been raised in Parliament. This could only have happened if Anne and her friends—whom I suspected were the Marlboroughs—had instigated this.
Jean Plaidy - [Queens of England 10] Page 24