by Jean Plaidy
Her husband had deserted him—but he was a weak fellow and never of much account. It would be different with Anne. When he was with his daughter he would be rejuvenated; together they would stand against his enemies.
As he came near to London he said: “I shall go first to the Queen and then to the Cockpit.”
He found Mary Beatrice in a state of great anxiety and terror that the mob would rise against her as they had when they believed she had abducted the Princess.
Unceremoniously she threw herself into her husband’s arms and wept while she embraced him and told him how happy she was to see him alive.
“We are surrounded by traitors,” she informed him.
“All will be well,” he replied. “I am going to see Anne and we will talk of this together.”
“Anne!” cried Mary Beatrice. “Did you not know then?”
“Know?” The fear was obvious in his voice and eyes.
“She has gone, like all the others,” said Mary Beatrice passionately. “She like all the others is against you.” He stared at her and she went on passionately: “You don’t believe it. You have blinded yourself. She and Sarah Churchill have long been your enemies. They are for Mary and Orange. She has forgotten her father because she does not want my son to have the crown which she hopes one day will be hers.”
“It cannot be true,” whispered James.
“Is it not? She has flown from the Cockpit. She has gone to join her husband, she says. She has gone to join them. She is against us as Mary is … as William is.”
James sank on to a stool and looked at his boots; then slowly the tears began to form in his eyes.
“God help me,” he said, “my own children have forsaken me.”
The conflict was over; it had been a bloodless revolution. A victory for Protestant England against the intrusion of Catholicism.
William of Orange had ridden to St. James’s Palace in a closed carriage. It was true it was raining but crowds had gathered expecting a little display; and there was William, with his long twisted nose, his great periwig that seemed too big for his little body, his stooping shoulders, his pale cold face. Not a King to please the English. How different from his merry Uncle Charles who on his Restoration had seemed all that a merry monarch of a merry country should be. But William was a Protestant and religion was more important than merrymaking; and in any case it was his wife Mary who was to be their Queen.
Mary Beatrice had escaped to France with the little boy who was called the Prince of Wales by James’s supporters, known as the “Jacks,” or Jacobites; but there were many who preferred to believe that the child had been introduced into the Queen’s bed by means of a warming-pan.
Anne had joined Prince George in Oxford where the people made much of them and called Anne the heiress to the throne. James had left Whitehall by means of a secret passage and had made his way to Sheerness where he intended to take a boat to France and join his wife and son; but he was captured and brought back to Whitehall.
The position was a delicate one. James had friends in London and even those who had been against him were moved to pity because his daughters had deserted him. He was a prisoner but on the orders of Orange, who was eager to avoid direct conflict, many opportunities were given him to escape.
James took advantage of this.
Only when James was sent out of London did Anne return with Sarah and Prince George.
The people came out into the streets to welcome the Princess who was so much more to their liking than grim William. Having no idea of the intrigues which had gone on at the Cockpit they declared their pity for her—poor lady to be torn between her duty to her father and to her religion. She had chosen rightly though and they were glad of it. This was the end of James; and the fear of Catholicism was over.
James meanwhile had been taken to Rochester, but his guards had had secret instructions to allow him to escape if possible. His wife and son were in France; William of Orange would be pleased if he were to join them there because he foresaw awkward complications if James stayed in England.
James acted as William had believed he would; he left Rochester under cover of darkness and a few days later landed safely in France where Louis XIV, implacable enemy of William of Orange, was delighted to give him sanctuary.
Sarah stood beside her mistress and they gazed at their reflections in the mirror. Sarah looked handsome, her lovely golden hair, her best feature, was decked with orange ribbons.
“Now, Mrs. Morley,” she said, “I shall do the same for you.”
Anne, whose childish passion for sharing pleasures was one of her most pronounced characteristics, expressed her delight.
“These ribbons are most becoming,” went on Sarah.
“They are to my dear Mrs. Freeman, but I fear poor Morley is not as handsome.”
“Nonsense,” said Sarah, but she smiled complacently at her reflection.
Sarah was delighted. This was not the end of a campaign; it was only the beginning.
The first battle was won. There was no longer a King James II; there would soon be a Mary II; and Mary had no children, so this fat young woman with the mild expression was the heir presumptive to the throne.
“So you like that, Mrs. Morley? I think it most becoming.”
“Then I am sure my dear Mrs. Freeman is right.”
Indeed it was the beginning.
“Let us go to the coach, now,” said Sarah.
Anne rose obediently.
So while James II battled against the seas on his perilous escape to France, his daughter Anne, in the company of Sarah Churchill, attended the playhouse—both resplendent in orange ribbons.
THE UNEASY CORONATION
illiam of Orange, riding in his closed carriage through the streets of London, was disturbed. The conquest had been too simple. Perhaps if there had been battles to be faced and won he would not have felt this depression; but here he was, come to England to preserve the land for Protestantism, and he was not even sure that he would be accepted as its King.
William was a Stuart on his mother’s side, but he had inherited little of that family’s characteristics. The Stuarts were, on the whole, if not handsome, a fascinating family. William had none of those superficial attractions and he was well aware of it. Short, slightly deformed, a sufferer from asthma, tormented by a hacking cough which worried him at awkward moments, he was aware of his disabilities. He never felt happy except on horseback and when owing to the shortness of his legs he looked nearer to the normal size. His expression was sour, his nose long and crooked; and his huge periwig gave him the appearance of being top heavy. Not a figure likely to find favor with the English who remembered gay Charles, tall, dark, and ugly though he might be, possessed of such charm that he made his subjects love his faults more than they would have loved another’s virtues. James had been unpopular but he was personable; he had dignity, and his numerous love affairs had proved that he was a man.
How different was William. He would have brought an uneasy reminder of Oliver Cromwell but for the fact that he had a mistress. There had been a certain amount of gossip about Elizabeth Villiers to whom he had been faithful for years. When a man had one mistress for some odd reason that seemed a slight to his wife; it was different when, like Charles and James, he had many.
William was wondering what sort of a reception he would receive. He knew that the people had rejected James and were accepting him. But were they accepting him, or was it Mary?
He had long had his eyes on this crown: England, Scotland, and Ireland. To be ruler of these three kingdoms was a higher position than mere Stadtholder of Holland. But would they accept him as their King? They would have to if he were to remain, for he would be no Consort. But it was Mary who was heiress to the throne.
So he was uncertain about his future. He was uncertain too about his private life. His was a strange complex character and perhaps this was because of his physical disabilities. He longed to be a great hero, a fighter of causes, a
worthy ancestor of William the Silent. He was a courageous soldier; he was an astute ruler; this he had proved. But he was lacking in the qualities he most longed to possess.
Beside him now was Bentinck—his dearest Bentinck—his first minister who had saved his life by nursing him through the small pox years ago before his marriage. When the disease had been at its most virulent Bentinck had slept in his bed because he believed—as many did—that by sleeping in the bed of a sufferer at such a time it was certain that one would catch the disease and so reduce the severity of the attack. Bentinck had caught the small pox, had come near to death himself; and by a mercy they had both recovered. That was devotion; that was love.
Love? He loved Bentinck and Bentinck loved him; and for neither of them would there be another love such as that they bore each other.
This was uneasy knowledge. Bentinck had married; his wife had died only a week or so ago, but Bentinck had not been at her bedside, because his first duty was to his master. She had left five children, and Bentinck was sad now, but a wife could not mean to him what his master did—nor could any woman take Bentinck’s place with William.
Bentinck had married Anne Villiers and William had taken for his mistress her elder sister Elizabeth. This made an odd kinship between them. For Elizabeth, William had a love he could not give to Mary, and this could be set beside Bentinck’s devotion to his wife. Anne had been docile, devoted to her husband and Bentinck would miss her. Elizabeth was shrewd and clever and the cast in her eyes seemed attractive to William because it was in a sense a deformity.
Their relationships were complicated; but at the center of it all was William’s love for Bentinck; his interest in members of his own sex which was always greater than what he felt for the opposite one, except in the case of Elizabeth.
His relationship with his wife had always been an uncomfortable one for him. Mary was different in every way from himself; she had been brought up in the merry wicked Court of England where people made no attempt to hide their affections. She had infuriated him at the beginning of their acquaintance by weeping copiously when she had heard he was to be her bridegroom—and not in secret either. She had received congratulations with red eyes and an expression of woe which had made him more sullen and uncouth than ever, so that the English had said what an unsatisfactory lover he was, and he knew that in some quarters he had been called Caliban and the Dutch Monster.
And it was Mary’s fault, for had she been gracious he would have been, and the people of England would have had an entirely different notion of him.
And all the years of their uneasy marriage he had wondered what her attitude would be when she were Queen of England. To what position would he be assigned? Recently, thanks to the tact of Dr. Burnet who had visited them in Holland, he had discovered that Mary had no intention of not sharing her crown with him. Like the dutiful wife he had forced her to become she had declared that it was always a wife’s duty to obey her husband.
Very gratifying, but what of the people of England?
In the Upper and Lower Houses of Parliament fierce debates were in progress.
William was aware of this and was angry. He had come from Holland to save this country from papist rule and because he had come James was deposed; yet they were asking themselves whether or not they would have him.
Some were suggesting that Mary should be proclaimed Regent because they did not care to see the line of succession tampered with. Mary Regent for how long? Until the Prince of Wales was of an age to return?
Others were for making Mary Queen of England and William Consort; and that was something to which William would never agree.
Some had suggested that William should be King, for after all he was the next male in the line of succession; but there was great opposition to this. In spite of his English mother he was a Dutchman, and there were two English princesses who came before him.
Lord Danby, who hoped that if he showed his support for Mary, she would make him her chief adviser when she arrived in England, wrote to her, giving her accounts of all that was happening.
“It is my desire,” he told her, “to set you on the throne alone and I do not doubt that I shall do this.”
So confident was Danby that the Queen would be delighted with his endeavors and so certain was he that he could persuade the rest of the ministers to follow him, that he summoned a further meeting to which he invited William.
On receiving the invitation William sent for Bentinck.
“What do you think of this?” he asked.
“They are going to put some proposition before you.”
“I have no intention of going to hear it. I find it most undignified. I shall remain aloof.”
Bentinck nodded. “It is better so. I believe Danby is going to suggest that the Princess of Orange shall be the sole sovereign.”
William’s lips tightened almost imperceptibly, but Bentinck who knew his beloved friend and master well was aware of the change of expression.
“I shall never be my wife’s gentleman usher!” said William furiously.
“You may rely on me to make that plain.”
So it was Bentinck who attended the meeting on behalf of his master and he made it clear to the assembly that their terms were unacceptable to William.
Danby was furious.
“The only proposition which would be acceptable to my master,” Bentinck explained, “would be a conjunctive sovereignty, and then there would be a condition that he should have sole administration of affairs.”
Danby said there was no point in continuing with the meeting.
But when he received Mary’s reply he was taken aback.
“I am the Prince’s wife,” she wrote, “and would never be other than what should be in conjunction with him; I shall take it extremely unkindly, if any, under pretence of their care for me, should set up a divided interest between me and the Prince.”
Mary sent a copy of this letter to William and when he read it he smiled in triumph. He had known he could rely on her; he had subdued her completely; he had made that shuddering bride into a docile wife.
He showed the letter to Bentinck. “Now I think,” he said, “we can afford to take the strong line and I will see them. Summon them and tell them that I will make my feelings clear to them.”
And when they came he looked at them coldly and there was disdain in his expression for that which they treasured so highly and for which they thought he yearned. He was going to show them the contrary.
“I think it proper to let you know,” he said, “that I will accept no dignity dependent on the life of another. I will not oppose the Princess’s right; I respect her virtues; none knows them better than I do. Crowns to others may have charms, but I will hold no power dependent on the will of a woman. Therefore if your schemes are adopted, I can give you no assistance in the settlement of the nation, but will return to my own country.”
They were dumbfounded. Was this a monstrous piece of bluff? They could not believe he was ready to throw away so much merely because he was not offered the supreme prize. But what would happen if he returned to Holland? Chaos! James’s friends might even ask him to return.
They talked together for a while and they dared not call his bluff because they had seen Mary’s reply to Danby’s suggestion. What if William returned to Holland, would Mary come to England? Would she leave a husband for whom she had such a regard? William of Orange had proved himself to be an astute ruler. He had strengthened his country and made her of importance in the world. England needed Dutch William unless they preferred to be saddled with Catholic James.
“Nobody knows what to do with him,” was the comment, “but nobody knows what to do without him.”
Danby said: “This is a sick man. He cannot live long. Let us give him what he wants. Then when he is dead Mary will be our Sovereign. She will not interfere, for if she is docile to him so will she be to us. This is the answer. A King and a Queen … until he is dead.”
The
decision was made. King William III and Mary II should be joint sovereigns of England.
William’s reply was that this was a proposition which he could accept.
“There is one point to be settled,” pointed out Danby. “This concerns the Princess Anne. By right of succession she should be Queen on the death of her sister. This is unacceptable to William. Therefore we must get her consent. She will have to agree that William shall be King in his own right and that she and her heirs will inherit the throne if Mary and William were without heirs of their bodies.
Thus the matter was settled, but for the consent of the Princess Anne.
Sarah shouted in her rage: “The impudence! It would seem to me that Dutch William is coming very well out of this matter—and at whose expense? Yours, Mrs. Morley. King … King in his own right! How can that be when you are next to your sister Mary?”
“I have heard that he refuses to stay here if they do not agree.”
“Then let him go. We can do very well without him in Whitehall. Let him go back to his dykes and canals. He looks like a scarecrow. I am not surprised your sister wept day and night when she heard they were marrying her to that Dutch … abortion!”
“Dear Mrs. Freeman, you will be heard. What if tales were carried to him?”
“Let them be carried! I care not that he should know what I think of him.”
“Do not forget he will be the King.”
“Madam, do you think I care for Kings when I see my friend Mrs. Morley robbed of her rights?”
“But what must I do, dear Mrs. Freeman?”
“Refuse! The Princess Mary should be Queen and Caliban her Consort; and when Mary dies then it should be your turn.”
“It seems that the Parliaments are prepared to give him what he wants.”
“Parliaments! Who cares for Parliaments?”
“Oh, dear,” sighed Anne. “How tiresome life has become.”