A Want of Kindness

by Joanne Limburg

  ‘I know they will not. You are a good girl . . .’

  ‘I have one request, though, Sir?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I have observed that lately the Chapel is perhaps not in as good a condition as – there are a number of repairs that might be made – and the decorations—’

  ‘Do what needs to be done, do not trouble me with it; it shall all be paid for.’

  ‘Oh thank you, Sir!’

  There is a discreet scratch on the door. With the King’s permission, it is opened slightly, to admit two excitable spaniels, and the news that a Mr Sandford is waiting. Anne holds out her hands for the dogs, while her father addresses the servant on the other side of the door.

  ‘Very good. I’ll see him shortly.’

  The door closes. One of the spaniels leaps into Anne’s lap, arranges himself as best he can around her great belly, and sits down.

  ‘Oh Anne, the poor loves – I do not know what to do with them all. My brother would have them roam all over the place, easing themselves, suckling their pups and you-know-what-else – they are sweet creatures, but there are too many, and I won’t have them in the bedchamber as he did – how he slept with their snuffling, and all those infernal chiming clocks, I will never— which are these two?’

  ‘This fellow in my lap is Louis, and the one sniffing at my shoes is Bessie.’

  ‘Perhaps they should like to stay with you at the Cockpit?’

  ‘Oh, I should be delighted to have them!’

  ‘Splendid! And take a couple of the wretched clocks as well while you’re about it – I know how your George admires them.’

  ‘Thank you, Sir. He shall be so pleased.’

  ‘And I shall be just as pleased to be rid of them. Now, I must dismiss you – there is so much trouble over precedence for the coronation, I have had to have a Commission appointed, and here is a man come to record their work.’

  Her Most Gracious Majesty

  The Commission convenes, opens a special court, hears evidence and makes its judgements, which do not please everybody. The Lord of the Manor of Fyngrith, Essex, for example, is very disappointed to hear that he does not, in the view of the court, have the right to be the Queen’s Chamberlain for the day, and will thus not be entitled to her bed, furniture or any of the basins which he might otherwise have used to perform his duties. The Prince of Orange, who must on any State occasion be outranked by the Prince of Denmark, declines to attend – a pity, as he and Mary miss a very fine spectacle.

  There is blue carpet spread all the way from Westminster Hall to the Abbey Choir. As the King and then the Queen process along it, they are preceded by herb-women in new and becoming costumes with deep ruffles, strewing spring flowers. The Queen, who has always – it must be owned – been a very beautiful lady, seems a goddess today. Her dress is made of white- and silver-embroidered brocade, with every seam covered by diamonds; she has a seven-yard train of purple velvet, bordered with gold lace and lined with ermine and white silk, and carried by the Duchess of Norfolk and four eldest daughters of earls; she has on her head a circlet, and over her head a canopy of cloth of gold borne by sixteen barons of the Cinque Ports. The crowd, moved both by her appearance and by the news that she has taken upon herself the liabilities of all imprisoned small debtors, weep their grateful tears.

  Her conduct during the ceremony is faultless too – except for one forgivable instance, when the King’s Champion, in act of throwing down the gauntlet, falls off his mount and straight onto his face, and she is observed to stifle a giggle. After the ceremony is finished, she goes straight up to George and Anne’s box, and tells them that she thought, for one moment, that she might have died of laughter, in front of everyone, right there and then.

  ‘That poor man,’ Anne says, ‘he could hardly help it, but it was very amusing.’

  They laugh together, and for one lovely moment, might believe themselves true friends.

  The King and his Parliament

  The first Election of the new reign is a happy one, returning Tories in large numbers. Among the knights, citizens and burgesses currently shuffling into Westminster Hall and removing their hats, Anne knows there can only be a few who voted to exclude her father from the succession; but she also knows him well enough to guess that his mind will have fixed its bulldog jaws into the necks of these few, all the better to worry and worry and worry at them. From her place behind his throne, it is easy enough to tell, from the set of his shoulders, the tightening of his hands, that her guess is good.

  Anne does not feel comfortable either, though in her case it is only because her part in this day of ceremony is to stand in Court dress and heavy jewels, in her heavy-bellied, sore-footed condition, in a crowded hall, and do her best, despite it all, to maintain a bland and daughterly countenance. As if to test her, the rays of sunlight which God has caused to pour through the high windows and onto His anointed, direct a small but intense portion of their early summer glory straight onto the back of her neck.

  Finally, the last citizen – or is he a burgess? – has been admitted to the King’s presence, and there they are in their places, the King and his Officers of State, the peers all in their robes seated on their benches, the Commons seatless and hatless, like orders of angels divinely ordained, ready to serve. There is a brief hush, the baby turns impatiently in Anne’s belly, and her father directs the Lord Keeper to tell both Houses that he will defer his speaking to them until they have all taken their Oaths and the Commons have chosen their speaker, which he directs them to do that day. After this the names of receivers and triers of petitions are read, all in French, which does not take too long, considering, and then the Commons can leave, the royal party can withdraw, and Anne can think about being comfortable again. She can screw her eyes up against the sun, and not be concerned about looking disagreeable.

  Anne is at home when her father makes his speech. She is able to hear about it from her day bed, propped up with cushions behind, with her stockinged feet sticking out of the bottom of her loose, light manteau. It seems, initially, very much of a piece with his speech to the Council, assuring both Houses of his respect for the law, of the care he will have of their religion and property – but then it takes a firmer turn. In return, he says, he expects duty and kindness, particularly in what relates to the settling and continuance of his revenue. In this, they must be guided by considerations of what is just and reasonable: to call frequent Parliaments, to feed him from time to time such proportions as they shall think convenient, would be an improper method to take with him. He cautions them instead to use him well.

  As he follows this with the announcement that the Duke of Argyle has landed in the West Highlands, with men from Holland and treasonous intent, he is not met with any immediate resistance, and soon receives his revenue. Certainly there is a little disquiet, a few days later, when certain members of the Commons move to have him enforce the laws against Dissenters, but with a little trouble taken – a quick summons, a sharp rebuke – they are persuaded to drop the matter.

  Anne’s Daughter

  This time Anne’s travail is not so long, and the baby girl Mrs Wilkes catches in her apron is one that kicks and cries. She is the living proof of God’s grace, and her name is Mary.

  King Monmouth

  Baby Mary’s first month of life turns out to be more than usually eventful for her kin, and for one cousin especially. As a gesture of goodwill towards her grandfather the King, her uncle Orange has sent her cousin Monmouth away from The Hague. The Duke has travelled as far as Amsterdam, where he has been meeting with other Rye House exiles, gathering sufficient men, money and arms to make an attempt on his late father’s Crown.

  On 11th June, when Mary is nine days old, he lands at Lyme. As his little cousin sleeps in the arms of her wet-nurse, he marches to the Market Place, where he has a proclamation read, declaring himself Head and Captain-General of the Prot
estant Forces of the Kingdom, and claiming that, as the late King’s son born in lawful wedlock, he has a legitimate and legal right to the Crown. The so-called King James is a usurper, who started the Great Fire of London and, more recently, murdered his own brother.

  Lady Churchill’s father-in-law is the Member of Parliament for Lyme, so it falls to him and his son, her husband, to inform the King. Within a day, Sarah’s John is marching out of London at the head of eight troops of horse guards and dragoons and five companies of foot, leaving his Lady to fret at home at St Albans, and Anne at the Cockpit to pray for his success and safety. Lord Feversham may be Commander-in-Chief over him, but nobody doubts who is truly in charge: what Lord Churchill lacks in birth, he more than makes up for in his native ability. He is like his wife in that respect.

  For a couple of weeks, as Mary suckles and sleeps and soils her swaddling, the Lords Feversham and Churchill follow the Duke of Monmouth about the West Country, shadowing him as he gathers a ragtag army of hard-up clothiers, unemployed miners and disenchanted militiamen. On 27th June, the day when Anne is called into the nursery to witness what is reckoned her daughter’s first smile – a grimace which the baby’s governess Mrs Berkeley dismisses as wind – the two armies meet at Norton St Philip. The next day, Anne hears the news of an indecisive battle, alarms herself with thoughts of another Civil War to come. Her private devotions double in the strength of their feeling, and treble in their length. When her confinement ends, and she goes to the Chapel to be churched and to see the baby christened, she asks that prayers be said for the King’s army, for their excellent brave commanders.

  Either Anne’s prayers are heard, or they were superfluous, because Monmouth’s troops – sceptical of their chances of victory perhaps, or despairing of the good dinner for which they joined – have already begun to desert him. There is no Civil War, just one brief, muddy rout at Sedgemoor, and the rising is over. Mrs Berkeley writes to Sarah to tell her the glad news; Anne writes to tell her that although she has no further news to add, Sarah must be so just to her as to believe that neither of her other friends who write can be half as glad of anything good that happens to her as she is, that although maybe they can express themselves better, nobody’s heart she is sure is more sincere than hers.

  Physic

  It takes five strokes of the axe, and then some further business with a knife, to excise the Duke of Monmouth from the Kingdom, but it is done now. And to make absolutely sure that there can be no resurgence of any peccant Whiggish humour, the King has sent Judge Jeffreys west, to purge whatever traces might remain. Anne is also in need of physic, so she goes again to Tunbridge Wells, this time to take the waters herself.

  She commits herself to take a full course, but soon wishes she had not. For a certainty, there is nothing in Tunbridge this year but rain and tedium. Every day begins with a sodden trudge to the Springs, accompanied by Lady Clarendon, and her unsolicited lectures on the curative qualities of chalybeate, the virtues of early rising, the very interesting story of the discovery of the Wells. There, as the clouds and the Countess drizzle on unstoppably, she forces down glass after glass of wholesome nastiness, then makes the return trudge to their lodgings, for another day of dull discourse and sulphurous belching, to be accomplished within easy reach of a chamber pot, and enlivened only by the occasional lacklustre game of cards and the too-infrequent arrival of letters from Lady Churchill.

  Anne writes as often as she can: to provoke an answer, to fill the weary hours, to ask how her little girl goes on, to inform the lady of her progress in the matter of securing the Windsor lodgings to which she is entitled, to complain of the weather, to complain of the tedium, to complain of her Aunt Clarendon, who grows every day more nauseating, and of her other aunt – Aunt Rochester, since her husband was granted the late poet’s title – who has arrived full of peevishness about the Windsor arrangements, with no good reason at all. One Saturday, when the waters prove more than usually vitriolic, she complains about her step-mother, who has sent her a present, a watch decorated with the Queen’s own face, and set with diamonds: ‘I must return her most thankful acknowledgements but among friends I think one may say without being vain that the goddess might have showered down her favours on her poor Vassals with more liberality.’

  There has been no repeating of the warm laughter shared on Coronation Day. When Anne writes to Lady Churchill of her suspicion that she might be again with child, she is sure to tell her not to mention this to the Queen, who asks constantly how the waters go with her, and whose questions she must always answer herself, in words most carefully counted out and chosen, so that they do only what they must do: nothing other, and nothing more. Writing these dutiful letters always leaves her with a most unpleasant, tightened-up feeling, which she has found is best relieved by writing again – in this case, plethorically – to Lady Churchill. She is at all times the perfect antidote to ceremony. If only she would not take so long to reply. If only she would come to Tunbridge in person.

  At least George comes, for a spell, and is pleasant, always, to be with: she can return to wondering, with more reason than before, whether she might not be breeding again. The rain grows heavier, the walk to the Springs more slippery, and she must needs ask Lady Churchill to send for her shoemaker and bid him make a pair of wax-soled shoes, with soles to be especially thick.

  July drains away. August trickles in, bringing new fears. Lady Churchill writes to tell her that the baby has soreness in her eyes. As Anne reads this, she cannot help but imagine how all the woes, large and small, that her wretched eyes have brought her will be visited on her tiny daughter. She pictures her first crying from the soreness, then a thousand handkerchiefs wiping the defluxion away again and again until the skin underneath is sore as well, then a hundred ladies scolding her for screwing up her face, a dozen doctors advancing with their noxious drops, all the panic she might ever experience, on walking into great chambers full of persons she might insult by her not recognising them, all the awkwardness that must result, the dependency on trusted friends, the fear when they are not with her, the reading headaches, the working headaches, the spectacles that pinch her nose and do not work, the whispering French Court, the poisoned aunts, the purple mourning veils – it must at all costs be prevented. She resolves that Mary should have an issue made and decides to write to the King to ask for his leave, and for him to give his commands to Mrs Berkeley. Of course it will hurt the child to feel the little bite of the lancet and to have the wax put in the wound – Anne winces as she remembers – but skilfully done, it will bring the humour out once and for all, and it is better, surely, to have a little suffering now than so much later.

  It rains, it rains; the waters get no more palatable; Lady Clarendon reminds Anne daily that no physic can be effective that is not also unpleasant to the patient in some way; the Prince daily smiles on his wife, and says that although the waters might taste ever so nasty, he can see, from her looks, how well they agree with her; all the same, she does not believe herself with child; she hears nothing from the King about her Windsor lodgings; she wonders if the baby’s issue might not be put off till she returns to London; Lady Churchill writes, but does not come, or say that she will; still, it rains.

  Later in the month the Prince goes, but Anne has still not finished her course, so she cannot go with him yet. She is close now to having had a surfeit of Lady Clarendon’s company; it takes all she has to be civil to the Countess, but just when she fears that she might dash her next glass of effective unpleasant water in that lady’s face, the most welcome news comes: her uncle Clarendon is made Lord Lieutenant of Ireland and will go with his wife to Dublin. Anne’s household is purged of aunts, and this agrees with her well.

  The Revocation of the Edict of Nantes

  O Almighty God, King of all kings, and Governor of all things, save and deliver me, I humbly beseech you, from the hands of my enemies; abate their pride, assuage their malice, and confound their d
evices; that I, and the Prince, and my child and all in my household might be armed with your defence – I have in my heart today the prayer for times of war and tumults, because of this most dreadful news from France, that the King there has revoked the edict they had for near a hundred years, that the Protestants in his Kingdom should not be persecuted for their religion. To be sure this act is the Devil’s work, for he has had their churches destroyed, he billets dragoons in their homes to bully them, has his priests baptise their babes in front of their faces . . . There is nothing they can do but flee, and now London is full of them telling stories that I do not wish to call to mind, for they put in my head such pictures as I swear I have never seen except in Mr Foxe’s book. Such are Catholic Kings, and Catholic Kingdoms . . .

  But no, no, I should not care to think ill of my own father – it feels like sinning. I hope I know what is due to him; he does not use me so ill, but I know he does not trust me quite. When I raised Lady Churchill to Lady Clarendon’s old place he did not forbid me, but he would not let me have my Lady Westmoreland for my bedchamber: instead I must have Lady Anne Spencer, the Sutherlands’ daughter. Of course the mother is great with the Queen and as for her father, he is a man who will do I know-not-what for the King as long he can profit from it himself . . . So my father has sent no dragoons to my house, but that he has sent one spy at least I cannot doubt. I have had it from Bishop Ken and others that he has always had spies about my sister, and now he does the same to me. And besides, Lady Anne is forever unwell, which causes much inconvenience, and extra expenditure, for when Lady Churchill is away to St Albans and she is indisposed, I cannot manage and so I expect in the end I shall have to appoint a third Lady, and pay her, and the Prince and I must struggle as it is with so paltry an allowance . . .