Printed copies begin to circulate almost immediately. Anne is in Windsor already, but Lady Churchill is sure she knows where to get hold of a copy without too much delay, and Anne can hardly wait to hear it read. Neither, it seems, can the baby, for the little controversialist arrives, abruptly, a month before she is expected. Anne is fearful all the way through her travail – these eight-months’ children so often die – but the new daughter is strong and sound, and although she is small, the general opinion is that so healthy a child cannot have come before her time.
With the King and Queen elsewhere, Anne spends the first few days of her lying-in unvisited except by her own ladies, which is how she would have it always, if she could. She need do nothing but stay in her bed in a dark, calm chamber, moving little so as not to disturb the red-lead plasters driving the milk back from her breasts, eat jellies, drink claret, sleep as often as she wishes, and have Lady Churchill read to her. It is such a great pleasure to hear Lady Churchill read: she can bring feeling to any poem, clarity to any tract; when she reads a comedy, she contrives to have a distinctively droll voice for every part, and can remember, from one sitting to the next, which voice properly belongs to which. Sometimes, if she is in a particularly impish mood, she will lend a character the voice of some real person, whom they both know, and she is so accomplished a mimic that she never has to tell Anne whose voice she has borrowed. It is always perfectly clear, and quite delicious.
Sharp’s sermons arrive just before the baby’s christening, but must be put away safely in Lady Churchill’s own lodgings, for the King and Queen reach Windsor on the very same day. When the King is announced, Anne is sitting up in her bed – she has put aside the red-lead plasters, which never stick fast for long in any case – and eating a syllabub – it is but a light thing, and surely nothing too strong for her, when she is recovering so well. She is well, she is content, there is nothing amiss with her or her condition – until she sees, gliding in behind her father, a figure in an unmistakeable black soutane – and all at once her peace is shattered.
She cannot help herself: she jumps like a started hare, dropping her dish and spoon, spilling the contents of one all over the bedclothes and sending the other ringing to the floor; she feels her heart swell and pound and make as if to burst; her mouth falls open; nothing comes out for a moment, but by and by there is a thin wail, and then the first appalling sob.
The King is horrified. ‘Oh my dear! Oh Good Lord! Where are you – Danvers! Lady Churchill!’
But they are already running into the room. Danvers retrieves the dish and spoon; Lady Churchill takes her place at the head of Anne’s bed, from which vantage she favours the priest with a not-quite-insolent stare. It has its desired effect, and the King dismisses him.
‘Don’t take on, Anne, I pray you don’t take on. I came only as your father – I did not intend – anything – I said I would never – I stand by my word to you – I . . .’
Farthing rushes in with some burnt feathers, and hands them to Lady Churchill, who holds them under Anne’s nose until the sobs begin to subside. Danvers gives Anne a clean handkerchief; she buries her face in it, takes in its lavender scent, and composes herself.
‘Lady Churchill . . .’ the King begins to speak, and falters.
‘Your Majesty, Her Highness has been recovering very well – remarkably well – from her travail, but it is still only a few days since her ordeal, and of course ladies in her condition—’
‘—are frequently troubled by the vapours. Yes, of course, a windy womb – poor child.’
He comes over to the bed and puts his hand over Anne’s. She allows it, as she must, but secretly it is a great relief to feel him take the hand away again.
The Queen of Hungary’s Water
Lord, I know not what to pray for as I ought: O let thy Spirit help my infirmities, and enable me to offer up a spiritual sacrifice, acceptable to thee by Jesus Christ.
I must thank you for restoring both my girls to good health, for I have been sent word by Mrs Berkeley that although Mary was lately peevish it was only this time that she was cutting a tooth, and not a return of the sickness she is so often troubled with, and Anne Sophia goes on very well again – I thank you every hour that she has from the beginning been a healthy child, that she does not suffer as her sister does – so Dr Walgrave does not think she should be weaned yet after all, which I am glad of. I pray that you preserve them both and if it is that you must rebuke me, I beg that you will not do it through them, who must be so innocent yet of any grievous sin.
For my own sake I offer thanks that so far the waters have agreed with me again this year, that even though it is unseasonable cold in Tunbridge I am not much the worse for it, except for this queer breaking-out over my nose and cheeks. When my prayers are done, I mean to anoint my face with the Queen of Hungary’s Water Mrs Churchill has sent; I beseech you in your mercy cause it to heal my face – and if this breaking-out be a sign of your displeasure, I promise to examine my heart and find out my fault as if I were preparing to communicate, and to make all proper amends . . .
I beseech you, preserve the Prince another day in good health, and my sister Orange and her Prince – and the King and Queen of course – and my good friend Lady Churchill, who I fear does not mind herself enough, for she goes up and down as much as if she were not with child. Just this sennight she has made a great journey to Althrop to see Lady Sunderland, which I must needs say according to my small understanding was a very strange undertaking for one in her condition, especially as it is so much further from Windsor or St Albans than it is to Tunbridge and I have not seen her here at all this month – and I must confess that when I do not see her, or I do not hear from her every day, I cannot but fall prey to melancholy which I know I should not, and I would not for the world cause her to do herself harm by writing to me so much every day. Truly there is no-one else for whom I feel more kindness, and in whose word and judgement I might put so much trust – for there is so much truth in her, and the world being what it is there are so few I may rely upon. I thank you for giving me this one honest friend . . .
My sister is so far away, and though I try to honour my father as the Commandment says yet it seems every day he has a stiffer neck, a harder heart . . . I was very much surprised when I heard of the four new Privy Councillors – Papists all – and I cannot help but be very sorry for it, and it makes me wonder at the King – I think Lord Sunderland whispers in his ear as his Lady does in the Queen’s. I must confess that I am never easy when I am with Her Majesty, and am glad to have missed her ball at Windsor, even though there is no company agreeable to me in Tunbridge . . . Still, I must play basset with them every day. I beg thee, help me keep my countenance.
Anne Treats Her Father Like a Turk
It seems an age since the King first met with his Privy Council, and assured them of his respect for English law. Although the law in regard of Catholics holding public office has suffered no change, much else has changed despite it. Parliament has not met since last November, when it opposed the King’s request to appoint Catholic officers to the army. Now, by all accounts, the army in Ireland is overrun with Papists, and the English army, which the King keeps camped at Hounslow Heath – so uncomfortably close to London – seems to have every day more of the wrong sort of people in its upper ranks. Lately a sympathetic judge has ruled that His Majesty might suspend the law against employing Catholics by exercising his dispensing power, and he has been gladly dispensing not only in the army but at Court, in the universities, in the Privy Council – nowhere, it seems, is safe from his dispensing. Anne remembers how, when he was still a Duke, he was always saying that a King ought not to be ruled by Parliament; now that he is King himself he has Sutherland to encourage him in his resolve, and the Jesuits in black soutanes, and of course the Queen.
Anne would rather not have to dine with any of them, but it is unavoidable, and so here she is, at their table a
t Windsor again, thinking about how they have just had her old tutor Compton suspended from his office because he would not do the same to Dr Sharp, and doing her best to pretend that she cannot hear the grace said, as these days they have a Catholic priest to say it. Sometimes she can do this simply by looking another way, but on this occasion she cannot help but feel that a little extra disrespect is warranted, so she turns to Lady Rochester, who looks a little surprised, and says the first thing that comes to her.
‘I do hope,’ she says, ‘that the meat will not be dressed in that vinegary sauce today – it does so disagree with me, even when I am not with child.’
The next day she remarks on the dryness of the summer, and the day after that she asks the Prince if his headache is quite gone. On the fourth day she compliments a lady on her gown, and on the day after that her father comes to visit.
‘Do you do this on purpose or by chance?’ he asks. ‘I bid you, be ingenuous.’
‘On purpose, Sir.’
For a moment the King looks as if he might pick something up and throw it at her, but instead he checks himself, and sighs, and his face falls so that she is almost touched to see it.
‘Anne, when you do what you are doing, it is looking upon us – myself, the Queen, the Queen Dowager – none of whom to my certain knowledge have ever done you hurt – you are looking upon us as Turks, and it looks disrespectfully to me. I find by this that you have had very ill impressions made on you about my religion.’
‘I can assure you, Sir, that nobody has ever opened their lips to me.’
‘If you say so, then I believe you, but still I see very well what strange opinions you have of our religion.’
Anne says nothing, only turns a bracelet on her arm, remembering as she does that it was the King who gave it to her.
‘Well, I will not torment you about it. I can only hope one day that God will open your eyes.’
Just as he is saying this, the Prince arrives like a merciful angel, and the discourse takes another turn.
Lady Churchill’s Character
It seems that certain people have been taking great pains to give the Princess of Orange an ill character of Lady Churchill. Anne writes back at once to vindicate her friend, and as soon as she is able, she gives Sarah a full account of what she has said.
‘I told her that I believe there is nobody in the world has better notions of religion than you have. It is true that you are not so strict as some are, nor do you keep such a bustle with religion – and I said I had to confess that I think no worse of you for that, for one sees so many saints turn devils, that if one be a good Christian, the less show one makes of it the better, in my opinion.’
‘Your Highness is very kind.’
‘Not at all! It is only the truth – and I ventured to say the same of your Lord, that though he is a very faithful servant to the King, and the King so kind to him, yet rather than change his religion, I dare say, he will lose all his places and all that he has too!’
‘And the babe is of the same opinion, Your Highness – he has just given me the most almighty kick in the ribs, and – oh, Your Highness is weeping . . .’
‘Oh Lady Churchill, you cannot know – you surely cannot know – what a comfort it is to me to have friends such as you and your Lord, who I can trust will be faithful to my interests, and our religion– and now my Uncle Rochester is dismissed because he would not change his—’
‘Lord Churchill does not think it was only—’
‘—and my uncle Clarendon has lost his place too, and the King leans more and more on that knave Sunderland, just because he goes into Chapel with him, and I do believe he is wholly governed by priests and villains, and his wife—’
‘Whose wife, Your Highness?’
‘The Queen! I mean the Queen, who is governed herself by her confessor, and – and that flatterer your friend—’
‘Lady Sunderland? Oh I do not think so. Forgive me, Your Highness, for saying so, but she is truly a good sort of woman – she has been so kind to me many times, and so very very kind to my Lord Godolphin and his boy since Margaret died – and she is not at all like to become a Papist – whatever her Lord may do.’
‘Forgive you? What in the world should I ever forgive you for? For speaking the truth? No! I should ask you to forgive me, it is only that I am overcome . . .’
‘It is nothing, Madam – remember, you are breeding.’
‘Yes, yes, it is just that kind of humour . . . I pray we might both have boys this time – they should be such great friends if we did, such very great friends . . .’
21st January 1687
In January, Lady Churchill is delivered of a boy, christened John after his father, as healthy and beautiful a child as could be wished for. Anne sends at once to congratulate her friend, and to ask if she might visit – she would not wish to arrive unannounced and unbidden, because that might vex Lady Churchill, and the mere thought of Lady Churchill vexed is enough to make Anne’s eyes to water – but her message receives the warmest reply: Lady Churchill would be delighted to see the Princess whenever it might be convenient for Her Highness to come. Anne reads the brief letter over three times, and decides to go the very next morning.
She wakes up in the best of spirits, and first gives whole-hearted thanks to God for her friend’s safe delivery. Then she calls for Sarah’s deputy, Lady Frescheville, and for Danvers, to come dress her. Lady Frescheville has picked out Anne’s favourite manteau without being asked; when Danvers hands her the looking-glass, she sees a good, clear complexion in it. It seems that the day can only go on delightfully, but then, suddenly – just as Danvers is easing on her right shoe – Anne feels something change inside her: she does not know what, or how, only that it is nothing good.
Her Ladyship asks her what the matter is.
‘I do not know, Lady Frescheville, I only – all of a sudden – Danvers, do you remember what my sister was always saying, that she had a “melancholy qualm”?’
‘Yes, Her Highness’s qualms, I remember them very well.’
‘I never knew what on earth it was she meant, but – I don’t know what it is – I think I’m having one now.’
‘Your Highness is ill? Is it a pain, Madam? Do you think – shall I send the page to the stables to say they are not to send the coach round?’
‘No, I think I am well enough – I only felt a little out of sorts for a moment; it can only ever do me good to see my Lady Churchill, and I must see the baby. I have heard so much good of him already.’
So she does go to congratulate Lady Churchill, and to see with her own eyes that the boy is indeed healthy, and beautiful, in the way of both his healthy and beautiful parents. Anne could hardly be happier, she says more than once, if she had had such a son herself. When she begins the short journey home it is with enough vicarious joy inside her to last the rest of the day, but halfway back the carriage jolts, and all at once she is like a spilled water jug, gone from full to empty in an eyeblink.
The melancholy qualm is back, attended this time by a faint dragging pain in the belly.
‘Lady Frescheville,’ she says quietly, ‘I fear that jolt has done me some hurt. I think I should rest awhile. I will go to my chamber – you may have my dinner brought to me there.’
‘Shall I have Dr Radcliffe sent for?’
‘No, I do not want Dr Radcliffe.’
‘Sir Charles, then?’
‘No – he will only make me his speech about apples. Send for Mrs Wilkes.’
Back at the Cockpit, Anne goes straight to her chamber, one hand cupping her belly all the way; she has Danvers undress her again, back down to her shift, and put her into bed. The Prince comes in and embraces her. She weeps a little into his shoulder, then sends him out. Whatever is happening, this is no place for him.
‘Danvers, bring a clout, please. I fear there is some blood.’
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br /> Danvers does as she is bid, and brings a good stack of clean linen handkerchiefs, for which there is, if anything, the greater need. Anne sobs through three of them while she waits for Mrs Wilkes to arrive.
The midwife bursts into the room before Lady Frescheville has had a chance to announce her, remarking as she does so that she never yet met a lady who helped matters by crying herself into a swoon. The woman is, as always, harsh and rude and strong enough for anything. Anne can put her faith in that.
‘Pull the covers back, Mrs Danvers. I must examine Her Highness.’
Anne submits herself once more to that shrewd gaze, those Amazonian hands.
‘I was told Your Highness had had some pains.’
‘Some. Only since the carriage jolted.’
‘Are you sure?’
Suddenly she is not at all sure.
‘When did you last feel a quickening?’
‘Not—’ and it returns to her immediately, that morning’s melancholy qualm, the exact instance of it, the understanding of its true cause, ‘–not since last night. No, not all day!’ She falls to weeping again. The midwife covers her up again, takes her hand – a firm grip.
‘Your Highness, I can see that there is yet only a little blood, and you did right – you did very right – in calling me, but I must needs be truthful with you.’
Anne starts howling, but Mrs Wilkes carries on remorselessly.
‘The child has fallen in your belly. I believe you will miscarry soon.’
‘Will you be able to stay with me, Mrs Wilkes – until . . .?’
‘Yes, Your Highness, I shall.’
Anne has heard often that the pain of a womb forced open before its time is worse than that of childbirth, and she has two full days to learn the truth of this. The blood flows slow at first, thick and heavy, then faster, redder, until one last agonising rush, that brings out with it a four-months’ child, her miscarried son. Then the Queen visits to commiserate; Anne cannot stop her.
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