Likenesses
Somehow, the Sunderlands are back. He has the King’s ear and she has renewed her friendship with Anne’s Lady Marlborough. Lady Sunderland is in good health and can easily visit Holywell, a piece of good fortune which Anne has too much reason to envy. On a very good day she might stir out of doors, to visit the theatre or pay a call on one of the few ladies who are prepared to take the risk of receiving her; on a rarer sort of day she is able to go hunting with the Prince, but with him on horseback and her in a caleche with a dull Lady Charlotte, it does not give her the pleasure that it used to, and only serves to remind her, painfully, of all the vigour she has lost. There are many more days that are spent lying on a day bed, praying that a groom or footman will scratch on the chamber door, and bring in a letter from St Alban’s. If no letter comes, Anne re-reads old ones, or writes another one herself, to ask again how Mrs Freeman does, and to ask what service Anne might render her, what are her commands?
Sarah must need something from Anne: she is having a terrible summer. Her mother has been struck down with a fit of apoplexy, and there can be no hope of her life. She has been moved from her own house in St Alban’s to Holywell, so that her daughter can nurse her herself, which she insists on doing night and day, barely sleeping or eating. Anne is in pain for her friend, and frightened for her health, which is the most precious thing in the world, and ought never to be neglected. She sends Sarah the milk of an ass she keeps at St James’s, and implores her to drink it to cool her blood, which she is certain must be heated and disordered from so much watching and sitting up. She sends her own doctors to Holywell. She offers more than once to accompany them in her coach, but Sarah never gives her leave, and she knows better than to risk her anger by going without it. She prays to God, that he might permit her to take Sarah’s afflictions upon herself (she is not sure if it is truly the action of a good Protestant to do this, but if she does not ask her chaplains, they can never tell her it is not) and God obliges by sending her pain, and sparing Sarah’s health, although he cannot spare her mother or her conscience. Mrs Jennings dies in late July; Lady Marlborough remembers how she once had her mother thrown from Court, and is full of self-reproaches.
Anne remembers so little of her own mother, that when she first comes upon her likeness in one of the lesser-used chambers at Berkeley House, she does not at first realise whose it is. She has to call Danvers, to ask if the picture is any good.
‘It is very like, Your Highness – by the looks of it, it was done after the painting Mr Lely did of her, when you were small.’
‘I truly cannot tell whether it is like her or no. I only remember her hands.’
‘She had fine hands, very like your own.’
‘But one cannot see them in this picture – only one arm, and a great deal too much bosom—’
‘That was the fashion then.’
‘—and her double chin. I do believe I resemble her in stoutness now.’
‘Your hair is the same colour.’
‘Perhaps . . .’
It is a shame that Lely is so long dead. Anne admires his Windsor Beauties very much, and if he were still alive she would surely pay him whatever he asked to have a picture of Sarah after that same style. But any picture of Sarah is better than none, and Anne hopes she will sit for Closterman, so that he might paint a likeness that Anne can keep by her always, for the pleasure and comfort it will give her, to look upon the image of her friend.
21st January 1694
When Anne miscarries of another dead child, her affliction this time is so great as to cause her to fall ill of an ague. The Queen has enough affection and kindness for her to send to enquire how she does when she is at her worst, but, despite the hopes this raises in some quarters, there is no reconciliation when she recovers.
Gloucester’s Progress or The Making of a Soldier
If any reader wonders why he should trouble himself to peruse an account of the character and deeds of a Prince who was, at the time these events took place, no more than five years old, then this author can do no more and no better than beg him to be patient, for the answer will soon be discovered in the course of reading it, so that before long he will find himself obliged to own that William, Duke of Gloucester, even at such a tender age, was already proving himself to be a wise leader, courageous soldier, loyal patriot, and in all, one of the brightest stars that ever shone in that great constellation of warlike English heroes.
He spoke early, and was wise for his years. He had already been well-schooled in the civility, patience and condescension required of princes, as observed by two of his father’s Danish countrymen, who came to enquire of him, if he had any commands for their master, the King of Denmark. The Prince responded very properly by saying, ‘My duty to the King of Denmark. And tell him I love him.’ When asked if he would be visiting their country with his father, his face was seen to take on an intense, purposeful expression, and he replied, ‘No, but I will go to France.’ For all his courtly manners, Gloucester was, first and last, a soldier.
It can thus easily be imagined, how much he was vexed by those around him who refused to recognise this truth: his nurses and his governess, forever watching and warning him and asking him if he were not perhaps too hot, too cold, or bilious and then pronouncing him bound or loose or feverish or tired; the physicians, who pulled silly grave faces, prescribed their foul medicines and set surgeons upon him with cups and knives; and chief of them all, his mother, who took fright at everything he did, and supposed him to be the merest baby.
He resolved to prove himself to all of them, and took whatever chances came his way. In the spring of 1694, his governess Lady Fitzharding decided that it was time for him to be breeched, and a tailor, Mr Hughes, was summoned. He arrived on Easter Sunday, bearing a fine suit of clothes for the Duke: a coat, waistcoat and breeches, all brocaded in white and silver, with silver buttons. Gloucester thought the coat and breeches very fine indeed, but his suspicions were aroused by the waistcoat, for this was boned just like the stiff coats he had always been made to wear; they were supposed to give him a good carriage, but they only prevented him from moving as he wished, and it made him wonder if the handsome new clothes he was shown, and the tailor that brought them, were not merely parts of some cunning, womanly plot to keep him a baby forever. If so, he would see that it came to nothing. He took himself to his Presence Chamber, which he had all fitted out for military exercise, and consulted with his men.
A plan was quickly agreed upon. Gloucester sent for the tailor, and as soon as this unfortunate man arrived, he gave his men the command – ‘Put him on the wooden horse!’ – then stood back as they charged. They did their best to haul Mr Hughes onto the horse, and might have succeeded, were it not for the intervention of Gloucester’s aide-de-camp, Jenkin Lewis, who stepped in and explained to His Highness that the boning of the waistcoat was not to be laid at the tailor’s door, for he had only done what he was told to do by others; that the offending garment might well be altered, and that Mr Hughes must be forgiven. Gloucester granted the man his pardon, most graciously.
Of course there were defeats as well as victories. Gloucester was a bold, vigorous and courageous boy, but sometimes even the bravest hearts can fail, and so it would be that when the Duke had to go up or downstairs, he would find himself unequal to the task alone, by reason of the giddy feeling it always gave him in his head, and so he would insist on having at least one of his footmen to support him on his climb or his descent. In his protestations the Duke was being utterly truthful, because, as we have seen, he was more inclined to deny his infirmities than to make a show of them, but his physicians could find no explanation for his giddiness, and so they concluded that Gloucester’s refusal to assay the staircase was just that – a refusal, occasioned not by ill health but by indulgence, coddling and the too-tender ministrations of too many nurses. It was not treatment that was required, but punishment.
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p; Gloucester had never yet been beaten – his mother would not hear of it – but as a sickly woman, she was forced to depend greatly on her physicians’ judgement, and inclined, more often than not, to think it sound. And so she made her tearful concession: for once, the rod would not be spared. She went with her husband to wait upon their son, and, while she watched, he showed Gloucester the birch and asked him, so would he now go up the stairs by himself? Gloucester refused. His father repeated the question; Gloucester refused again. There was no choice then but to go through with the beating; son, mother and father all wept, and the Duke from that day went up and downstairs by himself.
Our hero was very much loved, not only by his parents, but also by his mother’s sister, the Queen, and by the King. Certain misunderstandings between the sisters had led, most unfortunately, to his mother’s being forbidden the Court and denied the honours that would usually be due to one of her rank, but this treatment was not extended to her blameless son, so Gloucester was summoned to see the Queen from time to time, and they would talk together and she would give him presents. On one occasion she offered him a beautiful bird to take home. It was a red and green parrot, of the kind girls posed with when they sat for their portraits, and not at all the thing for a soldier – the Duke did not wish to take the bird home, but he could see what a handsome gift it was, and was truly sensible of the affection and kindness the Queen showed in offering it to him, so, showing the tact that was so remarkable for one of his tender years, he simply bowed to the Queen and said, ‘I will not deprive you of it, Madam.’
Gloucester could not but be aware that his mother and his aunt would neither see nor speak to each other; he did not understand why this should be so, and it troubled and bewildered him. What troubled him still more was the withdrawal of his mother’s guard, for it grieved him to see her so unprotected; he and his own troops would do what they could, of course, but even though they had been promoted out of their paper hats and into proper red caps, with fine plumes to them, and had added muskets to their swords, and though it wounded him to admit it, it was clear that, in the face of any threat from grown men bearing real arms, they could not do very much. What they could do – and this was a notion which came to the Duke’s parents, once they could be certain that he understood matters well enough to feel wounded on their behalf – was perhaps provide an opportunity to bring the two households together.
He was by now an accomplished General, well able to command his men, of which there were nearly ninety; he was proud of this army, and the King and Queen very fond of him, so his father ventured to request that they might honour Gloucester by receiving him and his troops for a formal inspection. The request was granted and a date set. The Duke spared no effort in preparation: his men must be exercised whenever possible, his cannons and pasteboard fortification in the best possible condition. It was a pity that in paying such diligent attention to his men and materials he neglected his own health, for as the day neared, he grew restless, then agitated, became afflicted with an ague, and was forced to retire, most reluctantly, to his bed.
His grief and chagrin at this turn of events can scarce be imagined, and his sufferings were all the greater because his mother thought it best to summon a man who had supposedly cured the late King Charles of an ague and to suffer him to administer to her son his own medicine, which was made of brandy and saffron, and only caused him to vomit. It is a testament to his strength, of body as well as character, that despite the depredations of both the sickness and its cure, Gloucester soon mended, and was ready, on the appointed day, to lead his troops to Kensington.
The expedition met with great success. Gloucester led his army, in two companies, over the short distance from Campden House to Kensington Palace, drums beating as they marched. They paraded in front of the Palace, while the King and Queen stood and watched, with all proper seriousness. Afterwards the King praised both the General and his well-drilled troops, singling out the drummers for their fine performance. He had twenty guineas divided up among the boys, and gave William Gardner, the very best of the drummers, two gold pieces; he told his nephew that he would visit him at Campden House the next day, for a second inspection.
When these formal proceedings were over, Gloucester was able to make his speech to the Queen. Without preamble, he said, ‘My Mamma once had guards – now she has none.’ The Queen did not reply. The King paid his visit, gave his nephew leave to salute him with his cannon and gracefully accepted the compliment which Lady Fitzharding had insisted her charge should rehearse. The two generals talked a while together, first about swords and guns, and then about horses; when Gloucester lamented that one of his four cannon had broken, the King offered to send him another. Greatly moved by this generosity, the Duke offered the King both his companies to accompany him when next he went to Flanders. He added that he hoped the King would conquer Ireland as well as France, and the whole world.
It was Gloucester’s finest moment. He had proved himself a true soldier, and nobody thought for a moment that it was his fault that the guards were not restored, or that the King did not, in the event, remember to send that cannon.
Mary Consumed
Lord, the new Archbishop has just taken his leave, and I have desired my women to let me sit alone in my closet awhile, for although the Prince will wish to hear what was said, my heart is too full yet for me to speak a word aloud. It has come, this death, like a thief in the night – we could none of us have guessed the hour, or to which house . . . For I have been so unwell this year, and my poor boy, and all the world knows the King was never in good health – I could have believed that any of us might quit this world in an instant – but Mary? Never.
My comfort is that she always watched for your coming – even when we were children she never for one moment neglected to love or fear you. I know she will have been as prepared as any soul could be for you to receive her, and what the Archbishop told me of her conduct and conversation during her sickness convinces me that my sister died as a good Christian should: that when he told her that the end was coming, she said she thanked you that she had always carried this in her mind – that she had nothing then to do but to look up to you and submit to your will; then she took her final Communion, and bid her bishops pray for her when she could pray no more.
I cannot then doubt but that she has gone to a happier place, but I hope I may be allowed to grieve a little without your thinking me rebellious, for her sufferings in her last days were so dreadful; I who have seen with my own eyes my children die of that distemper cannot help but imagine with horror and pity all her agonies, and to think that she spent full ten days on that rack . . . I pray you will forgive me if I say that if you had to cut her down so young, I could wish that you had done the thing more cleanly. Of course that is a wicked thing to think, and I must beg your pardon for it. I know you must chastise me for it, as you have done for all my many faults.
But oh, it grieves me that I was not allowed to see her, that when I last saw her there was such a want of kindness between us, that there never was any real opportunity for us to mend matters. It is true that she hurt me, that she said and did things I still cannot help but think she should not have, but if I had by some chance been given foreknowledge of how little time there was, I hope I would have found some way to appease her, without . . . without giving her that impossible thing that she would insist upon.
I am sorry that in the midst of our quarrel I thought and said so many things of her that were unkind, and allowed myself almost to forget how much I loved her . . . now that she is gone I find it is as painful to me to recollect all those instances of kindness and affection and companionship as it is to recall our quarrel – no, more painful, because they make me all the more sensible of my want of charity to her, that can never now be mended. All I have to console myself with on that head, is that when I sent Lady Fitzharding to tell the Queen of my concern, she sent back her thanks – by then she could say no more.
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The King wrote to me to tell me that I could see her when she was well enough . . . perhaps if she had recovered we could have reconciled – what a torment it is to imagine that now! As for the King, he has astonished everyone with how deeply he has been affected. I have been told by several people that during those ten days there were occasions when his reason was feared for, and even his life, he was so much disordered. I never imagined that man could feel so much, or how much he loved her – they say he could not support himself, but had to be carried almost to her bedside.
And now he has sent the Archbishop to say he would have me wait on him, so it seems I shall be received at Court again, and all the world must know it. There were even a few who did not wait until their Queen was dead before they sent their compliments – that was the clearest sign I had that there was no hope, so I could hardly rejoice at it. Then when she was gone my Lords Marlborough and Godolphin told me I should write him my condolences, and so I did though Lady Marlborough did not wish it, but I had to tell her I do not have the heart to prolong the quarrel more, and it seems he does not either . . .
So I will go and be received, when my health and my condition permit – for now I have both a bad hip and a great belly, I find I cannot walk at all, but I thank you now for softening his heart, even though I am mightily sorry for the cause of it – and if I say I am sorry, I do not mean that I do not submit to your will, for I do, and always shall.
Amen.
Part V
Anne at Thirty
Anne and Sarah are sitting together in Anne’s chamber at Berkeley House, knotting fringes. They are both making far too many mistakes, Anne because she is tired, and Sarah because it is dull work, and she has had a surfeit of it.
A Want of Kindness Page 29