The Queen's Favourites aka Courting Her Highness (v5)

by Jean Plaidy

  The truth was that Sarah had recently lost her son and almost immediately afterwards became pregnant. Unfortunately this had ended in miscarriage, and the realization had come to Sarah that she was forty-five years old. She had no son. Would she ever have one now? She felt herself ageing; the change of life was upon her. The faint depression which had been with her since her miscarriage was affected by the gossip she had heard from Sunderland and John’s infidelity had not seemed the impossibility it would have, a little earlier.

  She stayed at St. Albans nursing her misery. Henrietta showing quite clearly that she no longer cared for her mother’s opinion; Mary hating her because she had prevented that ridiculous romance; young Blandford dead. Anne and Elizabeth were pleasant creatures but Anne was married to the hateful Sunderland and who knew what he would do. And soon her beloved John would have left England and, since the death of Blandford, she had begun to wonder what greater blow could strike her. There was only one: the death of John himself. And now … there was this horrible gossip about him and the unknown woman.

  She read one of the letters he had written:

  “As for your suspicion of me as to this woman, that will vanish, but it can never go out of my mind the opinion you must have of me, after my solemn protesting and swearing, that it did not gain any belief with you. This thought has made me take no rest this night and will forever make me unhappy.”

  The relationship was no longer perfect. This would always be between them. And worse still, she could not let herself believe that her dearest Marl still loved her.

  “He must hate me,” she told herself, “because I stand between him and … that woman!”

  Again he wrote to her:

  “When I swear to you as I do that I love you, it is not dissembling. As I know your temper, I am very sensible that what I say signified nothing. However, I can forbear repeating what I said yesterday, which is that I have never sent to her in my life, and may my happiness in the other world as well as this depend upon the truth of this.”

  It is true, she told herself. There could not be anyone else. Yet the scandals of him in his youth were true enough. He had been a philanderer then.

  He was begging her to come back to him. He was reminding her that the time was short and that he could not long delay his departure. She must come back to him, live with him as his wife, believe in him.

  “If the thought of the children that we have had, or aught else that has ever been dear to us, can oblige you to be so goodnatured as not to leave my bed for the remaining time, I shall take it kindly to my dying day, and do most faithfully promise you that I will take the first opportunity of leaving England, and assure you that you may rest quiet that from that time you shall never more be troubled with my hated sight. My heart is so full that if I do not vent this truth it will break, which is that I do from my soul curse that hour in which I gave my poor dear child to a man that has made me of all mankind the most unhappiest.”

  When Sarah read that letter she was shaken. What was happening to them, they who had been so close, so happy all these years? She was wrong, of course she was wrong; but it was not easy for Sarah to admit that she was wrong.

  Bed! she grumbled. Bed! That’s all he thinks of!

  But she went to him and said: “You are my husband and I shall accompany you to Harwich to bid you farewell.”

  He was pathetically eager to accept her on any grounds, but she refused to rid herself of her suspicions. She wrote an angry letter which she gave him on parting, but as she stood watching the ship disappear she was overcome by a longing for him; and with a return of that feeling which she had experienced she knew that the charge against him was false, that he loved her as wholeheartedly as she loved him; and that a madness had come to her, perhaps because she loved him so deeply, so possessively, that the very thought that he could prefer someone else drove her to fury.

  There was only one thing to do and that was sit down and write the truth to him.

  She had been foolish. She loved him. What madness was it that made them believe they could ever be parted or their interests be divided. She would come out to him, that she might be beside him, for the children were settled now—with the exception of Mary who was well looked after in her Court post—and she need not consider their welfare but her own inclination.

  When John read the letter he was overcome with joy.

  The nightmare was past. They were together in spirit again. Life was good again, intensely worth living.

  He thanked her for her dear letter; he would read it again and again. She had preserved his quiet and made him believe in his life once more. There must never again be trouble between them, for there was no happiness for him without her and he dared hope that there was none for her without him.

  Sarah now settled down to await his return.

  BLENHEIM

  hose were trying months. Tension was rising and even the people in the streets knew that what was happening on the Continent at this time could be decisive. Louis XIV was anxious to settle the European conflict and was planning a march on Vienna; his armies had already passed through the Black Forest and were with the Elector of Bavaria on the Danube. The Dutch were apprehensive at the thought of a conflict so far from home; so were the English. Sarah knew that John was not going to make the attack on the Moselle which he had allowed the Dutch and Parliament to believe. He was going to take the battle right into Germany; and when the news that Marlborough had taken his Dutch and English armies up the Rhine to Mainz there was consternation at home and in Holland.

  The Tories—who had never wanted the war—were furious, and Marlborough was attacked both in the Commons and the Lords. He was exceeding orders; he was making decisions which should be left to the Government; he was conducting a war of his own.

  “Impeach him!” was the cry.

  Sarah was furious with those who dared suggest this—none did in her presence.

  “Let him fail,” was the comment, “and we’ll have his head.”

  “I’ll see them all in hell first!” was Sarah’s retort.

  Anne was faithful to her. She was aware of the sly looks which came Mrs. Freeman’s way. Sarah stormed about the royal apartments as bombastic as ever—no, even more so. She was going to make them eat their words.

  There was bad news from Scotland. Godolphin came in trembling to the Queen. He was always a timid creature, was Sarah’s comment. But Godolphin advised Anne to placate Scotland, for if she did not, a civil war might be the result and that would not be a very healthy position for England considering the flower of the Army was with Marlborough.

  Anne then agreed to a passage in the Act of Security which allowed Scotland to choose its own King irrespective of what England did.

  A backward step, was the comment; and one which could bring back the old days of war between the North and South.

  It was a hot summer and George could not breathe in London so Anne and he went to Windsor.

  George shook his head over the state of affairs. He was clearly thinking how different it would have been had he been allowed to be Commander-in-Chief.

  “I believe in Mr. Freeman,” said Anne; and no matter what criticism was levelled at Marlborough she repeated the phrase.

  Abigail had returned to her old place, for Sarah was often at St. Albans. She had found the court unendurable during those hot days and believed that if she had to endure more of Anne’s exasperating ways she would scream the truth at her which was that she was a foolish old woman and Sarah hated to be near her.

  Sarah wanted none of these passionate relationships with her own sex. Sarah wanted John with her—a John returned successful from his campaigns.

  She had to face the fact that the position looked grim, and that made her all the more eager for his return. But he must come triumphant or they would put him in the Tower. She remembered the agonies of those days when he had been a prisoner there.

  She raged against his enemies: Rochester, Nottingham in the House of
Lords; Sir Edward Seymour in the Commons. How dared they—just because he was bold and adventurous. Did they not know that that was the only way to success?

  Let them beware. Marlborough would succeed and then he would be the most powerful man in England.

  Anne lay back in her chair. She was so tired.

  “Hill,” she called. “Hill! Oh, there you are. Never far away.”

  “Your Majesty would like me to make you tea.”

  “I think that would be very pleasant.”

  Anne stroked the dog in her lap. Life had become very difficult lately, after having been so pleasant. Her people had loved her for bringing back the old custom of touching for the King’s Evil and then of course there was her Bounty. But wars made Kings and Queens unpopular and Mr. Freeman’s boldness was not appreciated at home. She had had news from France which she found very worrying.

  There was Hill with the tea. It was so soothing.

  “Your Majesty is disturbed, I fear,” said Hill.

  “I am, Hill. I don’t know what is going to happen to our Armies.”

  “They are safe with the Duke, Madam, do you not think?” Abigail tried to keep the note of excitement out of her voice. She had talked quite often lately with Samuel Masham about the growing unpopularity of the Marlboroughs.

  “I hope so, Hill. I hope and pray so.”

  “But Your Majesty has the utmost confidence in the Duke?”

  “Oh yes, Hill. But the Government seems quite angry with him. They are talking of impeachment.”

  “It would never come to that, Madam, surely.”

  “No, because the Duke will succeed. Of course he will succeed. But the French seem very confident. I have a despatch here, Hill.”

  Abigail was trembling slightly. A despatch. So it had come to this. The Queen was going to show her a despatch!

  “The King of France gave a great fête and banquet, Hill, at Marly on the Seine, and the banquet was for my step-brother and his mother. He is calling them the King and Queen of England.”

  “It cannot be so, Madam.”

  “Yes, I fear so. Read this. Read it aloud to me.”

  “It was a sumptuous repast,” read Abigail, “with new services of porcelain and glass on tables of white marble. At nightfall, drums, trumpets, cymbals and hautbois announced that the fireworks were about to begin and after supper the King and Queen of England returned to St. Germains.”

  “The King and Queen of England!” repeated the Queen. “You see that is an insult, Hill … to me.”

  “But it is only the King of France, Madam.”

  “And Marlborough has the Army in Germany. Oh dear, I do hope he succeeds in what he is trying to do, for the Government is very angry with him. Really, Hill, I don’t know what should be done.”

  “We can pray, Madam.”

  Pray! Dear, good, pious creature. It was comforting to be with her.

  Anne was at Windsor and Sarah in London during that hot August. The tension was too great, Sarah told herself, for her to be able to endure Anne’s inanities at this time. It was better therefore that they should be apart and she could trust Abigail Hill to do what was necessary.

  She longed for news of John. She was even a little remorseful that, the last time they had been together, she had been so cruel to him. Now that his enemies were preparing to tear him apart she wanted the whole world to know—but most of all John—that she was beside him and would defend him with her life.

  What was happening on the Continent? The rumours grew daily. Godolphin was no comfort. Spineless fool! thought Sarah. It was being said that John had disobeyed instructions. Whose? Those who did not know what warfare meant? Those who stayed behind in London and told the greatest general in the world how the war should be run? And they were waiting for disaster. Almost hoping for disaster, not caring if they saw the downfall of England as long as it brought with it the downfall of John Churchill, Duke of Marlborough.

  Occasionally letters reached her, but she knew that for every one she received there were two or perhaps more that went astray. John was marching through Germany; he had told her that the weather was alternately uncomfortably hot or, almost worse still, very wet. She knew from the scrappiness of his letters that he was often apprehensive and she wished that she could be with him to encourage him.

  It was the twenty-first of August and there had been no news for some time; tension was growing; she was afraid every time a servant knocked at her door that ill news was being brought to her. She, who never found it easy to remain calm, was now overwrought. She bullied her servants and any members of her family who came near her; it was her only way of releasing her feelings.

  And on that day the news came. It began with a scratching on her door.

  “Yes, what is it?” cried Sarah, her voice almost shrill.

  “A gentleman to see Your Grace. He says he is Colonel Parke.”

  Colonel Parke! John’s aide-de-camp. Sarah cried: “Bring him to me. No … I’ll go to him.”

  She was running down the stairs and there he was—travel-stained and weary, holding out a letter to her.

  “From the Duke,” she cried and snatched it.

  August 13th, 1704.

  “I have not time to say more, but to beg you will give my duty to the Queen and let her know her Army has had a glorious victory. Monsieur Talland and two other Generals are in my coach and I am following the rest: the bearer, my aide-de-camp Colonel Parke, will give her an account of what has passed. I shall do it in a day or two by another more at large.

  Marlborough.”

  Sarah read the note through and read it through again. No loving message. No word of tenderness. Then she realized that the battle had just been over when he had written that note—it was scrawled on a bill of tavern expenses—and that he had bidden Colonel Parke ride with all speed to her. It had taken a week for the Colonel to reach her.

  “The Duke has been victorious,” she cried.

  “Yes, Madam, and he wrote first to you. He spread the only paper he could lay hands on on his saddle and wrote. Then he said: ‘Carry that to the Duchess with all speed.’ ”

  “To me first …” she said. “Tell me the name of this battle.”

  “It was the battle of Blenheim, Your Grace, and it is one of the greatest victories of all time.”

  “Blenheim,” she repeated. “Now,” she went on briskly. “This note must be carried to the Queen with all speed. You must take it, Colonel Parke. But stay a short while for refreshment. You need it. Then be off.”

  “Thank you, Your Grace.”

  Sarah herself ordered the refreshment and was with the Colonel while he ate and drank, plying him with questions.

  And all the time she was thinking, “A great victory. And I am the first to receive the news. This will be a slap in the face for all our enemies. This will show Mrs. Morley and the rest that they had better take care next time before they revile the Duke of Marlborough and his Duchess.”

  The Queen was in her boudoir at Windsor—the polygonal room in the turret over the Norman gateway—with Abigail in attendance.

  Anne was in a silent mood, thinking of the disagreement of her ministers and Marlborough. It was most disturbing. Abigail had brought her her favourite bohea tea and ratifia biscuits, but she could not drive from her mind the memory of discord. Mr. Freeman was determined to have his way and the ministers were determined to have theirs … and that meant strife and great trouble on the Continent.

  A scratching at the door. Silent-footed Hill was there.

  “Her Majesty is resting.…”

  “This is a messenger from the Duchess of Marlborough. She says he is to be taken to Her Majesty without delay.”

  “Who is it, Hill?”

  “A messenger from the Duchess.”

  “Bring him in then.”

  So he came and bowed to her and put into her hands the tavern bill on which was the first news of the victory at Blenheim.

  “A great victory, Madam. The Duk
e himself says that it is a decisive battle and that it is the greatest victory of his career.”

  “My dear Colonel, you have ridden far. Hill, bring some bohea for the Colonel. But perhaps you would prefer something a little stronger. Now tell me everything.”

  The Colonel told, and as he did so Anne glowed with pride and pleasure.

  “He was justified in his action,” she murmured. “I am so pleased. He is the greatest general in the whole world and he works for me. My dear Colonel, how can I tell you how happy this has made us?”

  “This will make all England happy, Your Majesty.”

  “And rightly so. We will have the Duke’s note copied and circulated in thousands throughout the City. I do not want this wonderful news withheld a moment longer than it need be. And you, my dear Colonel, shall have your reward of five hundred pounds for being the bearer of such news. I shall never be more glad to see a messenger so rewarded.”

  “If you please, Your Majesty, I should prefer a portrait of yourself.”

  “My dear Colonel,” laughed Anne, “your request shall be granted.”

  The next day Colonel Parke received a miniature of the Queen set with diamonds; and as Anne realized that this victory was indeed the greatest of her reign she added a thousand pounds to the miniature, that the bearer of such news might be doubly rewarded.

  Sarah, flushed with triumph, treasuring the fact that she had been the first person in the country to hear of the victory at Blenheim—even before the Queen—came hurrying down to Windsor. There she took triumphant charge of affairs; truculent, laughing in the faces of those who had dared criticize the Duke, she was ready to show them who was mistress of them all—the Queen included.

  “We must,” announced Sarah, “return at once to London. The people must be made to realize that this is indeed a great victory. There must be celebrations.…”