by Jean Plaidy
“And thanksgiving,” put in Anne. “We must give thanks to God to whom we owe this victory.”
“Well, Mrs. Morley,” cried Sarah with a loud laugh, “I think we owe this victory to Mr. Freeman.”
Anne was shocked by such irreverence, but she had always known that dear Mrs. Freeman had never been really devout.
“We shall be eternally grateful to Mr. Freeman,” said Anne with dignity, “but we must not forget that victory or defeat—both are in the hands of Almighty God.”
“There should, of course, be a thanksgiving service at St. Paul’s,” cut in Sarah, her mind forging ahead, making plans. A carriage with herself and the Queen. It was fitting that she should share the Queen’s carriage. This was the Duke of Marlborough’s victory and no one was going to forget it.
The Queen was delighted at the prospect of a thanksgiving service and willing enough to discuss it.
“You should be most splendidly attired,” said Sarah, “and wear your most dazzling jewels. I will choose them. Both should be quite splendid.”
“Oh dear, I am a little worried about Mr. Morley. I do hope his asthma will not worry him unduly. These ceremonies tire him so and there is nothing like fatigue for bringing on an attack.”
“I was referring to us, Mrs. Morley, for I think it only right and fitting that I should accompany you to St. Paul’s. I am sure Mr. Freeman would wish it. You will remember it was to me that he sent the first news of the victory.”
“But of course, dear Mrs. Freeman should ride with her unfortunate Morley.”
“I do not think the King of France is calling you unfortunate at this moment!” laughed Sarah. “Well, I shall choose our jewels and I think we should have the service as soon as possible.”
“I am in entire agreement,” said Anne.
So Sarah and Anne returned to London with Abigail—now relegated to be the chambermaid once more—and in her post as Mistress of the Robes, Sarah chose what the Queen should wear.
Such splendour she could never match, and as she was not one to take second place she decided to attract attention by the very simplicity of her own attire.
They rode from St. James’s Palace to St. Paul’s—Anne resplendent, Sarah simply clad; but Anne’s jewels could not compete with Sarah’s beauty; and in any case she was the wife of the hero of the day.
Anne was elated as she was always by her visits to church, and a thanksgiving service for a great victory must be doubly inspiring.
When they returned and Sarah had dismissed the Queen’s attendants, Anne said to her, “I and the nation will never cease to be grateful to Mr. Freeman.”
Sarah bowed her head graciously.
“And I have been thinking,” went on the Queen, “that it is only fitting that we should show our gratitude, and how better than by bestowing on Mr. Freeman and yourself some fine estate.”
Sarah’s eyes had begun to shine.
“It would be a magnificent gesture,” she agreed, “if we could persuade Mr. Freeman to accept it.”
“I am sure,” said Anne, with the glint of a smile, “that if it is Mrs. Freeman’s wish it will be Mr. Freeman’s.”
“I may endeavour to persuade him,” agreed Sarah. “What has Mrs. Morley in mind?”
“I was thinking of the Manor of Woodstock, a delightful place in a charming setting. It is my plan that that site might be used to build a house … a palace … for nothing else would be worthy to celebrate this great event … for the use of Mr. and Mrs. Freeman and their heirs.”
“Woodstock,” murmured Sarah, subdued for once. “It is an excellent spot.”
“Yes, a palace,” went on the Queen, “which you and Mr. Freeman should plan together.”
Sarah’s eyes were shining now. A palace! A pile of stones, gracious and imposing, which in the centuries to come should be the home of the Marlboroughs.
“No expense should be spared in the building of this palace,” went on the Queen, seeing how excited her beloved Mrs. Freeman was becoming. “It should be the gift of a grateful nation to its greatest general. I should only ask one concession.”
“Concession?” said Sarah.
“Yes, Mrs. Freeman, I would ask that it be called Blenheim Palace so that none should ever forget this famous victory and the man who was responsible for it.”
“Blenheim Palace,” repeated Sarah. “I like it. I like it very much.”
INTRIGUE IN THE GREEN CLOSET
obert Harley sat in his favourite spot at the Apollo Club, indulging his favourite pastime—drinking. Harley enjoyed the night-life of London. He liked the atmosphere of the clubs which were springing up all over the City. He even visited the coffee houses and taverns in order to exchange conversation with literary acquaintances who frequented them. Next to drinking he enjoyed talking, and when Harley talked others enjoyed listening; for he was witty, brilliant and persuasive, in spite of his discordant voice and hesitant delivery.
Since his new appointment—he had recently replaced Nottingham and become Secretary of State for the Northern Department—he still found time to mingle with his literary friends and if he was not at the Apollo he would be at the Rota, invariably accompanied by his friend and disciple, Henry St. John, who, naturally enough, had received an appointment at the same time as Harley and was the new Secretary at War.
They had made their way through streets in which the celebrations for the victory of Blenheim were at their height. The coffee houses were full of people sipping hot coffee, chocolate or Nants brandy. The taverns were even more crowded. There were already signs of drunkenness and as the evening progressed these would naturally increase. Harley, with St. John beside him, had had to push his way through the crowds.
The comparative peace of the Apollo was very pleasant, so was the taste of good brandy.
Harley looked sardonically at St. John and said: “This could well be called Duke’s Day. That screaming hysterical herd will crown the ducal head with laurels when he returns—the victorious conqueror. But remember they would as readily have screamed for that head to be cut from the ducal shoulders and placed at Temple Bar to be spat at and scorned, had the battle gone the other way. There’s the mob for you, Harry.”
“Well, ’twas always so.”
“True enough. Nor was I intending to make an original observation in stating the obvious. No, I am merely asking you to observe an action natural to the hysterical screaming uneducated mob and to realize that since it is possible successfully to gauge its reaction, how easy it could be to control it.”
St. John looked intently at his mentor.
“Marlborough!” went on Harley. “That name is on every tongue. The Great Duke! The Victorious Duke! The Victor of Blenheim! He disobeyed instructions from home and by great fortune—for him—he won his battle. Ah, if it had gone the other way. That screaming mass of ignorance would have torn him to pieces. And now, it would appear that we shall be ruled by the Marlboroughs.”
“And so have we been since Anne came to the throne, for does not Anne rule us, and is not Anne ruled by Sarah?”
“Ruled by women. Is it a healthy state of affairs, Harry? For I would take the sad story further and say that Marlborough is ruled by his wife—so we might all call ourselves Sarah’s subjects.”
“Has the Queen no will of her own?”
“She has a stubbornness. She comes to a point when she makes up her mind and will not be turned from her opinion—even, I believe, by Sarah. One realizes this by the summing up of opinion which is repeated and repeated in face of all arguments. I often wonder whether even Sarah can break that down. And therein lies my hope.”
“Your hope, Master?”
“Well, do you wish to remain one of Sarah’s subjects?”
“I loathe the woman, but while the Queen is besotted by her how can we help it?”
“There are always ways, my dear fellow. The Marlboroughs are supreme now … at their peak, shall we say. Never can they climb higher than they are at this moment. Now
is the time to assess their power, to find their weaknesses.”
“But …”
“I know. I know. We are Marlborough’s men. We are his protégés. To him we owe our advancement. He trusts us. Now we come to his weakness. It is never wise—in politics to trust anyone.”
“I have trusted you.”
“My dear fellow, we are travelling companions—we go together. Your support is useful to me; my influence is useful to you. We are not rivals. We move in unison. It is the Marlboroughs who are our rivals. If we are not careful we shall find that we must agree with Marlborough in all things—and that, like as not, means obeying Sarah—and if we do not, we shall be out.”
St. John shrugged his shoulders.
“You would accept this state of affairs? A great mistake, Harry. Never accept anything unless it is agreeable. Pray accept some more brandy for that at least you know to be agreeable without doubt.”
“So … you intend to work against Marlborough?”
“You express yourself crudely. Let us say this, Harry, if we would advance we do not stand still. We go forward. We explore the territory and assess its advantages. Well, that is what I intend to do.”
“But how?”
Harley laughed. “Can you not guess? I shall tell you then, because we are in this together, St. John. You know that as I march forward I take you with me. That’s agreed, is it not?”
“We have worked together; you have helped me, encouraged me.”
“And when I receive my Government appointment you have yours. We’re in harness, Harry. Don’t forget. Now in what territory would you reconnoitre if you were surveying the coming battle? You are at a loss, Harry. That’s rare with you. In the Queen’s bedchamber, my dear fellow! That is the place. And the time is now. You will see I am ready to go into action.”
Glorious days! thought Sarah. Letters from Marl telling of his plans and his love for her. “I would give up ambition, my hopes for future glory, for the sake of my dearest soul.” They were bound together again and there must be no more follies. She was certain that if by any chance there had been a little truth in the rumour Sunderland had reported to her, Marl had learned his lesson. He would never risk looking at another woman.
She had been down to look at the site for the new Palace. Woodstock was both delightful and romantic. There Henry II had dallied with the Fair Rosamond Clifford, and to avoid the jealousy of Queen Eleanor had had a bower built for her within a maze to which few had the clue. Eleanor determined to destroy her rival, arranged that a skein of silk be put in Rosamond’s pocket that it should be unravelled as she walked through the maze, and thus Eleanor, following the silken clue, was led to the bower where she offered Rosamond a choice between a dagger or a bowl of poison.
Rumour! thought Sarah mockingly, knowing how rumour could arise. But the fact remained that Rosamond died soon after her liaison with the King was made known and there seemed little doubt that Eleanor had had a hand in it.
Sarah could well sympathize with the Queen. I’d be ready with the dagger and the poisoned bowl for any woman Marl preferred to me! she thought. But how foolish! He preferred only her. Did she not carry a letter in her pocket in which he told her so with the utmost emphasis.
The romantic past of Woodstock made even her imaginative. Here the Black Prince had been born; here Elizabeth had been imprisoned; Charles I had sheltered here after the Battle of Edgehill; but now in place of Woodstock there would be Blenheim, and when people passed this way they would not think of Elizabeth or Charles or the Fair Rosamond—they would say: There is Blenheim which commemorates one of the greatest victories in English history made possible by England’s greatest soldier.
It was a beautiful spot; two thousand acres of parkland watered by the River Glyme. Sarah was impatient, and when she had viewed the site engaged Sir Christopher Wren to draw up plans.
Wren of course was getting old and perhaps it was wise to engage another architect to submit his ideas. She had heard that the Controller of Works was doing a very fine job for the Earl of Carlisle, rebuilding his mansion—Castle Howard. He was the rising architect; Wren was the waning one.
“Your Grace should certainly give John Vanbrugh a trial. He’s an amusing fellow besides being an excellent architect. He’s the man who writes those witty plays.”
“He can show me what he can do,” Sarah had said; and as a result the plans submitted by John Vanbrugh had been chosen in preference to those of Wren.
So far so good. But there were troubles in the family circle and again it was Mary. She was only sixteen and very beautiful—perhaps the most beautiful of an extremely handsome family.
She was young, but Sarah had seen since that unfortunate affair at St. Albans that Mary was the sort who needed to be married young.
She had not talked to Marl about their daughter. He was far too indulgent where his daughters were concerned. In fact had he not been so devoted to her they might have joined forces against her. But Marl would never do that. Throughout her stormy relationships with her family John had always done everything in his power to bring her children back to her. “You must listen to your mother. Really she knows best.” And those bold girls of hers—Henrietta and Mary particularly—would fling their arms about his neck and say: “But Papa, you understand. We know you do!” There could have been conflict in the family but for Marl’s complete loyalty to her.
And now there was Mary. She remained sullen and on bad terms with her mother. Really the girl should be whipped. And, Sarah told herself and Mary, if I had more time I might be tempted to do so.
Mary’s lips curled in contemptuous disregard and it was all Sarah could do to prevent herself striking the girl.
In any case she knew that she must get her married quickly.
There were suitors in plenty. In the first place who would not want to mate with the Marlboroughs? And in the second, in spite of her present sullenness, Mary was a very attractive girl.
Lord Tullibardine had tentatively approached Sarah and she was by no means averse to such a match. The Earl of Peterborough’s heir was clearly attracted by the girl; and Lord Huntingdon had hinted that he was interested. Besides these there were others whom Sarah could not consider, but it was obvious that it would be the simplest matter to get Mary married.
But every time Sarah approached the girl she was sullen.
“I have no wish to marry any man you may choose for me.”
“So you intend to die unmarried?” demanded Sarah.
“I did not say that.”
“You will marry whom I choose for you or not at all.”
“Then there is no alternative but to die unmarried,” retorted the insolent creature.
“Lord Huntingdon is the son of the Earl of Cromartie,” Sarah reminded her daughter.
“I am aware of it.”
“So you consider he is not good enough?”
“I consider I am too young to marry—as you told me recently.”
“Too young for an unsuitable marriage.”
“I cannot see how suitability affects age.”
“I can see how your insolence is affecting me.”
That was how it was. Perpetual strife; and now Lord Monthermer, son of the Earl of Montague, was expressing interest.
“Lord Monthermer is a very worthy young man,” said Sarah.
“Being the future Earl of Montague?” asked Mary.
“Those who turn away the best prizes often have to accept something less valuable later on.”
“I am still too young, Mamma, to be interested in these glittering prizes.”
Who would have daughters!
And thus it was. Taking Mary to St. Albans in the hope that a sojourn from Court would enable her energetic mother to instill a little sense into her foolish young head; going down to Woodstock, having meetings with John Vanbrugh. It took so much time so she could not be with Anne as much as the latter would have liked.
Mrs. Morley must realize how busy I am with my a
ffairs, Sarah told herself. In any case there is Abigail Hill to make sure that everything runs smoothly in my absence. That is exactly why she was put where she is.
So during those weeks when Harley was planning his strategy, Sarah, immersed in her own affairs, left the fort wide open to her enemies.
The Queen was preparing to go into the green closet. George had come to her apartment to accompany her there and was at the moment standing at the window commenting on the passers-by. His remarks were malicious; he enjoyed poking fun at the oddities of others, although, thought Abigail, his own obesity was scarcely attractive; but perhaps this was the reason for his delight in the physical disabilities of others.
“We are ready now, my dearest,” said Anne.
George turned reluctantly from the window and yawned.
“You’ll have your nap, my dear, in the green closet. Hill will make some bohea after a little while and that will revive you.”
“The sucking pig was goot,” said George. “But I think I haf ate too much of it.”
“Dearest, you always eat too much sucking pig—and then there was the wild fowls and fricasse. You’ll sleep it off, never fear. Hill, who will be in the closet today?”
“Mr. Harley, Madam, and Mr. St. John … among others.”
“Pleasant creatures, both,” said Anne; and they went to the green closet.
Abigail, while waiting on the Queen, was conscious of Mr. Harley’s interest. Every time she lifted her eyes it seemed that she met his. His smile was warm and friendly; and she wondered what had happened to arouse his interest in her. She did not imagine that he was attracted by her, for she was not an attractive woman, except to perhaps Samuel Masham who was clearly affected by her; but Samuel was not a great politician—merely a humble servant to royalty like herself, meek and never forgetful of his place. Robert Harley was different. He was one of the most important men in the Government; and surely there was only one reason why he could show his interest in a humble person such as herself.
Yet he had not attracted scandal by his affairs with women. He was respectably married and by all accounts was faithful to his wife, although he was a notoriously heavy drinker and a lover of the night-life of London. But what did it mean?