Royal Sisters: The Story of the Daughters of James II - Plaidy

She was so contented that for some days she forgot the existence of Mrs. Freeman, who, to her disgust, was not allowed the liberty which had been hers before. Lady Clarendon had taken charge of the household and naturally the Duke of York paid more attention to his sister by marriage than to his daughter’s favorite woman.

It shall not always be so, thought Sarah, and during Anne’s confinement she grew to hate the Duke and Duchess of York.

Papists! she thought. They were nothing more than papists. Madame of Modena had swept through the apartments like a Queen bestowing little attention on Lady Churchill.

Well, Madam, thought Sarah, you will be sorry for that. Lots of people were going to be sorry one day.

But Anne was soon asking for Mrs. Freeman who complained to her bitterly that she had been kept from her Mrs. Morley at the time she was most needed.

“I missed you,” Anne told her.

“It was a pity Mrs. Morley did not demand that Mrs. Freeman be brought to her.”

Anne yawned faintly and Sarah noticed this. She must curb her frankness with the Princess, who was of course utterly spoiled by those around her and in particular her father.

“Well, we are together now and I shall see personally that my dear Mrs. Morley does not over-tax her strength, for I do believe that it was due to this that we have had this unfortunate tragedy.”

“Please, do not let us talk of it. Get the cards, Mrs. Freeman, and call Barbara Fitzharding—and whom shall we have for a fourth?”

Not that old aunt of yours, thought Sarah, hurrying away to summon Mrs. Danvers. And how dared she suggest cards when clearly Sarah wanted to talk.

But John was right, of course. She must go carefully.

So when she returned with the cards and the players she insisted on placing cushions about the Princess and setting a box of sweetmeats beside her.

Anne smiled at her contentedly and the game began.

And very shortly afterward Anne was pregnant.

THE KING IS DEAD

reat events were about to break over England, but none was aware of them on that February day. It was dusk and enormous fires were blazing in the royal apartments. Anne, now obviously pregnant, sat with her husband and some members of their suites playing basset. The stakes were high and Anne was smiling delightedly. Sarah, in attendance on her mistress, looking on at the game, was shocked because the bank contained at least two thousand pounds in gold. A wanton waste! she grumbled inwardly thinking of what the money would mean to the Churchills. Anne, knowing that she was far from rich, had given her several gifts of money; and these she had gratefully taken. This should continue, she decided; and she must find means of diverting more and more money into the Churchill purse. She would do so with a better conscience after having seen it wasted at the gaming table.

The King was sitting with three of his favorite women—the Duchesses of Portsmouth, Cleveland, and Mazarine. He looked ill and had eaten scarcely anything all day, but he was smiling and chatting with his usual affability; and now and then would caress one of the ladies.

Queen Catherine was not present—she was often absent from these occasions. Doubtless, it was supposed, because she did not care to see her husband with his mistresses; and, although he was kind to her in all other ways, this was one concession he would not grant her. It was the same with his brother the Duke of York; he was married to a beautiful wife, many years younger than himself and although she had hated him when she had first come to England she was now passionately in love with him and deeply resentful of his mistresses—yet he, though ready to do everything else she might ask, was not able to forgo this dalliance with women.

The Duchess of Portsmouth was leaning toward the King telling him that he was tired and she suggested a little supper in her apartments.

Cleveland and Mazarine were scowling at Portsmouth and Charles said that while he ever found supping in her apartments delightful, he had lost his appetite for the day.

Cleveland and Mazarine were smiling triumphantly, but Portsmouth replied: “I have had a special soup made for Your Majesty—very light but nourishing.”

Charles smiled and declared that he would taste it. He was anxious to leave the hall for he found the light trying and the noise from the basset table and the singer in the gallery gave him a headache.

In the company of the ladies and a few of his courtiers he left the hall; and no one knew then that it would never be quite the same again.

Charles spent a restless night and then in the morning when he left his bed for his closet his attendants noticed that he walked unsteadily. Later when he talked to them he seemed to forget what he was talking about and his speech was slurred.

It took a long time to dress and as he moved away from his bed he swayed and would have fallen had not his attendants steadied him.

Dr. King, one of his physicians, was in the palace and he came at once to the King’s bedside, but Charles was now clearly very ill indeed, for his face was purple and distorted and his power of speech had left him.

There was tension throughout the palace. The King was ill—more ill than he had ever been before.

They were sending for the Duke of York. What now?

The King was still alive, but there was anxiety throughout the kingdom. He had lived for his own pleasure; he had set the tone of immorality not only in the Court but throughout the country; unknown to his ministers he had made treaties with France; and he was said to be a secret Catholic; yet rarely had the English so sincerely mourned the passing of a King.

In the streets they were weeping openly. Many of them remembered his coming back to them twenty-five years ago—the flowers strewn over the cobbles; the music in the streets; the bonfires; wine and dancing and merriment. And if it had not turned out as wonderful as they had believed it was going to, at least it had been gay and lighthearted and different from the gloom of old Noll Cromwell’s day.

They loved him; they called him the merry Monarch; they remembered some of his sayings which had often been repeated because they were wise and witty. And now he was dying, and leaving them—James!

Under the sorrow there was low rumbling of “No popery!”

In his bedchamber the King lived on. It seemed he could not die. They had tried all the remedies they knew; they had opened his veins with a penknife; they had put a hot iron on his head; they had purged him; they had placed newly killed pigeons at his feet.

Under all these ministrations he rallied for a time and when the news was spread through the streets, the people shouted in their joy; they made bonfires and all the bells of London were ringing at once. He had been ill before and he was well again. All those who had seen him riding through his capital, sauntering through his parks in the company of his ladies with his spaniels at his heels, all those who had seen him throwing at pell mell were certain that he had the strength of ten men.

But the rejoicings were soon over. He could not live and although as he said—and apologized for it—he was a long time a-dying, he was dying all the same.

James was kneeling at his bedside, weeping, begging him to take the sacrament before he died.

Poor James! he was a sentimental man and they were brothers. Later he would think of what his brother’s passing meant to him, but at this time he could remember only the long years of intimacy, of struggle and endeavor, of exile and strife and, at last, the homecoming.

Charles tried to frame the words: “James, best of friends and best of brothers.…”

The tears ran down James’s cheeks, and Charles begged forgiveness for those exiles which had been a necessity, but he was sorry for them.

The Queen came to the bedside; she was a heartbroken woman; there were others too, women, who followed her into the bedchamber, to remind him that though she was his wife they were the ones who had shared his company.

The Queen was sobbing; she begged him to forgive her if she had ever offended him. “Alas, poor lady,” cried Charles, “she begs my pardon! I beg hers, with all my heart.”

He could not breathe; there were so many people crowding the apartment and all day and all night they remained.

James came to the bed, his eyes alight with fanaticism; he bent his head and whispered to his brother that since he was at heart a Catholic he should receive the rites of the Catholic church.

“No,” said Charles, “you endanger your life, brother.”

But when had James thought of danger? He had the chamber cleared and Father Huddleston, who had once saved the King’s life at the battle of Worcester, was brought disguised into the death chamber.

“Brother,” said James, “I bring you a man who once saved your life; now he comes to save your soul.”

The sacrament according to the rites of the church of Rome was given with extreme unction.

Then the doors were thrown open and those who had been shut out were allowed to return.

The next morning Charles II was dead.

LONG LIVE THE KING

here was a quiet throughout the country. There was a new King on the throne—King James II—and everyone was waiting to see what would happen. The cries of “No popery” were no longer heard, but eyes were alert and there was an air of waiting, an implication that the present era was uneasy and perhaps temporary.

There was one who was in the minds of all, though few mentioned his name: James Duke of Monmouth, at present at The Hague, the guest of the Prince and Princess of Orange. What would he do now? His greatest enemy had been the Duke of York who was now King James II. Monmouth had ostentatiously called himself the Protestant Duke. And what was the Protestant Duke doing now?

Anne, heavily pregnant, was thinking constantly of the child she was to have. She indulged herself more than usual.

“I am determined this time,” she told Sarah, “that my child shall live.”

“He will be a step nearer to the throne when he is born than when he was conceived,” commented Sarah.

Anne wept then for Uncle Charles. “He was always so kind to me. I cannot believe that I shall never see him again. Of course, dear Mrs. Freeman, there were times when I had no notion of what he meant. He was so witty always, but kind with it, and you know that is a rare gift. Is that why he was so loved, do you think? Oh, how I miss him.”

Fat, pink fool! thought Sarah. You could be Queen of England before long and all you think of is crying for Uncle Charles!

Sarah had long talks with John. They were growing closer together; they were more than lovers; they were partners and their ambition burned more brightly than any passion; Sarah was once more pregnant and this time they hoped for a son.

“John, John,” she cried, “what does this mean? What can this mean?”

“We can only wait and see.”

Sarah stamped impatiently. “We must not wait too long.”

“But, my dearest, for a while we must wait. I am wondering what is happening now on the Continent.”

“Monmouth?”

“And William. Do not forget William, my love.”

“Depend upon it Caliban is hatching some plot.”

“And forcing his wife to help him, I’ll swear.”

“She has about as much sense as my dear Mrs. Morley. They are told ‘Do this’ ‘Do that.’ And like idiots they do it.”

John touched her cheek lightly. “Which is very good for my dear Mrs. Freeman.”

“I’m thinking of the other one—Mary. Don’t forget she comes first.”

“We must not plan too far ahead, my dear. Remember James is still the King.”

“But is he going to remain King?”

“He has stepped into his brother’s place naturally and easily. I confess I expected trouble. There has been none. It seems he understands his danger for he has been behaving with more good sense than he usually shows.”

Sarah clenched her hands. “And Monmouth? What of Monmouth?”

“They’ll never accept the bastard.”

“The Protestant Duke!” said Sarah with a sneer. “And William? Those two are said to be friends. Rivals, as Charles once said, for the same mistress. And that mistress is the crown which James now wears.”

“We’ll keep our eyes on The Hague. That’s where the next move will come from.”

“William and Mary! Do you think they’ll make an attempt?”

John shook his head. “Not yet. William’s too clever. James will have to commit himself more deeply before it would be wise for anyone to try to oust him from the throne. The English don’t want a papist King but you know what they are for fair play. They wouldn’t like Mary to take over before her time … unless it was for a very good reason.”

“Mary! They say she does not enjoy good health and William would have no chance without her. And then it would be Queen Morley’s turn. John, do you understand that the day my plump Morley mounts the throne I can rule this country?”

John smiled at her. “I believe you capable of anything, my love. But we must be patient. We must wait … alert. We must first see which way the wind is blowing. It would not do for us to get caught in the coming storm.”

He was wise, she knew. Sarah had no doubt that when the time came they would be on the winning side.

The preparations for the new King’s coronation went smoothly. Anne’s great regret was that she would not be able to attend for she was expecting her child to be born any day.

James had found time to visit her at the Cockpit in spite of all his new duties. He embraced her with great tenderness and told her that she should rejoice to have a King for a father.

“Rest assured,” he said, “that I shall see benefits flow to my beloved daughter.”

That was comforting.

“Dear Father, but look at the size of your daughter! Delighted as I am by my state I am irked that I shall not be able to see you crowned.”

James smiled secretly and later Anne learned that he had ordered that a special closed box be erected in the Abbey from which she should watch the ceremony in the company of her husband.

“You do not imagine,” he said, “that I could allow my dear daughter to be absent on this great day!”

So Anne was in the box with George while the ceremony took place and afterward Mary Beatrice, the new Queen, made a point of visiting her stepdaughter there.