Courting Her Highness

ABIGAIL HILL

Then the attention of Lady Marlborough was called to her impecunious relations, the Hills, she looked upon the entire subject as a trivial inconvenience, although later—much later—she came to realize that it was one of the most—perhaps the most—important moments of her brilliant career.

In the first place it was meant to be an insult, but one which she had brushed aside as she would a tiresome gnat at a picnic party.

The occasion had been the birthday of the Princess Anne, and on that day Her Highness’s complete attention had been given to her son, the young Duke of Gloucester. Anne’s preoccupation with that boy, although understandable, for he was the only one of her children who had survived after countless pregnancies—at least Lady Marlborough had lost count, for there must have been a dozen to date—was a source of irritation. Before the boy’s birth, Sarah Churchill, Lady Marlborough, had become accustomed to demanding the whole of the Princess’s attention, and the friendship between them was the wonder and speculation of all at Court; when they were together Anne and Sarah were Mrs. Morley and Mrs. Freeman respectively, because Anne wished there to be no formality to mar their absolute intimacy. But since the boy had been born, although the friendship had not diminished, Anne’s first love was for her son, and when she went on and on about “my boy” Sarah felt as though she could scream.

Thus it had been at the birthday celebrations; the boy was to have a formal introduction to the Court, and for the occasion Anne had ordered that a special costume be made for him; and she had had the absurd idea of decking him out in her own jewels. Anne herself did not greatly care for ceremonial occasions; she was far more comfortable reclining on her couch, with a cup of chocolate in her hand or a dish of sweetmeats beside her, entertaining herself with the cards or gossip. But she wanted “my boy” as she, to Sarah’s exasperation, constantly referred to him, to look magnificent.

Poor little wretch! thought Sarah, who delighted in applying terms of contempt to persons in high places. He needed to be adorned. When she compared him with her own handsome son—John after his father—who was a few years older than the young Duke, she wanted to crow with triumph. In fact it was all she could do to prevent herself calling Anne’s attention to the difference in the two boys. When she brought young John to Court, as she intended to quite soon, Anne would see for herself what a difference there was between the two.

But young Gloucester, in spite of his infirmity, was a bright boy. He was alert, extremely intelligent, and the doctors said that the fact that he suffered from water on the brain, far from harming his mind, made it more alert; and so it seemed. He was old for his years; sharp of wits, and to see him drilling the ninety boys in the park whom he called his army, was one of the sights of the Court. All the same, his head was too big for his body and he could not walk straight unless two attendants were close beside him. He was the delight and terror of his parents’ life—and no wonder.

There he was on this occasion in a coat of blue velvet, the button-holes of which were encrusted with diamonds; and about his small person were his mother’s jewels. Over his shoulder was the blue ribbon of the Garter which Sarah could never look on without bitterness; she had so wanted the Garter for her dear Marl, her husband, who, she believed, was possessed of genius and could rule the country if he only had a chance. Therefore to see the small figure boasting that he was already a Knight of the Garter was a maddening sight; but when she looked at the white periwig, which added a touch of absurdity, and thought of that huge head beneath it, she was thankful that even if Marlborough had been denied the Garter, even if Dutch William was keeping him in the shadows, at least she had a healthy family; and it was only a matter of waiting for the end of William before, with Anne’s coming to the throne, they were given what they deserved.

In the royal nursery young Gloucester had displayed the jewel which the King had given him; it was St. George on horseback set with diamonds, a magnificent piece; and it was certainly not William’s custom to be so generous. But like everyone else at Court he had an affection for the little boy who, with his charming eccentricities, had even been able to break through the King’s reserve.

“His Majesty gave me this,” he said, “when he bestowed the Garter on me. He put on the Garter with his own hands which I assure you is most unusual. It is because he holds me in such regard. Am I not fortunate. But I shall repay His Majesty. Look here, Mamma, this is the note I am sending him.”

Anne had taken the note and Sarah, with the boy’s governess, Lady Fitzharding, had looked over her shoulder as she read:

“I, Your Majesty’s most dutiful subject, had rather lose my life in Your Majesty’s cause than in any man’s else, and I hope it will not be long ere you conquer France. We, your Majesty’s subjects, will stand by you while we have a drop of blood.

Gloucester.”

Anne had smiled and looked from Barbara Fitzharding to Sarah. Besottedly, thought Sarah. It was true the boy was precocious—but he was a child. And when he offered his soldiers—boys of his own age with toy muskets and swords to the King—it was a joke and nothing more. But even grim William gravely accepted these offers and came to Kensington to review the small troops. Perhaps, thought Sarah sardonically, this was not so foolish as it seemed; for it was only on such occasions, with the crowd looking on, that he managed to raise a cheer for himself.

“I am sure the King will be delighted,” Anne had said.

“Doubtless he will think I am a little too fine,” mused Gloucester thoughtfully. “But my loyalty may help to divert his impatience with my finery.”

The Princess Anne had rolled her eyes in ecstasy. Was there ever such a boy! What wit! What observation! What a King he would make when his turn came!

When he had left them they had had to listen to accounts—heard many times before—of his wit and wisdom. Sarah was impatient, but Barbara Fitzharding was almost as besotted as the Princess; and there they had sat, like two old goodies, talking about this wonderful boy.

It was later when Sarah and Barbara were together, that Sarah gave way to her impatience.

“I do not think the King cared for all that display,” she commented, a smile which was almost a sneer turning up a corner of her mouth.

“He is, I believe, truly fond of his nephew,” Barbara replied. “And he is not fond of many people.”

“There are his good friends, Bentinck and Keppel—Bentinck the faithful and Keppel the handsome—and of course his mistress.”

Sarah looked slyly at Barbara, for it was her sister, Elizabeth Villiers, who had been William’s mistress almost since the beginning of his marriage to the time of the Queen’s death. The Queen had left a letter which had been opened after her death reproaching William and asking him to discontinue the liaison, and which had so shaken the King that he had left Elizabeth alone for a long time. Sarah believed, though, that the relationship had been resumed—very secretively; and Barbara, a spy reporting everything to her sister who passed it on to William, would know if this were so.

“He is so very ill these days,” said Barbara. “I doubt whether he has the time or energy for diversions.”

“His gentlemen friends remain at his side. I hear they enjoy themselves on Hollands Gin in the Hampton Banqueting House. He still finds time—and energy—to indulge his Dutchmen.”

“But he is looking more frail every week.”

“That is why it was a mistake to dress Gloucester up in all that finery. It was almost proclaiming him Prince of Wales before his mother is Queen.”

“I wonder,” said Barbara with a hint of sarcasm, “that you did not warn his mother since she would most assuredly listen to you.”

“I did warn her.”

“And she disobeyed?” Veiled insolence! Sarah had never liked Barbara Fitzharding since the days when as young Barbara Villiers she had lived with the circle of girls, Sarah among them, who had been brought up by Barbara’s mother, with the young Princesses Anne and Mary in Richmond Palace.

“She is so besotted about that boy.”

“He is her son.”

“He is being pampered. I would not let one of mine be indulged as he is.”

Was this a reflection on Barbara’s governess-ship? Barbara disliked Sarah Churchill—who at Court did not?—and although she might rule the Princess Anne’s household, Barbara was not going to allow her to interfere in that of the Duke of Gloucester.

“He is by no means indulged. He merely happens to be an extremely intelligent boy. In fact, I have never known one more intelligent.”

“Have you not? I must invite you to St. Albans one day and you shall meet my children.”

Barbara laughed. “Everything you have must naturally be better than other people’s.”

“Must always be? What do you mean by that? My children are strong, healthy, intelligent, which is not to be wondered at. Compare their father with that … oaf … I can call him nothing else … who goes around babbling ‘Est-il possible?’ to everything that is said to him! Prince George of Denmark! I call him Old Est-il-Possible! And when I do everyone knows to whom I refer.”

“One would think you were the royal Princess—Her Highness, your servant,” said Barbara. “You ought to take care, Sarah Churchill. You should think back to the days when you first joined us at Richmond. You were fortunate, were you not, to find a place there? It was the greatest good luck … for you. You must admit that you were not of the same social order as the rest of us. We were noble and you …”

“Your relative, Barbara Villiers—my lady Castlemaine as she became—put honours in your family’s way because she was an expert performer in the King’s bedchamber. We had no such ladies in our family.”

“Your husband I believe did very well out of his relationship with my Lady Castlemaine. She paid him for his services to her … in the bedchamber. Was it five thousand pounds with which he bought an annuity? You must find that very useful now that my lord Marlborough is out of favour and has no office at the Court.”

If there was one person in the world whom Sarah truly loved it was her husband, John Churchill, Earl of Marlborough; and although he had had a reputation as a rake before their marriage, he had, she was certain, remained absolutely faithful to her since. This reference to past indiscretions aroused her fury.

She slapped Barbara Fitzharding’s face.

Barbara, taken aback, stared at her, lifted her hand to retaliate and then remembered that there must be no brawling between women in positions such as theirs.

But her anger matched Sarah’s.

“I’m not surprised at your mode of behaviour,” she said. “It is hardly to be wondered at. And besides being arrogant and ill-mannered you are also cruel. I should be ashamed, not to have poor relations, but to turn my back on them while they starve.”

“What nonsense is this?”

“It is no nonsense. I heard only the other day the distressing story of the Hill family. I was interested … and so was my informant … because of their connection with the high and mighty Lady Marlborough! Your uncle, aunt and cousins … dying of starvation! Two girls working as servants, I hear, two boys running about the streets, ragged and hungry.”

“A pitiable story and one which does credit to your imagination, Lady Fitzharding.”

“A pitiable story, Lady Marlborough, but it owes nothing to my imagination. Go and see for yourself. And let me tell you this, that I shall not feel it my duty to keep silent about this most shameful matter.”

Sarah for once was speechless, and when Lady Fitzharding flounced out of the room she stared after her, murmuring: “Hill! Hill!” The name was familiar. Her grandfather Sir John Jennings, she had heard her own father say, had had twenty-two children and one of these, Mary, had married a Francis Hill who was a merchant of London.

Sarah had heard nothing of him since. One did not need to keep in touch with one’s merchant connections—except of course when they were likely to bring disrepute.

Sarah made one of her prompt decisions.

Something must be done about the Hills.

It was too delicate a matter to delegate. She must deal with it herself.

Sombrely dressed she drove to the address she had discovered—a perilous journey, for the streets of London were unsafe even by day, and robbers had a way of knowing the quality, however quietly dressed.

She dismounted at the house—a poor place—and told the coachman to wait, for she would not be long. Two boys in ragged clothes were lounging at the door and looked at her in surprise.

“Do the Hills live here?” she asked imperiously.

They told her, in voices which suggested a certain amount of education, that they did.

“And you?” she demanded.

“Our name is Hill.”

Inwardly she shivered. These ragged creatures her relations! It was incredible. Something must be done … quickly. She was not going to allow that Fitzharding woman to spread scandal about her.

“Take me to your parents,” she commanded.

The house was clean, for which she was thankful, but when she came face to face with Mary and Francis Hill she was horrified. Their state of emaciation was clearly due to starvation.

“I am Sarah Churchill,” she announced. “Sarah Jennings that was.”

Mary Hill gave a little cry and said: “So you’re Sarah.… I have of course heard much of you.”

“And I have heard of you. This is terrible. But I will remedy it. Those are your sons. Here, boy, go and buy food … as quickly as you can.”

She gave him money and both boys went off.

“Now,” said Sarah, “you had better tell me everything.”

“You, Francis,” began his wife.

“It is not an unusual story,” Francis explained. “I was a merchant. My business failed. I became bankrupt and over the last months have had to sell our possessions in order to live. We have become poorer and poorer. We came to this place to live. It is the best we can afford. There is very little money left and I do not know where we shall turn for more.”

“Those boys …?”

“They can earn a penny here and there … but it is not enough to keep us.”

“And you?”

“I have tried, but my strength seems to have deserted me.”

Sarah could understand why. Malnutrition! There was little strength in either of them.

“So there are you and the two boys.”

“The girls were more fortunate. They found places.”

“Places!”

“Yes. Abigail and Alice are in service. Abigail has a good post with Lady Rivers.”

“What as?”

“As a maid in the house.”

A maid! thought Sarah. My cousin … a maid to Lady Rivers! A nice state of affairs! Lady Rivers might come to Court and bring her servants with her. And among these the cousin of Lady Marlborough!

“It is fortunate that I have discovered this. You must tell me everything. Hold nothing back. I will find places for all the children—those two boys and the girls. As for you, I shall leave you ten guineas for the time being and we will decide what has to be done.”

Sarah then began firing questions at the couple who, trembling with excitement and hope, answered them. She sat upright on the chair they had given her, while her busy mind was working. Two boys … perhaps a place in the Custom House for one and the other … well, she would see. As for the girls, she must consider what could be done for them, and when the children were in good positions they could help support their parents; in the meantime she would see that they did not starve.

The boys returned with food and it was shocking to see the manner in which it was immediately devoured.

Sarah was horrified; but at the same time pleased by their homage. It was quite clear that they thought her an angel in disguise, the omnipotent, beautiful benefactress!

It was pleasant to be so regarded and she knew that without a great deal of effort she would be able to bestow such benefits on the Hill family that would make them her willing slaves for ever.

Help to Mary and Francis Hill had come a little too late. A few days after Sarah’s visit Francis died; Mary was so stricken with sorrow, and suffering from the same disease caused by starvation, quickly followed him.

Now Sarah had only the four orphans to settle, and she ordered the two girls to return to their parents’ house to attend the funerals. She sent off money and cast-off clothes to the family and busied herself with planning what to do with them.

The boys must be settled first. The thought of them running about the streets in rags horrified her. She told the Princess Anne about her discovery of these needy relations—for she was anxious that Barbara Fitzharding should not start circulating her stories before she had had a chance of putting her own case—and Anne was immediately sympathetic.

“My dear Mrs. Freeman has the kindest heart!” she sighed.

“I want to place them all as soon as possible,” Sarah told her.

“I am sure Mrs. Freeman will know what to do for the best.”

She did. It was infuriating that Marl should be out of favour; but she consoled herself that all the slights and humiliations would be forgotten once Dutch William was no more and Anne was Queen. She was very impatient for that much longed for event; so after hurrying down to St. Albans, where Marl was staying with the children, and talking over the matter with him, she went, with his blessing, to see their old friend Sidney Godolphin.

Godolphin was such an adept politician that although he was a Tory and the Ministry was mainly Whig, he retained his position in the Treasury. Godolphin was well aware that Marlborough’s decline into the shadows was only temporary and he was anxious not to offend Sarah, so he listened intently to her request and offered at once to find a place for the eldest Hill boy in the Custom House.

Having taken this step she decided once more to pay a visit to the humble house and see the creatures for herself.

When Lady Marlborough declared her intention of visiting the young Hills, there was immediate tension throughout the house.

“It was,” said Alice, “like a royal command.”

“It is indeed so,” replied Abigail. “Everyone knows that our important female relative is greatly admired by the Princess Anne who takes her advice in all things.”

“She rules royalty,” agreed Alice. “I’ll wager she will find places for us.”

“Being penniless you have nothing with which to wager,” Abigail reminded her.

“Don’t be so prim, Abby! I do declare you don’t seem the least excited. Don’t you realize how fortunate we are to have such a benefactress?”

“She is only finding places for us because she can’t allow her cousins to be servants.”

“What does the reason matter … as long as we get the places?”

Abigail shrugged her shoulders and murmured: “Come, we should be ready to receive her when she arrives.”

They were thinking of their elder brother who, by the good graces of Lord Godolphin and Lady Marlborough, was already installed in the Custom House, as they made their way to the sparsely furnished bedroom to put on the dresses which Lady Marlborough had sent them. These had belonged to Lady Marlborough’s daughters, some of whom were very much the same age as thirteen-year-old Abigail and eleven-year-old Alice.

Abigail wore a mulberry-coloured cloth gown and because she felt it might appear to be a little too grand for a poor relation decided to wear her linen apron over it.

“That spoils it,” declared Alice. “Why do you do it?”

“I don’t want her to think I am aping my betters.”

Alice burst out laughing. “You stand there looking buttoned up,” she said. “I know you hate this as much as I do.”

“We have to be grateful to Lady Marlborough.”

“That’s why we can’t abide her. Whoever liked those to whom they had to be grateful?”

“It could depend.”

“On what?”

“On the manner in which benefits were bestowed.”

“Oh, Abby, you don’t talk like Lady Rivers’ chamber maid.”

“Why should I when I was never meant to be a servant. You know how Papa always insisted on our doing our lessons.”

“Well, we were servants—for whatever reason—until Lady Marlborough decided otherwise. She is like God—all powerful, but I wish that like God she would remain invisible. I might be able to offer more fervent hymns of praise then.”

“You’re blaspheming, Alice.”

Alice laughed and struggled with the fastening of Elizabeth Churchill’s cast-off gown. “I wish I knew what you were thinking, Abby.”

“Doubtless the same as you on this occasion.”

“Abigail, do you never lose your temper?”

“Often.”

“You never show it.”

“What good would that do?”

Alice sighed. “There are times, sister, when I think you have more sense than you’re given credit for.”

The two girls were standing side by side looking into the mirror.

“Then that is useful,” commented Abigail, “for I have little else.”

Poor Abigail! thought Alice. She was plain. She was small, thin, and in spite of this she looked older than thirteen. A little woman already. Her hair was fine, limp and a sandy colour; her eyes were pale green and small; her only distinguishing feature was her high bridged nose which was inclined to be pink at the tip; and she had an unfortunate habit of hanging her head as though she wanted to spare people the need to look at such an unprepossessing face. She had no beauty, so it was fortunate that she had good sense and knew how to keep her temper under control.

“Well,” went on Alice, “I wonder what she has decided for us.” Her face puckered and the assumption of age which the hardness of her life had put upon her, fell away; she looked like the eleven-year-old child she was. “Oh, Abby, I don’t want to go away. How I hate being poor. Don’t you?”

Abigail shrugged her shoulders. “Oh, what use would it be? We are—and there’s no help for it.”

“Don’t you sometimes dream that you’re important … as she is. That you descend like a tornado on your poor relations …”

“I have never witnessed a tornado so I do not know how it descends.”

“Have you no imagination? Of course you haven’t … only plain good sense. And when her ladyship finds you your post you will take it most gratefully and you will go about your duties with a quiet efficiency which will be a credit to the great lady who recommended you, while I …”

“While you, Alice, will do exactly the same.”

Alice smiled at her sister. She was right. And the cast-off clothes of a rich Churchill girl could not help her at all; she looked just as plain as she did in her working clothes. But perhaps when one was poor and had to be grateful for small benefits it was as well to be plain and modest, controlled and hardworking.

Lady Marlborough stepped from her coach and as she entered the house it immediately appeared to be ten times smaller, shabbier and meaner than it had been before. Her loud voice seemed, to Abigail, to shake its foundations.

The little family were waiting to receive her. Abigail, at its head now, quiet, humble, betraying nothing; Alice apprehensive and finding that all the truculence she had promised herself was fast disappearing; and John who was wondering whether he would have to join his brother in the Custom House or whether he could hope for a place in the Army.

As Lady Marlborough’s gaze swept over them and came to rest on Abigail, she was pleased with what she saw. The girl looked after the others as well as could be expected and she was aware of her position. She was old beyond her years. Thirteen was young but her responsibilities had aged her. She might be at least sixteen or even seventeen.

She took off the cloak that she had worn to conceal her fine garments which were in the latest fashion. Although she hated the King and had done her best, during Queen Mary’s reign, to alienate the Princess Anne from her sister, she had to wear the Dutch styles if she were to be in the fashion. Over her gown, looped up to make panniers at the side, and so droop at the back, she wore a wide skirted coat of dark blue velvet, the sleeves of which came to the elbows where they were turned back in the form of stiff cuffs, beneath which showed the fine lace at the sleeves of her gown. Her magnificent hair, which was her greatest claim to beauty, being thick, wavy and of a bright golden colour, was dressed in the style of a bob wig, and over this she wore a lace head-dress decorated with ribbons which had been completely hidden by the large hood of the dark cloak. A regal Court lady stood before the children, the more magnificent because she made such a contrast to her surroundings.

“Now Abigail,” she said, “you are the eldest. I trust you have been looking after your sister and brother.”

“Yes, my lady.”

Lady Marlborough looked about her for a chair and Abigail, seeing this and immediately bringing her one, was rewarded by a smile of approval.

Sarah beckoned the children to stand before her. She had decided that the boy was to be sent to school while she looked for an opening for him. She had only one post for the girls as yet and she thought it would be suitable for Abigail. As for the other girl she could not live alone and there was only one thing to be done and that was take her to her own house at St. Albans until something could be found for her.

She was thoughtful, watching them. This Abigail was a good girl; of the other one she was not sure. Was that a spark of frivolity she saw in Mistress Alice’s eyes? One thing was clear; the young one was not of the same docile disposition as her sister.

“In my position,” she began, “I receive a great many calls on my generosity. The Princess places all her affairs in my hands and that means I have posts …” She smiled pityingly, implying that these were posts which could not be within the range of the Hills’ meagre talents … “important posts of which to dispose. Those who desire them are ready to do me any service to obtain them; but I can assure you I must select most carefully.”

Alice, who since she had left home to become a servant had, so it seemed to Abigail, lost the good manners which their parents had insisted on, was impetuous and said: “Your ladyship’s position is one of great importance. In fact, I have heard it said that in a short time …” She caught Abigail’s warning glance and finished lamely: “But perhaps I am indiscreet.”

“Pray go on, Alice,” commanded Lady Marlborough.

“Well, it is said that the King is very weak and that he cannot live much longer and when he dies of course the Princess will be Queen and that means …”

Lady Marlborough was smiling complacently. Far from annoying her, Alice’s remark was putting her in a good mood.

“I can see Court gossip reaches you here,” she said; and Alice threw a triumphant glance at her sister while Lady Marlborough surveyed the room with the few pieces of furniture which had once been good and were now very shabby, showing signs of having seen, and said goodbye to, better days. “It is true,” she went on, “that the Princess places great trust in me, and I do my best to deserve it.”

Alice, emboldened by success, tried again. “I trust my lord the Earl is back at Court.”

A shadow passed across Lady Marlborough’s face. So, thought Abigail, the Earl is still waiting for his opportunity. He is not as fortunate as his wife. And was it to be wondered at? The King had suspected Marlborough of treason on more than one occasion; it was said that he was a “Jack,” which was the name Abigail had heard below stairs applied to Jacobites; in fact he had been in the Tower not so long ago; and then there had been the affair of the flower-pot intrigue. Lady Marlborough might have a great influence over the Princess Anne, but her husband was most certainly on uneasy terms with King William; and it would have been wiser for Alice to wait for Lady Marlborough to mention her husband’s name.

“The Earl has much with which to occupy himself,” replied Lady Marlborough coolly. She came to a decision in that moment. The younger girl was pert for she might have heard gossip about Marl and be trying a little impudence. The elder one was much more serious, much more aware of what she owed to her important cousin. The post she had decided on for the elder girl should go to the younger; and she herself would make use of Abigail while she decided what should become of her.

“Now,” she said firmly, “it is clear that you cannot stay here … three young people alone! Prompt action is necessary. I have plans for you all and you must be prepared to leave here within the next few days. These bits of furniture will not fetch much.” She addressed Abigail. “But you should sell them and what you get will mayhap put a little into your pockets. John, you are going to school.”

“To school!” cried John aghast. “I wanted a place in the Army.”

There was a shocked silence; then Lady Marlborough burst out laughing. “The Army! At your age. Why, you would have to join his Grace of Gloucester with a wooden sword and a toy musket.”

“But …” began the boy, and the tears were in his eyes.

Lady Marlborough waved a white hand on which jewels flashed. “I don’t doubt that if you show ability I shall, in time, be able to place you in the Army. But as yet you are but a child. I shall send clothes for you and you will go to school in St. Albans. There I shall watch your progress.”

John’s lips quivered and Abigail said nervously: “I am sure my brother is delighted.”

Lady Marlborough gave her a smile of approval. She was not mistaken in the girl. Abigail was the only one of these children who knew her place.

“It may well be,” said Lady Marlborough looking sternly at the boy, “that if you work hard and are humble, loyal and obedient, the Earl of Marlborough may find you a place in his Army.”

He would first, thought Abigail, have to come back into favour; but if the King died and Princess Anne became Queen Anne, it was very possible that he would. Oh how stupid were this brother and sister of hers. Did they not realize that this flamboyant arrogant woman held their futures in her hands. What a marvellous opportunity for them. And all this they owed to their cousin, the brilliant clever Lady Marlborough.

“John,” cried Abigail, “you should go down on to your knees and thank Lady Marlborough.”

A very good girl indeed, thought Sarah, with a proper sense of her duty and that of others.

“Thank you, Lady Marlborough,” said John obediently.

“I am sure you will do me credit.” She turned to Alice. “And I have an excellent opportunity for you. There is a vacancy in the household of the little Duke of Gloucester for a laundress.”

“A laundress!” gasped Alice.

“A laundress in the household of the young Duke is a post greatly coveted, I do assure you,” said Lady Marlborough acidly.

“My sister is overcome by your ladyship’s generosity,” said Abigail, impatient to know her own fate. “She is young and finds it difficult to express her gratitude.”

Lady Marlborough was soothed. “And grateful she should be, for the young Duke will be the heir to the throne as soon as Dutch William goes where he should have gone these many years. How he lingers on! He’s been dying ever since I saw him, and it was Mary who went first. I could never abide her, but for that Dutch Abortion …”

Alice gave a slight nervous giggle; John looked interested, and although Abigail’s expression did not change she was thinking: How indiscreet she is! How vulgar. And how odd that indiscretion and vulgarity should have brought her such high rewards!

“You may smile,” went on Lady Marlborough, “but that is one of the names Mrs. Morley and I use for him. Mrs. Morley is Anne … the Princess, you know. She would have us dispense with formality when we are together and she herself gave us the names of Mrs. Freeman—which is mine—and Mrs. Morley which is hers. Caliban! The Dutch Monster! That is how we speak of His Majesty.”

“But are you not afraid …” began too-impetuous Alice.

“Afraid, my dear child. I … afraid of that … creature!”

She likes Alice’s questions, thought Abigail; she wants to talk all the time, hold the centre of the stage while we act as a chorus, to repeat what she wants repeated, to form a background for her.

“I should not think you are ever afraid of anything, Lady Marlborough,” said John sincerely.

Oh when, thought Abigail, is she going to tell me what will happen to me?

“It would take more than that Hollander to strike fear into me, I can tell you. He knows it. He works against me and against the Earl … which is what I find so hard to forgive … but his day is almost over.”

“I hope Alice will be a good laundress,” said Abigail, trying to bring the conversation back to important issues.

“I fear I shall not,” put in Alice.

“Ah!” laughed Lady Marlborough. “You’ll do well enough. When you are given a post in a royal household you use it as a stepping stone to better things. Watch out, girl, and you will see where it will lead you.” She turned to Abigail. “And for you, I have plans.”

What thoughts could flash through the mind in a short space of time. A place at Court? She would watch illustrious people at close quarters; she would have a glimpse into matters which she believed could be of great interest to her. A place at Court, a stepping stone to better things.

“I am going to send you to St. Albans, Abigail. There you will be with my own children. You will, I am sure, make yourself useful.”

St. Albans! A poor relation in her cousin’s house! A sort of nursery maid to a family which were doubtless as arrogant as their mother.

Lucky John! Lucky Alice! Both were going to Court while Abigail was to be a poor relation, slightly higher than a chambermaid, but not much, in the house at St. Albans.

Lady Marlborough was watching her. She smiled and murmured her thanks.

Only Alice, who knew her so well, would know of the despair in her heart, and that she would guess; there was no sign of anything but abject gratitude on the plain features of Abigail Hill.

The furniture was sold and, with the very little money it had realized between them, the three Hills left the house in which their parents had died, and set out to make their fortunes: John to school; Alice to Campden House where the Duke of Gloucester had his household; and Abigail, after saying a sad farewell to her brother and sister, to take the coach to St. Albans.

The journey was one of discomfort and alarms. There were stretches of road made notorious by the robbers who lurked there; and even if the coachman had his blunderbuss and horn of gunpowder, such precautions were known to be of little use against really desperate men.

Abigail was too much concerned with her future to worry about the dangers of the road; she was wondering what her duties at St. Albans would be, for although Lady Marlborough had hinted that she would be one of the family she did not believe this would be so. She had discovered that there were five Churchill children and that the two elder girls, Henrietta and Anne, were older than she herself; she believed that Elizabeth the third daughter would be about two years younger, John, the only boy, three years younger, and Mary four. What could a thirteen-year-old girl do for such a family? she asked herself, for she guessed that she was being installed in the household as a poor relation who would be expected to make herself useful.

How differently Lady Marlborough must travel on her journeys from London to St. Albans! Abigail imagined her with her outriders and bodyguard of servants, all armed in preparation for encounters with highwaymen and equipped for emergencies such as ditching or breaking down. There would be running footmen too, to go ahead and announce what important people were on the way. Abigail could picture them dressed in the Marlborough livery, with their jockey caps and long staves trotting along the roads, pausing now to fortify themselves by drinking a little of the spirits they carried at the head of their staves. Oh yes, Lady Marlborough would travel in a very different way from her poor relation!

I am haunted by that woman, thought Abigail. It is unwise, because I could never be as she is and I should be grateful if now and then she reminds herself of my existence, which she will do—but only when I can be useful to her.

Then she consoled herself that Lady Marlborough would be at Court and it would be children of her own age—or thereabouts—with whom she had to deal.

Leaving the coach at St. Albans, she discovered that no one had come to meet her, but it was easy to find her way, for everyone knew the house built by the Earl of Marlborough on the site of Holywell House which had belonged to the Jennings. They still called it Holywell.

Her belongings, not amounting to much, were easily carried, and thus, quietly and discreetly, Abigail Hill found her way to her new home.

Her reception was much as she had expected it would be.

Who was the new arrival? the servants asked. She was a member of the family but that most despised of connections—a poor relation. Her clothes—those which were not recognized as Lady Elizabeth’s cast-offs—were shabby and much patched and darned. A very poor relation! She was to be put to useful service in the nursery. This was the command of Lady Marlborough, and those in authority would see that it would be carried out in the most humiliating way.

She was to share lessons, because Lady Marlborough could not allow a relative of hers to be uneducated. Not that Lady Marlborough had any great respect for education; her family must learn to conduct themselves as the nobility, to be able to move graciously about the Court when the time came for them to be there; but Latin and Greek, history and literature! “Bah!” Lady Marlborough had said. “Don’t talk to me of books! I know men and women and that serves me well enough.” But languages? Perhaps a little would be useful, for foreigners came to Court. Her children must be taught arithmetic; for money was important and a knowledge of the subject was necessary to deal with that indispensable asset.

The children were, as Abigail would have expected, on such an academic diet, growing up to be as worldly as their mother.

They were all good looking, having inherited the beautiful hair which was their mother’s greatest claim to beauty. It seemed too that some of them had not missed her arrogance either. Henrietta, the eldest, certainly possessed it; and in spite of her youth the same quality was apparent in nine-year-old Mary. Anne was different; she had a gentler nature; she was calm, and although a little aloof from Abigail, she made no attempt to browbeat her. Anne, although a year younger than Henrietta, seemed more mature than her sister. There was a gap of three years between Anne and eleven-year-old Elizabeth, and although the younger sister admired the elder and tried to follow her example now and then the temper would refuse to be restrained. Ten-year-old John was more like Anne. Being the only boy, he was adored by the family, and the servants said he took after his father rather than his mother.

Abigail’s room in this household was a small attic; it was a concession, she supposed that she should have one to herself and not have to share the large one with the female servants. When she stood there for the first time, looking out through the tiny window at the countryside, momentarily she felt at peace; but that was of short duration. Young Mary had come up to look for her.

“So you really are our cousin,” she said.

“I am your mother’s cousin.”

“Then you’re not ours?”

“Oh, we are connected.”

Mary wrinkled her brows and murmured: “How odd!” Then: “How are you going to make yourself useful?”

“I shall have to wait and see what is required of me.”

“But you will make yourself useful because Mamma said you would.”

Henrietta was calling: “Mary, where are you? Are you up there with Abigail Hill?”

Henrietta came into the attic and began turning over Abigail’s belongings, which were laid out on the pallet.

“Are these all your things?” The lips curled in that half sneer which was an absolute replica of her mother’s. “Oh, and that’s Elizabeth’s old gown. Does it fit? You are thin, Abigail Hill. And why have they put you in this attic?” She looked round it and her slightly tiptilted nose sniffed disdainfully. For a moment Abigail wondered if Henrietta thought she should have been treated more as a member of the family and was disgusted that she should have been put in an attic usually reserved for a servant.

“I think,” went on Henrietta, “that you should have a room near ours. There is a small one. It’s a powder closet, but it would serve. Then you can help us dress.”

Abigail saw the point. There would be no difficulty in making herself useful; she would be shown the way. She might be a blood relation but she had been brought into the house to earn her bread.

It would be very bitter bread, Abigail thought to herself; but she restrained her thoughts; she gave no indication of how she disliked Henrietta Churchill. She was demure, acquiescing, resigned as a poor relation should be. Even Henrietta could find no fault with that.

She had settled into her place in the family. She took lessons with the girls; the governess looked down on her and even commented in her hearing that she had not bargained for teaching the likes of her. Abigail applied herself more earnestly to lessons than any of the Churchill children, but she was not commended for her industry. She did not ask for praise; outwardly she appeared grateful; and perhaps when she thought of service in Lady Rivers’ household this was just preferable. For one thing she was acquiring a little more education, which was always good; and because it was a little harder to accept insults in a house full of her own family than in one where she was frankly a servant, she was learning greater endurance. She did not attempt to assert herself; meekly she accepted the fact that she was insignificant beside these flamboyant cousins; she was quiet and they were vociferous; they were physically attractive, she was not; she had little hope of bettering herself, whereas they were dazzled by the reflection of their parents’ ambition. Abigail guessed that Lady Marlborough, who had talked so frankly before the humble Hills, would have been even more open with her own family. She had spoken as though she were certainly as important as the King, if not more so; and her children, of course, would have grand titles and positions at Court bestowed on them.

There was in Holywell an atmosphere of which Abigail soon became aware. It was a marking time, a waiting for great events. Ambition was ever-present, so that it seemed to have a personality of its own. The children were always talking of what they would do when … When what? When Anne was Queen and was ruled by their mother; when their father had complete charge of the Army. To them it seemed inevitable that this would happen, but Abigail who had been born into a family which, if not affluent, was comfortably off and had seen its decline to poverty, believed that it was never wise to crow over what might be, until it was.

Being herself Abigail soon settled into her place in the family; she was as unobtrusive as a cupboard or a table, said Anne. Nobody noticed her presence until they wanted something.

Sometimes Abigail pictured her life going on and on in this groove into which she had fallen. She had enough to eat; she had the knowledge that she was related to the Countess of Marlborough, but she had less freedom than the cook, the maids or the governess. Would it always be so?

The idea came to her that it could not go on. This was when she sat with the girls one day stitching for the poor, for Lady Marlborough had ordered that they must do this. So they sat making shapeless garments of rough material which each of them had to complete before they turned to fine needlework. As neither occupation was enjoyed by the Churchill girls it was no more distasteful to do the rough work than the fine. Abigail, stitching diligently, had completed her garment before the others.

“Here, Abigail, do fix this miserable seam for me. It bores me.” That was Henrietta—almost a young woman now. A little fretful, feeling shut in by the quiet life of St. Albans, always dreaming of what the next weeks might bring.

“If I were not myself, do you know what I should wish to be?” demanded Henrietta.

“What?” asked Anne.

Henrietta stretched her arms about her head. “An actress,” she said.

That made Anne and Elizabeth laugh aloud, while Abigail bent over her work as though to shut herself out of the discussion.

“An actress like Anne Bracegirdle,” went on Henrietta.

“How do you know of such people?” asked Elizabeth.

“Idiot! I keep my ears open. Do you know that some of our servants have been to London and to the play?”

“How strange that they should have been and we not,” mused Elizabeth.

“Plays are for low people,” added Anne.

“Indeed they are not,” retorted Henrietta fiercely. “Queen Mary went to a play. King Charles was always there and so was King James. The King does not go but that is because he hates anything that is gay and amusing. It has nothing to do with being a King.”

“The Dutch monster!” said Elizabeth with a laugh.

So Lady Marlborough talked carelessly of the King before her children, thought Abigail, and was once more astonished that one who was so careless and so vulgar could have made such a position for herself at Court.

“Queen Mary went to a play by Dryden,” said Henrietta. “I have read it. It’s called The Spanish Friar. There are some passages in it that made her blush.”

“Why?” asked Elizabeth.

“Oh, be quiet. You don’t know anything. But I should like to be an actress like Betterton and Bracegirdle. I love particularly Mr. Congreve’s play the Old Bachelor and the Double Dealer; and Dryden says he is the greatest living playwright. Oh how I should love to be on the stage.”

“Mamma would never permit it,” said Elizabeth.

“She didn’t really mean it, Elizabeth.” That was Anne.

“Of course I meant that I should love to be on the stage. I should love to play wonderful parts. Beautiful women … wicked women I should like playing best. And the King would come and see me and all the nobility.”

“Perhaps some of them would want you for a mistress.”

“Anne!”

“Well, that is what happens to actresses. And, Henrietta Churchill, if you think Mamma would ever allow it to happen to you, you are mad.”

“No, I know it won’t happen, but … I wish it would.”

Anne was suddenly aware of Abigail. “You’re sitting there … quietly listening as you always do. What do you think? Would you like to be an actress?”

Henrietta burst into a loud laugh. For the thought of Abigail Hill on the stage charming Kings and Queens, and the nobility falling in love with her, was quite comic.

Elizabeth was rolling on her chair with glee; Anne could not suppress a smile; and Henrietta went on laughing. Only Abigail Hill sat quietly, plying her needle, seeming serene.

But beneath that calm there was dislike for this family which became stronger with every week she spent in their house.

Yes, it was certainly humble pie and bitter bread which was eaten at St. Albans.

When the Earl came to St. Albans there was a change in the household. He was in some sort of disgrace, Abigail gathered, because of a plot in which his name had been mentioned; it was, as usual, a scheme to bring back James II who had fled to France when William and Mary had taken his throne.

Sir John Fenwick was executed on Tower Hill, and Marlborough had thought it wise to keep in the shadows. Hence his stay at the house.

“Now,” said the cook, “we must be careful what we serve at table for he will want to know the cost of the meat in the pie and why we did not use more pastry and less meat because he will know that the cost of one is greater than the other.”

“The meanest lord I ever worked for,” was the comment of a groom. “He’ll have us catch the last second of daylight before lighting the lanterns. Every penny counts with my lord.”

And so it seemed. His man-servant had said that he possessed only three coats and that these had to be watched carefully so that the slightest tear could be mended at once in order to preserve the life of the garment. He would walk miles through the mud when in London rather than spend the coach fare; and most extraordinary of all, his secretaries said that he never dotted his i’s because he considered it a waste of ink to do so.

Abigail wondered what he would think of her. He would not want to give her food and shelter unless she earned them. If she did not she would surely be more of a liability than a candle or a drop of ink.

She was surprised, therefore, when she met the Earl. He was tall, very well proportioned and outstandingly handsome; his hair was fair, almost the same colour as Sarah’s; his eyes, between well defined brows, were startlingly blue and his features were finely chiselled; but what was so unusual in this family was the serenity of his expression. As soon as she saw him, Abigail understood why Sarah, who seemed incapable of loving anyone but herself, loved him almost as much, and why the notorious Lady Castlemaine had jeopardized her position with the King to become his mistress. There were perhaps more handsome men, but none, Abigail was sure, who possessed such overwhelming charm. John Churchill was courteous to the meanest servant and he did so with an air of not being able to act in any other manner. There was no hint of the meanness of which Abigail had heard so much, although she was quickly to discover that it was by no means exaggerated.

He was charming to Abigail, noticing her as soon as he was in her company, enquiring if she was happy in his household as though it was a matter of concern to him. Abigail, possessing a serenity to match his own, was able to look on at herself being charmed by him and yet remain completely aloof. She wondered whether it was not in her nature to idealize any one person. Perhaps she had suffered such hardship that the prevailing need was to protect herself; and until she felt herself securely settled in life—and whoever in a changing world was ever that?—she would continue to keep one motive in mind.

All the same it was pleasant to find the Earl so different from the rest of his family. If he thought she was a drag on the household expenses he gave no indication of this. How different from his wife!

He even had news of her brother and sister.

“Your young brother is to leave his school for a place has been found for him as page in the household of the Prince of Denmark—husband of Princess Anne,” he told her.

“But that is indeed good news!” she said, lowering her eyes. Oh, lucky John! she thought, fiercely envious for a moment, comparing this life of servitude as poor relation with the opportunities given to her brother and sister.

“He has his eyes on the Army,” went on the Earl. “He’s set on it, and if a lad wants to be a soldier, then so should he be—for such make the best soldiers. We shall see; and I promise you that if there is an opportunity later when he is older, he shall have it, if it is in my power to give it.”

“You are good, my lord.”

“The boy is my wife’s cousin, and I would do what I can for him. He’ll have to be patient though, for as yet he is only old enough for the Duke of Gloucester’s army. When your brother goes into action it should be with more than a wooden sword, eh? And that reminds me of your sister. She asked me to send a message to you. She is happy in her work, and trusts you are the same.”

He smiled at her so charmingly that she answered that she was.

She was glad that he was in the house even though it did mean that the candles were doused early and every economy must be practised. It seemed strange to Abigail that a man who, according to his wife, was a genius capable of holding the highest post in the country should be concerned about the consumption of candles; but she accepted this as one of the idiosyncrasies of the great and was thankful for his presence.

The Earl had been in the house less than a week when the Marlborough outriders arrived at the house to say that the Countess of Marlborough was on her way.

Sarah Churchill swept into the house like a tornado—as Alice had once described her advent. Pots and pans were polished, so was furniture; and there was a smell of baking in the kitchen. The Earl was so delighted at the prospect of seeing his wife that he did not calculate the cost of this extra activity. From a window Abigail watched him go out to greet her. She saw him take her hands, stand a little way from her as though to see her more clearly; then he clasped her in a prolonged embrace. And what would my Lady Marlborough think of that? He was crushing her head-dress but she did not seem to mind. Abigail marvelled to see them laughing together; she had never seen Lady Marlborough look at anyone else like that and would not have believed that she could.

They came in and Abigail could hear her voice penetrating the house.

“And where is my family? Why are they not here to greet me?”

But of course they were all there. They would not dream of displeasing her.

She did not ask for Abigail Hill; as Abigail guessed, she had forgotten her existence.

Lady Marlborough was never happier than when in the company of her husband. Although she loved intrigue and to enjoy it she must live close to the Princess Anne, and if Marlborough were ever to achieve the fame which was his due he could not do so, as she would say, “in his wife’s pocket,” these brief sojourns at St. Albans with her husband and family were the happiest periods of Sarah Churchill’s life.

This time a purpose other than pleasure had brought her to St. Albans; and it was one which she would only discuss with her husband in the privacy of their bedchamber.

There she sat at her mirror and let her rich hair, which he loved so much, fall about her shoulders.

“Oh my dear Marl,” she said, “I am sick to death of this waiting. How long can he live, do you think?”

“It’s a question we have been asking ourselves for a very long time, my love.”

“H’m? Sometimes I think he goes on living just to spite us.”

Marlborough laughed. “Well, my dear, you can hardly expect him to die to please us.”

“We are not the only ones who would be pleased. I wish he’d go back to Holland. We could manage very well without him here. I had thought the crown would be on my fat stupid Morley’s head by now.”

“Hush!”

“Nonsense, Marl. No one can hear, and if they could they wouldn’t dare talk of what I say.”

“One can never be sure where our enemies are.”

“In our own house! My dearest, we are perfectly safe here. Now I want to talk sense. When the great day comes we must be ready, must we not? My dearest Marl, you have genius, I know. And I can do as I will with Morley. But we have our enemies and I believe it is time we began to build up our defences.”

“My dearest Sarah is becoming a general, it seems.”

“Now listen to me. Even when my fat friend is on the throne, she will not be all powerful. There will be her ministers. We shall never have an absolute monarchy again. We need friends, Marl, and we need them badly.”

“And, Sarah dear, I do not think we are very popular, you and I. There is only one person in the world whom I can absolutely trust—and that is you.”

“Why, bless you, Marl, you and I are one and nothing on earth can alter that. But we are going to need friends. Do you agree?”

“Friends are always useful.”

“Useful! They are a necessity.”

“Where shall we find them?”

“By binding them to us.”

“With what?”

“Sometimes I think the most brilliant soldier in the world is lacking in strategy.”

“It is a mercy he has a wife who can supply his lack.”

“Seriously, have you forgotten that we have marriageable daughters?”

“Marriageable. Why Henrietta is …”

“Sixteen, Marl. Ripe for marriage.”

“Oh, not yet.”

“You are like all fathers. They want to keep their daughters children for ever just to give themselves an illusion of youth.”

He smiled and said, “Well, who have you in mind for Henrietta?”

“Godolphin’s boy, Francis,” she said.

Marlborough stared at her.

“Well?” demanded Sarah. “What objections could you have, my lord, to such an alliance? Godolphin is one of the cleverest men in the country. He would be a power, as you would, my dear Marl, on your own; but together … You see what I mean?”

“You mean an alliance between the Churchills and the Godolphins.”

“I do, and how better to strengthen such alliances than by marriage. Godolphin’s grandchildren will be ours. One family instead of two. Would that not be a good thing?”

“There is one thing you have forgotten.”

“And what is that?”

“Do you remember how we made up our minds to marry?”

“Yes, and your family stood against us. I was not good enough for the Churchills. I remember well. They had someone else in mind for you.”

“That is my point. No one would have induced me to marry anyone but you.”

“I should think not.”

“So I say there is one point you have omitted. What of Henrietta?”

“Henrietta will do as she is told.”

“She is your daughter and mine.”

“Bah!” said Sarah. “I’ll have no disobedience from my children.”

The Earl laid his hand on her arm. “Be gentle,” he begged.

“Are you telling me how to treat my own daughter?”

“I am suggesting how you should treat mine.”

She smiled at him. She adored him; he was the one person who could reason with her.

“Well?” she demanded.

“We will invite them here. Francis and his father. And we will not mention marriage to the young people until we know they are fond of each other.”

“Romantic nonsense!” said Sarah.

But she agreed.

Sarah had long been watchful of Sidney Godolphin, for she had marked him out as a man whom it would be better to have for a friend than an enemy. The Godolphins were a noble Cornish family and Sidney had found favour with Charles II, who had summed up his regard for him in one of his apt phrases. “Here is a man,” he had said, “who is never in the way and never out of it.” That was good praise from Charles. It was often the case that a man who was honoured in one reign was out of favour in the next. Sidney Godolphin was too clever to allow this to happen to him. He had received his title when Charles had made him Secretary of State and when Charles died he remained one of James’s most trusted ministers and was appointed Chamberlain to James’s Queen, Mary Beatrice. He was one of those Tories who had remained faithful to James longer than most; and when he had seen that the exile of James was inevitable, he had voted for a Regency. His fidelity to James had never really wavered, and when Marlborough, deciding that he could not satisfy his ambition through William, had turned to the “King across the Water,” this had made a bond between him and Godolphin. Like Marlborough, Godolphin had wished to show his friendship with James while at the same time he feigned a friendship with William; it was a case of waiting to see which side could be the one an ambitious man should be on; and because of William’s undoubted qualities it seemed certain that he was the one whom they must serve—but at the same time they were watchful of what was happening at the Court of St. Germains where the exile lived with his Queen and the son whose birth had caused such a controversy in England and who was acknowledged by Louis of France as the Prince of Wales.

Godolphin’s name, with that of Marlborough, had been mentioned in the case of Sir John Fenwick; and although neither he nor Marlborough had been brought to trial over that affair, Godolphin had been forced to resign. This was the state of affairs when Sarah had the idea that the two families united by marriage could form the nucleus of a ruling party which would of course be dominated by the Marlboroughs.

In his youth Sidney had made a romantic marriage. He had fallen in love with Margaret Blagge, one of the most beautiful and virtuous young women at Court. Margaret, a maid of honour to Anne Hyde, who was Duchess of York and mother to the Princesses Mary and Anne, had taken part in John Crowne’s Calista which had been written that the Princess Mary might perform and make her debut at Court. Although Margaret had believed dancing and play-acting was sinful and had been forced to play a part in this, she had scored a success as Diana the Goddess of chastity. Sidney watching her had fallen more deeply in love than ever before. Margaret seemed to him unique; for to find a girl who was virtuous at the Court of King Charles was rare.

He often thought of those days of courtship, the secret marriage, the friendship with John Evelyn, the writer, who, recognizing Margaret’s rare qualities, loved her as though she were his daughter. A strange interlude for an ambitious man, to discover that there was a life which did not depend on gaining advantages over other men, fighting for power, enviously watching the progress of rivals—days which later he was to look back on as a dream. In due course they announced their marriage; he remembered the house they had lived in, in Scotland Yard near the palace of Whitehall, during the days when they had been awaiting the birth of their first child.

It was not wise to brood on those days; there was too much sadness in nostalgia for a past which was lost for ever; but he could not stop thinking of how they had walked in the gardens, always talking of the child. There had come that September day—September days had ever after seemed tinged with sadness for him—just as the green leaves were touched with brown; their edges dry and shrivelled ready to fall from the trees to be trampled underfoot or swept up and destroyed, as his happiness had been. But how was he to guess then that soon his joy in life would be gone as surely as those bright leaves upon the trees.

Young Francis had been born on the third day of September—a healthy boy, which was what they had secretly longed for, although neither of them had admitted it. They had stoutly declared to each other that the sex of the child was unimportant, lest the other should think either one would be disappointed.

But a boy brought that moment of triumph. For two days they were at the peak of happiness. Then she took fever, and a week after the birth of Francis, Margaret was dead.

Sidney had had only one desire for a long time—that was to follow her. But he went on living, and in place of the love he had had for his wife he had built up ambition. His great relaxation was gambling and no amount of losses on horse racing could deter him. Consequently he was almost always in debt; but he was a brilliant politician.

John Evelyn, who had been almost as desolate as Sidney when Margaret died, had found his solace in Margaret’s son; and Sidney was glad of this, for he had a great respect for the writer. It was Evelyn who took charge of the boy’s education, who had advised his father to send him to Eton and afterwards to Cambridge. Francis was, at the time when Sarah Churchill had cast calculating eyes on him, eighteen years old.

Although the Churchill girls despised their cousin Abigail, she was far more observant than they were. When the Godolphins visited St. Albans it did not take her long to guess for what reason Sarah had invited them.

She watched Henrietta and Anne riding with Francis and one of the grooms: and she guessed that Francis was being offered a choice of the two girls, although Henrietta was the one her parents hoped he would select.

Why? wondered Abigail. The answer was simple. Because they wanted a marriage to take place as soon as possible, and Henrietta was older than Anne.

Abigail believed that their wish would be granted, for Henrietta, bold and dashing, was determined not to be put aside for her sister. She began to understand why Francis had been brought to St. Albans, and summed him up as a docile young man who could be trained to become the kind of husband whom she could dominate. To dominate was a need with her, as it was with her mother. She wanted her freedom. Marriage could give her that—and what better than marriage with a malleable man!

Anne, who had no desire for marriage with Francis Godolphin, was well content to remain in the background, leaving the field clear for Henrietta.

There had been no lavish hospitality for the Godolphins. The Earl of Marlborough had no intention of throwing away good money for that. Sidney Godolphin was a friend of his—at least as near a friend as they could have in their ambitious lives. They could go along together, be of use to each other; they shared their dreams of power; so if Godolphin could be persuaded to the marriage it would not be because of rich food being served from gold plate, but because he saw in it a useful alliance between two ambitious families.

But after the visit the Churchills were still uncertain.

The Earl and Countess walked in the gardens discussing it. Lady Marlborough’s strident voice floated over to Abigail Hill who had been sent to weed the flower border in the enclosed garden.

“What do you think, Marl?”

The Earl’s voice did not reach Abigail.

Sarah’s went on, “Well, if Sidney Godolphin thinks he’s too good for the Marlboroughs …” A low reproving murmur. “What do we care for him? And I’ll tell you this: I think he was considering very seriously. He knows what will happen when Caliban dies. And it must be soon. It must. It must. I had it from one of the pages that he’s spitting blood … badly. How does he go on? He must have a pact with the devil. That wouldn’t surprise me.” A pause. “Good gracious, Marl! Who would hear me out here? And what I say about him, I mean. What? Henrietta seemed taken with the boy? She had better be, Marl. She had better be.” Then: “I know. We married for love. But that boy’s not you. And Henrietta’s not me. We were different. You must see that.” The sounds of laughter. “I tell you this, John Churchill, I’ll have Henrietta married to Francis Godolphin if I have to whip her to the altar.”

Abigail went on weeding. She was thinking of the future of Henrietta, married to Francis Godolphin. A place of honour at Court. Lady Marlborough would make sure of that—and the children they would have would belong to the Churchills and the Godolphins.

Abigail stood up to press her hands to her aching back. How exciting to play a part in moulding affairs of state. What fun to be at the Court, to make decisions!

How she would enjoy that!

She laughed at herself. She was imagining herself a Godolphin or a Churchill. As if such opportunities would ever come her way!

There were more visits from the Godolphins, and Francis and Henrietta seemed as though they would fall in with their parents’ wishes for they clearly enjoyed each other’s company.

Henrietta’s seventeenth birthday came and although the Earl of Marlborough wished his daughter to wait a little, his wife was impatient and Abigail was sure that soon she would have her way.

Then an event occurred which was clearly the first step towards the change in the Marlboroughs’ fortunes.

The King had evidently decided that much as he distrusted Marlborough it was better to have him on his side than against him, and while he was skulking in semi-banishment William could not be sure what mischief he would stir up. He knew of the rapprochement between the Marlborough and Godolphin families; he would therefore feel happier with Marlborough at Court in some post which he valued.

The Duke of Gloucester was now nine years old and it was necessary to establish him in a household of his own. Anne would readily agree to Marlborough’s being appointed her son’s Governor, so this seemed the obvious solution.

William sent for Marlborough and when the Earl had kissed his hand he said: “The Princess Anne would welcome your appointment to the household of the Duke of Gloucester and I myself believe that none could do the job better.”

William was indeed in a gracious mood for he went on: “Teach him to be what you are and my nephew will never want accomplishments.”

Perhaps there was an ambiguity in the remark; but John Churchill was not going to question it. He assured the King that he would accept the post with pleasure and would perform it to the best of his abilities.

When John told Sarah of the good news, she was delighted.

“This is the end of our misfortunes,” she declared. “Even the Dutchman sees that we cannot be ignored for ever.”

And it seemed that she was right, for following on John’s appointment to the governorship William sent for him once more and told him that he should be restored to his old rank in the Army; nor was that all; he was to rejoin the Privy Council.

Sarah was delighted. “Now,” she said, “with you back at Court and Henrietta soon to marry Francis Godolphin we really can begin to get to work.”

The Princess Anne reclining on her couch, to rest her swollen legs, listened with pleasure to Sarah’s account of Marlborough’s restored glory.

“Nothing could delight me more, dear Mrs. Freeman,” she said. “Pray pass the dish.”

Sarah held the sweetmeats before her royal mistress.

“I do declare that these are not so sweet as those we had yesterday. Do taste, Mrs. Freeman, and tell me if I am wrong.”

Sarah nibbled impatiently. “They taste the same to me, Mrs. Morley. I was thinking of the Duke of Gloucester.”

Anne’s attention was immediately turned from the sweetmeats for her son was the delight of her heart and she would rather talk of him than of anything else on earth, even food.

“What of my boy, dear Mrs. Freeman?”

“He is now growing up. Nine years old. But to tell the truth, Mrs. Morley, I should think him much older.”

“I do believe there is not a brighter boy in the kingdom. Such intelligence and with it the kindest heart. Do you know, dear Mrs. Freeman, yesterday at my toilet he used an oath which I did not much like and I asked him sharply where he had learned it. It was from one of his attendants I am certain. That tutor of his—Pratt … or perhaps Lewis Jenkins. He knew that I was angry with whoever had taught him such a word and he thought a while … but only a little while, for, Mrs. Freeman, he is so quick. Then he said: ‘I invented it myself.’ You see, because he thought to save someone from trouble. Was there ever such a boy?”

Sarah said: “He spends too much time with that tutor and Lewis Jenkins. He should be with boys nearer his own age, nearer his own rank.”

“I have often thought of that, Mrs. Freeman; but he loves his soldiers and I am not sure where he has recruited them from. If any boy wants to join his army and is what he calls a good soldier then he accepts him. You cannot tell my boy what he ought to do.” Anne smiled fondly. “He always has his answer and such a one to confound you.”

To confound you, thought Sarah, and your stupid old husband, for both of you are a pair of doting fools where that boy is concerned; but if he were my boy I should have something to say!

“He reminds me so much of my young John,” said Sarah.

Anne smiled, ready for a cosy chat about their boys.

“My John would like to be a soldier. He talks constantly of the Army.”

“Then they are a pair!”

“I often think they ought to be together.”

“My dear Mrs. Freeman, what could be more delightful?”

“And as His Highness now has a household of his own, I was wondering whether my boy might have a place in it. Master of Horse or some such post.”

“But it is an excellent idea. Of course we must arrange it. There is nothing I should like better.”

“My John is a little older than the Duke. He is twelve now.”

“But my dear Mrs. Freeman my boy is old beyond his years. You would believe he was twelve to hear him talk.”

Sarah was triumphant. Her dear Marl back at Court not only Governor to Gloucester but back in the Army and in the Privy Council, and her son with his first Court post—Master of Horse in the newly formed household of the Duke of Gloucester.

Henrietta was to marry Francis Godolphin at the beginning of the next year. Sarah was delighted; everything was working out as she had planned. Now she needed a husband for Anne and she must select with the greatest care; for she had determined on a grand triumvirate which could stand astride the country—a powerful triangle with Marlborough at the apex. Godolphin was an excellent beginning; now she must consider the next move very carefully.

The Earl was as pleased as she was, and his joy was increased because Henrietta was happy. There was one part of the affair which caused him a little disquiet and that was the fact that weddings were expensive, and although he agreed with Sarah that it was an excellent thing to marry into the Godolphin family, Sidney Godolphin, being an habitual gambler would not be able to take his full share in the expenses of the wedding. Spending money had always been painful to John Churchill; as a child his parents had been constantly struggling against poverty and they had been dependent on their wealthy relations; afterwards as a page at Court he had been obliged to live among rich people and this had made him acutely aware of his own poverty; he had determined then that once he had a chance to lay his hands on a little money he would take care not easily to be parted from it. When Barbara Castlemaine had been so enchanted with his powers as a lover that she had bestowed on him a gift of five thousand pounds he had been able to overcome the humiliation of accepting this in the contemplation that it was the beginning of the fortune he intended to make. One of the reasons why he and Sarah were so devoted was because it was natural for a young man in his position and of his nature to seek a wealthy marriage; when he had met Sarah he had fallen so deeply in love that he had been ready to waive the fact that she was penniless; this, in his case, showed so clearly the strength of his devotion that all were astonished. It was something Sarah would always remember; and so would he. She herself had desired a brilliant marriage and John had at that time to prove his genius. Having made their sacrifices they were determined that theirs should be a successful marriage; and as they were both people who were determined to have what they wanted from life, they had, as they both agreed, the perfect union. Much as he loved money John would not have exchanged Sarah for the richest heiress in the kingdom; as for Sarah she preferred a genius for whom she could help to create a career than one who had already proved himself.

Now he discussed with Sarah the need to provide Henrietta with a dowry.

“That is the trouble with daughters. One has to provide a dowry.”

“She ought to have ten thousand pounds,” declared Sarah.

John grew pale at the thought of parting with so much money. “I might manage five,” he said painfully. “We have to remember, my love, that it will soon be Anne’s turn and then there are Elizabeth and Mary.”

“It’s a pity Sidney gambles so. He’s continually embarrassed with debts, I hear. If Meg Blagge had lived she would never have allowed him to waste his money on gambling. She would have considered it a sin. But … five thousand, you say, Marl. If we can manage that, it will do. You will see.”

He did see, for very shortly afterwards Sarah told him jubilantly: “Henrietta will have her ten thousand dowry.”

John looked at her in astonishment.

“Dear Mrs. Morley insisted. She thinks Henrietta charming and implored me to allow her to give her a worthy gift. Do you know, Marl, she offered ten thousand. I wouldn’t accept it. You know what a sharp eye Caliban keeps on her income. I’ve already heard some unpleasant suggestions about favourites taking all she has. I modestly accepted five. Anne can have the other five when her turn comes. And no one can call five thousand excessive for one who professes she is so fond of me!”

The Earl smiled at his wife.

“There is no need to tell you, my love, that I think you the most wonderful woman in the world. You must be aware of it.”

There had been talk of nothing in the St. Albans’ house but the marriage of Henrietta. Abigail spent most of her time in the sewing room working on dresses for the girls of the family. Weddings were continually discussed throughout the household and whenever on such occasion any of them became aware of Abigail, they usually gave her a pitying look which she interpreted without difficulty.

Poor plain Abigail! She will never have a handsome husband—nor any husband for that matter. For where would such a humble creature find a dowry; and who would marry her without?

One could not blame them, thought Abigail. It was perfectly true.

So she stitched the dresses and quietly listened to Henrietta’s abuse because she had not made a dazzling Court gown out of the materials provided; and she envied Henrietta, not her husband, but for the fact that she would escape from St. Albans.

Abigail attended the wedding, keeping well in the background. She briefly made the acquaintance of the Godolphins. “A connection of ours … who is so useful in the house!” It spoke for itself; the Godolphins briefly acknowledged the poor relation and promptly forgot she existed.

But there were some members of the household who did not forget her.

“The household has shrunk a little,” commented the Earl. “When you and I go back to Court and young John takes up his position in Gloucester’s household, there will only be the three girls here … and of course Abigail Hill. Do they need Abigail now, do you think?”

“Need her?” said Sarah. “They managed well enough before she came, but I understand she is meek and uncomplaining.”

“I do not doubt that, but it is an extra one to feed and those small creatures often have astonishing appetites.”

“My dear Marl, I don’t want the creature here, but what can I do?”

“Find her a place somewhere so that she is off our hands.”

“I will keep my eyes open. I do see what you mean. Why should she live at our expense when she might do so at someone else’s. She is useful, of course.”

“But we did not dismiss any of the servants when she came to us.”

“That’s true enough. I will see what can be done. If there is a place that it would not disgrace us for her to accept then she shall go. For as you say, why should we feed someone who brings no benefit to us.”

On matters of expense the Marlboroughs saw eye to eye. Abigail was a luxury they could do without; therefore they would give her to someone else.

With Henrietta and John gone, Abigail’s life became less secure. She was aware that the Marlboroughs would consider she was scarcely worth her keep. John had now left to take up his position in the household of the Duke of Gloucester; and as there was no longer the wedding to discuss and prepare for, the house seemed much quieter. Anne was apprehensive—knowing her turn would come. She was more sensitive than her sister, but young Mary seemed to grow more and more like her mother and sister Henrietta, and her arrogance was disconcerting. She referred to Abigail as “that Hill Creature” and turned up her nose when she mentioned her. Abigail disliked the child very much and longed more than ever to get away from St. Albans; but she never gave the slightest indication of her feelings; all Mary could provoke her to do was lower her eyes as though she feared that they alone could betray her dislike.

“It’s a miracle what she puts up with,” commented the servants. “Never gives a back answer—not even a look.”

“And what would happen to her if she did? I wouldn’t be in her position—connected with gentry though she may be.”

“These poor relations! I’d rather be a servant … good and proper. At least then you know your place.”

“She seems to know hers all right.”

“Her! Oh, she’s got no feelings.”

“I wouldn’t change places with that Abigail Hill … not for all the money in the King’s purse!” was the summing up.

While Abigail was wondering how she endured such a life and was contemplating what might happen to her when all the Churchill girls were married, Lady Marlborough arrived at St. Albans.

There was the usual fuss of arrival, the fond embraces from her children, the loud voice, raised in affection or delivering a scolding—whatever the occasion demanded. But the entire household sprang to life with the arrival of Lady Marlborough.

She had not been long in the house when she was demanding: “Where is Abigail Hill?”

Abigail was summoned to the Countess’s room and there Sarah, magnificently dressed, fresh from Court, greeted her, if not with affection without displeasure.

“There you are, Abigail Hill. And you are looking better than when I brought you here. Good food has improved you, Abigail. I hope you appreciate what I’ve done for you.”

“Yes, Lady Marlborough.”

“When I think of the state you were in when I found you all. Those ragged boys! I could not leave you like that, could I? I’ll daresay you often think of those days and compare them with what you enjoy at St. Albans.”

One had to compare lack of food with lack of freedom, independence with patronage. It was difficult to say, Abigail decided, which was preferable. When one had enough to eat independence and dignity seemed the most precious acquisitions; but then when there was enough to eat one quickly forgot what it was like to be hungry.

She said meekly: “Yes, Lady Marlborough.”

“I have many duties in the household of the Princess Anne, as you know; and there is a great drain on my time, but I have been thinking of you, which surprises you. Confess it.”

What answer was expected? With any other, one would have been surprised; but one knew that Lady Marlborough was so good, so kind, so thoughtful, so devoted to duty that she would not forget even the most humble and insignificant of poor relations.

Would she detect the sarcasm behind such a remark? Of course not. Her great pride and belief in herself would not permit her to see such irony.

“I did know, Lady Marlborough, that you are so very kind and …”

“Ha! And you hoped I had not forgotten you? That was rather impertinent of you, Abigail Hill. Had I forgotten you? Did I not see that you were well provided for in this house?”

“Yes, Lady Marlborough.”

“Well, of what have you to complain?”

“I was not complaining, Lady Marlborough.” The face tinged with pink, the manner alarmed, scared humility in the eyes, the gesture of usually quiet hands.

“But all the same you hoped for a place at Court, did you not?”

“A place at Court. But Lady Marlborough, I …”

“Oh, there are places and places. You did not expect that I was going to appoint you Secretary of State to his most Gracious Majesty. Eh, girl?”

“But no, Lady Marlborough.”

Sarah began to shake with laughter at the thought of Caliban’s receiving Abigail Hill as his Secretary of State.

“It is not the King’s household in which I would place you.”

Nor could you! thought Abigail. You are the last person to whom he would grant favours.

“But that of the Princess.”

“The Princess Anne?”

“Who else? You will see little of the Princess, of course. We need a quiet reliable woman to look after the maids. I thought of you. It will be a good opportunity for you. I did not intend to keep you at St. Albans all your life. The Princess leaves the choice of posts to me and when I knew we wanted a Mother of the Maids I thought of you.”

Abigail’s face was faintly pink, and even she found it difficult to suppress her excitement. She would be near John and Alice; they could see each other, exchange experiences. At last Abigail was to have what the others were enjoying: a place at Court.

“Well, Abigail?”

“I do not know how to thank you, Lady Marlborough.”

Sarah’s eyes narrowed. “I doubt not that you will find a way of doing so. You will have to keep those women in order. Do you think you can, Abigail Hill?”

“I will do my best, Lady Marlborough.”

“You will find them a feckless band … given to gossip and often disrespectful to their betters. If you should hear anything interesting you should let me know at once. I like to be aware of what is being said.”

“Anything interesting …?”

“I am sure you are intelligent enough to know what would interest me. Any scrap of knowledge about the Princess or the King; or if anyone should gossip about the Earl or myself in your presence … You understand?”

“Yes, Lady Marlborough.”

“Well then, you should prepare for your journey at once. I see no reason why there should be any delay.”

Abigail went to her powder closet, dazed and bewildered. Escape from this house which she hated; and a place at Court!

But as a spy for Lady Marlborough. At least that was what Lady Marlborough expected; yet perhaps when she had her place it would not be necessary to do all that Lady Marlborough ordered. Who could say?

A few days after that interview, Lady Marlborough left St. Albans and Abigail went with her. It was pleasant to travel in such state, but more pleasant still when they reached London.

Lady Marlborough went straight to St. James’s Palace, taking Abigail with her, and very soon Abigail was being presented to the Princess.

She saw a large woman, with light brown hair and highly coloured complexion, whose expression was mild perhaps on account of her eyes, the lids of which appeared to be contracted. This gave her a helpless look. Her hands were perfectly shaped, her fingers tapering; they were very white and they attracted immediate attention, perhaps because with her sweet and gentle voice they were her only beauty.

“Your Highness,” Lady Marlborough was saying, and Abigail remembered afterwards that her tone was just as imperious in St. James’s Palace as it was in the house at St. Albans, “this is my relation. The new Mother of the Maids.”

The shortsighted eyes were turned on Abigail. The lips smiled in a very kindly fashion.

“I am pleased to see any relation of Lady Marlborough.”

“I have found places for the whole of the family,” went on Sarah, and added as though Abigail were not present: “This is the last of them. She has been making herself useful at St. Albans while she has been waiting.”

Anne nodded almost sleepily and Lady Marlborough signed to Abigail which meant she must kneel and kiss the Princess’s hands.

The beautiful hand was given her; Abigail kissed it; Lady Marlborough nodded. That was the sign for Abigail to retire. Waiting for her outside the door was a woman who would take her to the apartment she would occupy and explain her duties to her.

As she left she heard the Princess say: “Now my dear Mrs. Freeman, you must tell me all your news …”

Abigail knew that the Princess Anne had already forgotten she existed.