Courting Her Highness

QUEEN ANNE IS DEAD

Lady Masham waited for Lord Oxford to leave the Queen. She had seen him before he went into her presence; he had staggered a little and he had not bothered to change his coat on which were stains of snuff and wine.

Yet the Queen did not seem to notice the disgusting appearance of her first minister. Nor had she remarked that he was less respectful than he had once been. He must be drinking very heavily, thought Abigail.

It might be that wine dulled his perceptions. He had certainly grown very careless since taking office.

His head was full of financial schemes—so much more to his taste than war. His thoughts were mainly occupied with enlarging British Commerce and he was a governor of that great enterprise known as the “Company of Merchants of Great Britain trading to the South Seas and other Parts of America.” People had rushed to invest their money believing that they would make a fortune in a very short time. He was also involved in the slave trade which he believed could bring a great source of revenue. The word assiento was on every lip. This meant the right to provide Spanish colonies with slaves.

Lord Oxford, nodding over his wine, sleeping the sleep of intoxication every night, dreamed dreams of doing for England through commerce what Marlborough had done through war.

Abigail was pregnant once more and this brought home to her the fact that she would soon have a growing family for which to provide. Samuel would never do very much and it rested with her. Her son would be Lord Masham in due course, but she wanted to give him something more than a title.

When Lord Oxford left the Queen and she met him as if by accident, he would have bowed and passed on. She was angry although she gave no sign of it, and there was more than one reason for her emotion. What a fool he was! With all his chances, to throw them away as surely as Sarah Churchill had thrown away hers. Why was it that success corrupted? Why, when people achieved it, did they lose their sense of proportion? Why did they build an image of their importance which no one accepted but themselves? If he had been different … if he had been a warm-hearted man, capable of loving a woman—capable of loving Abigail Hill as Marlborough loved his wife—how different everything might have been!

She was angry now for frustrated hopes, for the reckless disregard for a career which together they could have made great.

“My lord …”

“Why, ’tis Lady Masham.”

“You seem surprised. It is true we do not meet as frequently as we did once.”

“Lady Masham will understand that there are many duties to claim my attention now.”

Yes, thought Abigail; and so old friends who have helped you to your place can be forgotten.

She said: “It is agreeable for your old friends to see your success.”

“I would not deprive them of their pleasure for the world.”

“I am sure you are not the man to forget old friends.”

“I regret I have little time for brooding on the past—an occupation not suited to my talents; and it is an astonishing thing how many are ready to claim old friendship now who were once on little more than nodding acquaintance with me.”

“You cannot count me among those,” retorted Abigail sharply. “And for that reason I wished to ask you for a little advice regarding some investments. I am not a rich woman.…”

Oxford waved his hand lightly. “My dear Lady Masham, I am sure that one of my secretaries will give you all the advice you need.”

He bowed; she could scarcely hold her expression until he had passed.

How dared he! After all he owed to her! In all the vast profits he had made he was not ready to give one bit of recognition.

She was a woman with children, whose future she wished to make secure. Very well, Robert Harley—Lord Oxford as he had become through her good graces—would see that if he would not have her for his friend, he could have her for his enemy.

The Queen was enjoying a return to health. Peace was at last in sight; and the Marlboroughs were abroad. It was surprising what an effect these two facts had upon her. She never ceased to marvel with her two dearest friends Lady Masham and the Duchess of Somerset.

It was exciting to hunt at Windsor, riding furiously in the chaise she had used in the past which was drawn by one horse, so that she could follow the stag as though she were actually on horseback. It was long since she had been able to enjoy that form of relaxation.

How good it was to feel well again—or almost. Her feet were swollen and sore but her dear friend’s ministrations soon soothed them; then they would settle down to gossip and cards. What pleasure! She was reminded of the old days in the green closet when Abigail Masham—who was Hill then—used to bring in Mr. Harley for their secret conferences.

Mr. Harley! There was a faintly disturbing thought. He was a little uncouth in his appearance. And last time he had come to her he had had the appearance of being intoxicated.

She would not have believed it, but she had seen the quick glance Masham had given him and then herself … as though she were wondering if she, Anne, had noticed.

Masham would be concerned, for she had always thought so highly of Lord Oxford and they were related, though obscurely.

Oh dear, Anne hoped there was not going to be trouble there, just as she had believed everything was going so well.

Such busy days! She even went to the Datchett races. These pleasures must not interfere with her state business of course; and she performed all the public duties which her rank demanded. She was seen at church; she received in her drawing room; and she ordered that an announcement should be put into the London Gazette reminding the people that she would touch people afflicted with the Evil in her palace at St. James’s; and as a result the people flocked there.

She sat benign, the mother of her people; and in the streets it was said that the bad days were over. No more war; prosperity was coming; and England was going to be merry under Good Queen Anne.

Abigail had dressed with special care to receive her visitor. She was excited. What transpired at this encounter could be very important to her. She must be wary; she must remember her rival’s downfall and never make the mistake Sarah had made of believing herself to be superior to those about her. She must never lose sight of the astuteness of her enemies, but remember she was playing a dangerous game when she set herself to teach the head of the Government a lesson.

But she had a powerful friend.

He bowed over her hand. How different from Lord Oxford. He was younger and so much more handsome. Henry St. John was a rake; he had had countless mistresses and would doubtless have countless more and could never contemplate a relationship with a woman which was not a sexual one. In his youth he had run naked through the park for a wager; and not long ago when he had become Secretary of State and had rode through the town in his carriage, the madam of one of those establishments to which he was a frequent visitor, had amused the crowd by shouting to her girls, “Five thousand a year, my beauties, and all for us!”

Now Henry St. John had become Viscount Bolingbroke but he was the same elegant, aristocratic man of pleasure who had delighted the madams of London by his extravagant patronage of their establishments.

He came to confer with Lady Masham.

He was disgruntled and made no effort to hide such an obvious fact, and as he bowed over Abigail’s hand and lifted his eyes to her small pale face; he fully understood how they might work together; Abigail was pregnant yet even at such a time he was wondering when she would become his mistress—such a consideration being automatic with him.

“So, I greet Viscount Bolingbroke,” said Abigail.

“A Viscountcy! No Earldom! Our friend—should I say our one-time friend—wants no rivals. An Earldom for him, so therefore I must be a mere Viscount.”

“I think we have been somewhat mistaken in our one-time friend.”

“He sees himself as the mighty dragon breathing fire to destroy all his enemies.”

“Rather should they be overcome by the fumes of alcohol.”

They laughed together. “Harley is a fool,” said Bolingbroke.

Abigail nodded.

“He has used us and now believes he has no need of us.”

“He will be shown his mistake,” added Abigail.

“I see,” replied Bolingbroke, “that you and I are of one mind.”

“On certain matters.”

He laid his hand on her arm. “I hope we soon may be in unison in every way.”

“That we shall take time to discover.”

Bolingbroke was a rash man. He wanted to pursue politics and women at the same time, and he was excited by Abigail because she was different from any woman he had ever known. Many would call her plain, but a woman who had gone into the arena and beaten Sarah Churchill at her own game could not be insignificant. Abigail had worked for Harley; but for her, Harley would never have been able to worm his way into the Queen’s good graces. What had she wanted from Harley? Something which he had failed to give? What a fool Harley was! He had warned him, Bolingbroke, against philandering with women; how much more dangerous to philander with the bottle. If Harley had not been such a virtuous husband, such a family man, if he had taken off a little time from virtue to understand Abigail Hill, he might not now be in the danger in which he stood. For in peril he certainly was, since his one-time friend whom he still believed to stand beside him, and the woman who had helped to bring him to power and had grown dissatisfied with him, now stood together, to teach him a lesson—a grim lesson which would bring him tottering down from greatness.

Bolingbroke would make no such mistake. He would not underestimate the powers of the Queen’s favourite woman. The Queen’s support was necessary and Abigail could bring him that.

Well, he was always ready to take on a new mistress.

Abigail was watching him covertly, reading his thoughts. Did he imagine that he only had to beckon to her? What did he think he had to offer her? His charm, his elegance, his experience? None of these she wanted.

She knew now what she longed for: devotion, adoration, fidelity, that relationship which she had seen idealized in the St. Albans House.

Was there no escaping from the Marlboroughs?

But in the meantime it would be amusing to join with Viscount Bolingbroke, for although he could never fit into her emotional life she needed his help in taking her revenge on the man who had failed her. In every way, she whispered to herself. Yes, in every way!

She smiled at Bolingbroke, as she evaded his proximity.

“We have much to discuss, my lord.”

He agreed. Business first, he thought. Pleasure later. At least there was one point on which they were in immediate agreement: the downfall of Robert Harley, Earl of Oxford.

Bolingbroke planned to create a new party and place himself at its head; he was following the path which Harley had set when he had formed his party to defeat Godolphin. The Queen’s brief return to health was over. Her little fling had resulted in a return of the gout and dropsy. Her hands were swollen—all trace of the beauty of which she had once been so proud, gone; her face was patchy with erysipelas; her legs and feet so distorted that she could not walk.

She needed Masham and her dear Duchess day and night and since Masham was expecting, it meant that the Duchess was in constant attendance. Dear Duchess! To whom Anne could talk so much more intimately of the past than she could to Masham, for the Duchess had been with her long before Masham had come.

One could not expect such a noble lady to do the menial tasks which Masham still performed but Anne often found it difficult to decide which was the more important to her. But when Abigail returned she was not really in any doubt, and she understood that she had imagined she might prefer the Duchess because a pregnant woman must think primarily of the child she was going to bear. No one could administer a poultice with the same care as Masham—so that the minimum of pain went hand in hand with the maximum of benefit.

“Dear Masham, when your child is born, you must be in constant attendance.”

“Nothing could delight me more than to obey Your Majesty’s command,” answered Abigail.

Abigail often talked to her of her half brother in France, for Abigail understood how worried she was at the part she had played in her father’s downfall. When she talked to Abigail she believed that the best thing possible would be for her half brother to come to the throne on her death.

“That, Madam, would make you happiest. I know full well,” Abigail told her; and when she was with Abigail it seemed that this was so.

Abigail brought Bolingbroke to her and he was of the same opinion.

But then the dear Duchess of Somerset would remind her of the perils of popery. Yes indeed, said the Duchess, she would be happy if she could bring back her half brother; but she must not forget her duty to the Church. Her father had been driven out of England because he was a Catholic; would she not, by bringing back her brother—also a Catholic—plunge England into trouble again?

“For Madam,” insisted the Duchess, “the people of this country would never accept a Catholic monarch.”

It was true and she must consider the Church. But when Masham and Bolingbroke talked to her, of keeping the crown to the Stuarts—her own family, her own brother to follow her—she could not help but sway towards their opinions.

Who were these Germans? The Electress Sophia—an overbearing woman—her son George Lewis who, it was said, could not speak a word of English and would not try to! His marriage was unfortunate. His wife was imprisoned on an accusation of adultery, and it was said that he had plenty of mistresses. Not quite the monarch to follow good Queen Anne!

How complicated it was; and there was Mr. Harley—Lord Oxford who had once been able to answer all her problems so satisfactorily—now it seemed at loggerheads with Bolingbroke who was next in importance in her Government—and worst of all with Masham, who had once thought so highly of him.

He was disturbing her too, for often his speech was so slurred that she could scarcely understand him; and his clothes were becoming more and more untidy. It was not the happiest manner in which a first minister should present himself to his Sovereign.

She had seen Masham turn away in disgust.

And she was in such pain and often so tired. Oh dear, the happy days when she believed she had solved her difficulties by ridding herself of the Marlboroughs and enjoyed a brief return to better health, were over.

Abigail was lying in her bed. Her time would soon come, and she hoped this time it would be another boy.

It would not be long now, she was thinking … not that her child would be born, but that Oxford would go just a little too far.

The Queen had certainly been aware of his state of intoxication the last time she had seen them together. Fool! Fool! she thought; and tears came into her eyes.

She was a foolish romantic dreamer. She had allowed him to fascinate her in those days when she had been young and silly. Often now she thought of John and Sarah together. How was life with them? Did he still love his virago as tenderly now that they were together all the time in exile?

It came back to her so vividly. The house in St. Albans. The return of John. The eager manner in which he looked about him for Sarah and then … that long hungry embrace. The scamper of impatient feet; the slamming of the bedroom door; the smiles of the servants.

“He cannot wait to take off his boots.”

The great General, who was first of all the impatient lover, had, by his love for Sarah set up an impossible ideal in the heart of Abigail Hill.

Had her hatred of her cousin stemmed from her envy? Had she become what she was because of the love the Duke of Marlborough bore for his wife?

It had never changed, that love, although Sarah had done little to cherish it. She had gone her wild and wilful way; she had crashed to disaster because of her own rash foolishness and she had taken him with her. Yet, he loved her still.

That was what Abigail wanted … a love such as that. Hers was a dream of romantic love and power. There had been only one man in her life who could give her that: Robert Harley. And he had denied it. Bolingbroke? Never! She could have been his mistress for a month or so. But that was not what she sought.

Someone had come into the room.

“Samuel!” she said; and he pulled out a chair and sat by her bed.

“You are not feeling well?”

“A little tired. It is natural.”

“You do too much.”

She was impatient. “If I did not where would we be?”

He sighed. He knew that he owed everything to her; he knew too that he had failed to give her what she wanted.

“My clever Abigail.” He took her fingers and kissed them. They were limp and unresponsive.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

She turned her head away. For what was he apologizing? His inadequacy?

“I must go,” she said; “the Queen needs me. I must not allow Carrots Somerset to take over all my duties.”

“Do not drive yourself too hard, my dear.”

“And if I did not … would you have your fine title? Would you have your position here at Court?”

“No,” he said. “But there are other prizes.”

She shook him off impatiently. He looked so … how could she say Complacent? Smug. Lord Masham—a man of title through his wife’s endeavours.

It was not what she wanted.

“You are going to the Queen?” he asked. “You should not walk across the courtyard in your condition. Take your chair.”

She shrugged him aside. It was years since she had taken advice from Samuel.

As she came out into the cold air, her eyes smarted with tears—tears of frustration. She was thinking of what might have been if the child she carried had been another man’s, not Samuel’s, the child of a brilliant politician who loved her as Marlborough loved his wife, with whom she could plan the future as Marlborough did with his wife.

Her vision blurred; she was not watchful of her step as one must be in the courtyard. She caught her foot in the cobbles; in a second it had twisted under her and she fell.

She lay bewildered and stunned. Then her pains began. The child was demanding to be born although its time had not yet come.

The news spread all over the Town. Lady Masham was dying. A fall in the courtyard; a premature birth; and the Queen’s favourite was lying very near to death.

The Queen was in despair. She sent Dr. Arbuthnot to attend to Abigail and commanded him not to leave her until he was sure she was out of danger; and she must have hourly messages as to Abigail’s state.

Anne could not be comforted. She rocked herself to and fro in her chair and asked herself how she could live without dear Masham.

Alice Hill, sitting by Abigail’s bed, listened to her rambling, and knew that she was living in the past, in those days of uncertainty and degradation when she had been as a servant in the house of the Marlboroughs.

She wept, and Mrs. Abrahal who would always be grateful to Abigail for speaking well of her to the Queen sought to comfort her, and Mrs. Danvers took time off from the Queen’s bedchamber to come to the invalid’s bedside.

There were messages from important court personages. Viscount Bolingbroke called or sent his servant every day but Lord Oxford did not enquire once and it might have been that he was not even aware of the accident to his cousin.

Dr. Arbuthnot, who knew Abigail well, and had always admired her, used all his skill, and by great good fortune saved the life of the child which was a boy.

“Don’t fret,” he told Alice. “This is the best thing that could have happened. The child is a boy and he’ll live. Once I can get her to understand this, she’ll start to recover, I promise you.”

He sat by her bed and took her hand.

“Abigail,” he said, “can you hear me?”

She opened her pale green eyes and he thought how colourless they were, how lifeless—almost the eyes of a dead woman.

“Ah, you hear me then. Ye’ve a fine boy. Do you understand me. A fine boy.”

“Robert …” she began.

The Doctor glanced at Alice. “Is that the name she wants. Robert. Why …”

“Named for my lord Oxford,” suggested Alice.

“Ah, it may well be.”

Abigail’s eyes were open and she appeared to be listening.

“The boy’s a fine strong wee laddie,” said the doctor. “Do you want to see him?”

But Abigail had already closed her eyes. They thought that she was not aware of what was going on but this was not so. She knew that she had had an accident and that her son was prematurely born. She had been close to death and for that reason life seemed doubly precious.

Her hand was taken and held gently. She knew by whom before she opened her eyes. She thought of Samuel who was gentle and unassuming and lacked the overwhelming ambition of men like Robert Harley, Henry St. John and John Churchill. But perhaps for that reason he was capable of giving her greater devotion. Harley had failed her; St. John she would never trust; but she could rely on Samuel. He would always be there, to love and cherish her … as well as their children.

She had demanded too much of life; she had wanted a great leader to love her, but great leaders were not always successful, and there were times when they were sent to pine in exile.

She had been foolish not to accept life as a compromise. Was she a foolish romantic girl to ask for the impossible?

“Samuel,” she said. “You are there?”

She heard Alice’s voice, gruff, relieved. “Is he there? He has not been far away for the last forty-eight hours.”

No, he would not be far away when she was in danger.

“Samuel,” she repeated.

He leaned towards her. “A boy,” he said. “Arbuthnot says he will live and he is healthy and strong. Listen. You can hear him crying.”

She nodded drowsily. The doctor said: “Let her sleep now.”

“I’ll get a message to Her Majesty,” said Alice. “She asked that news be sent to her without delay. She’ll be delighted.”

“There have been messages …?” asked Abigail.

“The Queen had to be kept informed,” replied Alice excitedly. “Viscount Bolingbroke sent his servant every day.”

“My lord Oxford …”

“Oh come, you have a Queen demanding news of you. Is that not enough?”

So he had not asked for her. He cared nothing that she might have died.

“And,” went on Alice, “a husband who has not slept or eaten since you fell.”

She smiled, and closed her eyes.

Is that not enough? That phrase of Alice’s kept ringing in her mind. If it was not enough it was as much as any reasonable woman could hope for. She was not going to be foolish. She had grown wise in the last hours. Life with its compromises had become very precious.

Samuel put his head close to hers. “I hear that you wish the child to be called Robert,” he said.

“Robert!” Her voice sounded scornful. “No … I want him to be called Samuel.”

He was pleased, she sensed it.

“Samuel Masham,” she repeated, “after his father.”

Sarah was homesick. It was distressing to see poor Marl eagerly reading his letters from home, thinking as she did every day of the meadows about Holywell, the forests at Windsor, the greenness of England, the sound of English tongues.

She was not patient in exile. She was critical of the weather, scenery and people.

“Oh,” she would continually cry, “it is not as it is in England.”

It was comforting though to be with Marl for his health was not good and he needed attention; he was as homesick as she was, although not as bitter, yet, as she herself conceded having more reason to be.

It was she who ranted on about the ungrateful country which had benefited from his victories and then had turned its back on him.

Abroad they had more respect for Marlborough than they had had in England. They remembered him as the great commander here. Prince Eugene had visited them in Frankfurt for the express purpose of seeing the Duke and doing him honour which, declared Sarah grimly, was more than his Queen had done him.

There could not be enough news from home for Sarah. She laughed grimly when she heard how fond the Queen was of the Duchess of Somerset.

“I am pleased,” she said, “that she has a friend nearer her own rank than some I could name.”

Never did a day pass without her mentioning Abigail. She told everyone with whom she conversed how she had taken the wretched creature from a broom, and how ungrateful the whole family were.

There was John Hill, brother to the Creature, whom she had found as a ragged boy, clothed and fed and sent to school. And she had prevailed upon my lord Marlborough to give the lad a place in his Army which he had done, against his judgment. And how had John Hill repaid such benevolence? When wicked charges were brought against the Duke of Marlborough, he had risen from a sick bed in order to go and vote against him.

“There is gratitude for you!” cried Sarah. “Did you ever hear the like?” She would talk of how she had devoted her life to an ungrateful monarch; how she had sat for hours listening to banalities which had nearly driven her mad—all this she had done and what was the result? She was thrown aside for a chambermaid. Lord Marlborough had won honour and glory for his country; he was the saviour of England and what was his reward? Exile! He had been promised a palace, which was to be built at Woodstock and to be named after the greatest victory of all time: Blenheim. And what had happened? A fool named Vanbrugh—with whom she would never agree—had been allowed to plan it; and the money which had been promised had not been supplied. On and on she raved about the ungrateful country to which she longed to return.

“Better a cottage in England,” she would say sometimes, “than a palace anywhere else in the world.”

And her longing for home was like a physical pain.

She knew of the conflict which was raging there and longed to join in, partly because she liked to be at the heart of any conflict, partly because what happened after the death of Anne could be of such vital importance to her and her husband.

She had news of the efforts the Pretender’s friends were making to bring him to the throne and she and John spent many anxious hours discussing whether it was possible to swerve their devotion which had up till that time been given to Hanover. In fact he was in communication with Hanover at that time and was making plans as to what action he should take, should the Queen die suddenly.

It was disconcerting. Abigail Masham was a Jacobite and she would have every opportunity, fumed Sarah, for pouring poison into that stupid ear. Moreover, the Queen was a sentimental fool and would doubtless believe that by naming her half brother as her successor she was expiating her sins.

“Our only hope is her passion for the Church,” declared Sarah. “She will think very hard before she lets a papist in.”

In the meantime she and John must be content with moving from one place to another. They had stayed too long in Frankfurt and were growing restive, so they moved on to Antwerp. “Like sick people,” grumbled Sarah, “glad of any change.”

It was while they were in Antwerp that a terrible blow struck them.

Elizabeth, their third daughter, had died of the smallpox. When Sarah read the news she was stunned. Elizabeth had been well when they left England; and this blow, in addition to all their frustration and despair, was almost too great to be born. Marlborough was even more deeply affected than Sarah. He had always been more devoted to his family than she had been and when he received the news he collapsed with grief. Sarah found some solace in nursing him for in her hectoring way she was an efficient nurse, providing the patient obeyed her absolutely and John was too wretched to do anything else.

Sarah sat by his bed and they talked of her—their little Elizabeth—who now seemed to have been the most beautiful and accomplished of all their children.

“I remember,” said Sarah, “how she would marry … and she only fifteen. I thought she was too young but she would have her way. She adored Scroop and he her … and no wonder. And of course it was a good marriage. That was only eleven years ago, Marl. Twenty-six … it is too young … too young.…”

Sarah covered her face with her hands and sobbed. John tried to comfort her; he felt ill and, like Sarah, he longed for home. To be with his family … to continue with his career … to wield power … to accumulate wealth. There was so much he desired, so much that could have helped to comfort him. These were indeed dark hours.

Seeing him so distraught Sarah cried angrily: “She is happier, I doubt not, than in a world like this!”

But they continued to mourn their beautiful Elizabeth; and there was no news from home to comfort them.

In London a crisis was threatening. There was an open rupture between Oxford and Bolingbroke. The Queen’s health deteriorated every day, and the Court was in a ferment of excitement. Letters were passing between Hanover and London on one hand and between St. Germains and London on the other.

The Queen swayed between her two beloved women—Lady Masham and the Duchess of Somerset; but there were days when she was too ill to think of much but her own relief.

Oxford, who had always hated to make decisions and whose greatest weakness was his vacillation, was now uncertain how to act. He had gone over to the Whigs but still tried to placate the Tories. In view of the strength of his enemies he was doomed, and Bolingbroke was ready to destroy him. Oxford searched for the solution to his problems in the bottle, and it was not difficult to turn the Queen against a man who reeled in her presence, who now and then gave way to ribald and disrespectful comment and at the best mumbled so that she could not understand what he said.

“Our drunken dragon will soon be slain,” Abigail told Bolingbroke.

He agreed with her. They were allies, though not lovers, as Bolingbroke had expected. But that was a small matter to be shrugged aside. There were plenty of women ready to share his bed; there was only one Lady Masham to smooth his way to the Queen.

Oh, what a fool was Oxford! He had used Abigail to climb to favour, for what he owed to those têtes-à-têtes in the green closet he should have been in no doubt. And just as Abigail had given him a helping hand in the beginning now she was barring his way—more than that, she was forcing him down to disaster.

He understood; but it was too late to change. Bolingbroke had the support which had once been his. He was angry with himself … too late; and because his brain was so often fuddled by wine, he was unable to control his temper.

His good friend Jonathan Swift, appalled at what was happening, had made an attempt to reconcile him with Bolingbroke—to no avail. The rift was too wide; and Bolingbroke was too ambitious. He wanted the position Oxford now held and how could he achieve it until Oxford had lost it?

Oxford could see the end in sight. He had wanted to placate the two parties; he wanted the support of both Whigs and Tories, in the same way as he swayed between St. Germains and Hanover. After the Peace of Utrecht he should have broken away from the Tories; he saw now that he should have boldly asserted his beliefs—instead of which he had wavered, he had procrastinated—and had won the approbation of neither. Moreover he had neglected those who would have helped him; and Abigail Masham was the first, and most important of these.

Oxford was about to fall and Abigail Masham was the reason. The Court watched and waited. Why had Abigail who had once thought so highly of him, suddenly turned against him? No one was quite sure. He had not treated her with the deference she had expected and hoped for, perhaps. Was that it? He had not given her the shares she had desired in the South Seas Company. Could that be the reason? Had she been his mistress? Never. Oxford was an uncommonly virtuous man which was noticeable in a society of rakes. Had she transferred her affections to Bolingbroke? There was a rake if ever there was one! But there was no scandal of that nature attaching to Lady Masham.

No one was quite sure where that partnership had turned sour. No one could be really certain about the relationship between Lord Oxford and Lady Masham.

Abigail herself was not always sure. He had failed her, she knew; and it was not because of lack of shares in the South Seas Company, although that might have been part of it. She had dreamed a dream and he had destroyed it.

Oxford must go. Those words were being whispered throughout the Court. Bolingbroke was ready to leap into his place. It was the chance he had been waiting for.

The Queen had been persuaded by Abigail that she could no longer tolerate her Lord Treasurer. There was no doubt that he had come into her presence completely intoxicated.

“Your Majesty is disturbed and distressed by this conduct,” said Abigail. “I know how it affects you. Your health is not good enough to allow you to endure it.”

Masham was right. Anne was so weary. Sometimes she heard the arguments of her ministers going round and round in her head. There was one matter which worried her more than any other. If only her half brother would give up his religion; if only he would become a good member of the Church of England; then he would be accepted and she would be so happy. Then she could feel that she had righted a wrong; then she would be able to face her father if and when they came face to face in another life. She had tried so hard since she had become Queen to be a good and Christian woman; she had wanted above all things to right any wrong she had done. If her brother could come into his inheritance and be King of England and she could bring it about, she would have expiated that long-ago sin.

“Masham,” she said, “I have written a letter which is to be opened after my death. I want to keep it under my pillow.”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

The succession! thought Abigail. James Stuart will be King when she dies and he will remember that I have worked for him.

“You will not forget, Masham.”

“I will remember, Your Majesty.”

Anne held her swollen hands, swathed in bandages on her lap.

“Are they painful, Madam?”

“I think fresh poultices might comfort them.”

Abigail set about preparing them. The Queen’s health was rapidly declining and that saddened her. She would never have another mistress like her; but when James Stuart was James III of England he would remember those who had worked for him; he would remember the one who had found the letter under the pillow.

She must not forget her enemies though—the chief of these was Oxford. He had at last realized that he could waver no longer on such an important point and had come down on the side of Hanover, and would do everything he could to bring the Germans over.

“Your Majesty is tired,” she said, “and I know this is due to Lord Oxford’s behaviour.”

The Queen sighed. “Dear Masham, he was even more difficult than usual.”

“Your Majesty should put an end to the trouble he causes you, by dismissing him.”

“I really believe I should, Masham.”

“Bolingbroke will be so much easier to deal with. There, Madam. That is not too hot?”

“Just warm and soothing, Masham. You are always so good with the poultices. You soothe away the pain.”

“I wish I could soothe away Your Majesty’s other afflictions as easily.”

Anne was thoughtful. The following day she told her Council that she would ask for Lord Oxford’s resignation. Her reasons were that he neglected business and was seldom to be understood, and when he did explain himself she could not be sure that he spoke the truth. Above all, he often came into her presence drunk, which was obnoxious to her, and when he was in a state of intoxication he had behaved indecorously and disrespectfully. She could no longer tolerate such conduct from a minister in his position.

Oxford was dismissed. This was triumph for Bolingbroke … and Abigail.

In the Council chamber Oxford faced his enemy—Bolingbroke.

Bolingbroke was a traitor, declared Oxford. He had lied and cheated his way into the Queen’s graces. He was ready to bring the Popish Pretender into the country; he had abused and misrepresented the man who had befriended him and who had made his way easy along the path of politics. Bolingbroke was a liar, a cheat and a traitor.

Anne sat in her chair trembling; her head ached; her limbs throbbed; and she longed for nothing so much as escape.

Bolingbroke, went on Oxford, the worse for drink, had been aided in all these wicked practices by a certain woman.…

Anne’s swollen fingers twitched; she felt as though she would swoon. She looked appealingly at her ministers. They must not wrangle about Abigail; they must not attempt to probe the intimate secrets of her bedchamber.

She threw a look of dislike at the ranting Oxford. Was it meet and fitting that drunken men should give vent to their feelings so in her presence?

Bolingbroke had risen and drawn his sword. This silenced Oxford.

“You forget the presence of the Queen,” said Bolingbroke.

“I forget nothing,” retorted Oxford. “Nor shall I. I will be revenged and leave some as low as I found them.”

Anne sat back in her chair, her eyes closed; she could hear their angry voices going on and on. How ill she felt! How she longed for the quiet of her bedchamber with Abigail’s tender hands to massage poor swollen limbs, to provide hot poultices.

But she must do her duty. She must sit here while they wrangled.

It was late when she was taken to her room and they were saying that there must be another meeting the next day.

Abigail and the Duchess of Somerset put her to bed where she lay exhausted until Dr. Arbuthnot came to her.

“These conflicts are killing me,” she said to him. “Oh, how I long to be at peace!”

At last she did sleep and Dr. Arbuthnot turning to Abigail shook his head gravely.

“You should get some rest yourself,” he said. “Her Majesty will have need of your nursing in the next few days.”

Anne awoke from her uneasy sleep.

The voices of her ministers still jangled in her head. Lord Oxford, his eyes bloodshot, his voice slurred … she could not forget him; nor the venom she had seen in Bolingbroke’s face. “How tired I am …” she murmured. Then she remembered that she must attend yet another meeting today.

She rose from her bed and stood unsteadily. Where were her women? What time was it?

Time? she thought. It is time for the meeting … and I must go. I must do my duty. I am the Queen.

She moved unsteadily towards the mantelpiece and peered at the clock. Time! she thought. What time was it? She felt herself slipping back in time … living in The Cockpit … listening to Sarah Churchill’s vituperations against the Dutch Monster … working so hard to drive her father from the throne. The warming-pan baby … that brother who was now waiting to take his inheritance.…

If she could go back.… Would it be different? She was afraid of time. It would soon be time for the Council meeting.… Time …

She looked into the clock’s face and thought she saw another face looking at her, calling her, giving her a summons that she could not disobey because it was not in the power of any—Queen or commoner—to do so.

“Your Majesty.”

She turned. Mrs. Danvers was standing beside her, frightened.

“Danvers …”

“I wondered why Your Majesty was staring at the clock.”

“I saw …” she began; and Mrs. Danvers caught her as she would have fallen.

Mrs. Danvers called to the Queen’s women and together they carried her fainting body back to her bed.

“I saw Death in her face,” said Mrs. Danvers, her teeth chattering.

The Queen was dying. Outside the palace the people gathered waiting for news. This was more than the death of a Queen who had worked for the good of her subjects; this could be civil war; there was a choice of two Sovereigns; the German who could not speak a word of English and the Papist Pretender. People took sides, but half-heartedly. Who wanted the German? Who wanted the Papist? If James had been a good Churchman the country would have stood behind him. But his father had been driven away for his religion. Would it be the same trouble again?

Marlborough’s war was over and the people wanted no more wars. For this reason they were more inclined to accept the German.

In the palace the conflicts raged more fiercely.

Abigail had been in constant attendance. Her thoughts were confused; she had scarcely slept for several nights and was exhausted; yet she knew that the Queen was uneasy when she was not close.

The Queen was dying, and Abigail now realized how much she loved the Queen. Her friendship had been calculated it was true, but she had received such kindness from her Sovereign, she had found such joy in serving her—what would her life be without Anne?

The Council had decided against Bolingbroke as Oxford’s successor, and had chosen the Duke of Shrewsbury as Lord Treasurer.

Shrewsbury had declared that he would not accept office without the Queen’s consent and as a result he had been brought to her bedside. Those about her had believed that she would not recognize him, but she did, for when she was asked if she knew to whom she had given the staff of office she whispered: “To the Duke of Shrewsbury.”

More than that she took his hand and implored him to use his office for the good of her people.

Shrewsbury knelt at the bedside and assured her that he would do all in his power; and she seemed satisfied.

She closed her eyes, but shortly afterwards those about her bed heard her rambling about the past. She mentioned the warming pan, and there were tears on her cheeks.

“My brother …” she whispered. “My poor brother.”

Glances were exchanged. Was she going to demand that her brother be her successor? And what would the reaction be towards a dying woman?

Those who had supported the House of Hanover were afraid; but they need not have worried on that score for Anne was too far gone to remain coherent.

Abigail, almost numb with tiredness, stood close to the bed; they were very near the end, she knew, and when the Queen died she must take the letter from under her pillow. That would let everyone know what the Queen’s wishes were.

But in her heart she knew that there would be so many to oppose the Queen’s wishes and that there was little chance of James Stuart’s coming to England. He himself had refused to give up his religion and the English would not have a papist on the throne. Moreover she knew that he had no means of bringing an army with him to fight for his rights and the French were not in a position to supply him with what he would need.

Yet if the Queen’s dying wishes were known …

But who would care for a dead Queen?

“They are going to bleed the Queen,” whispered Mrs. Danvers in her ear.

“Yes, Lady Masham,” said Dr. Arbuthnot. “She is suffering from an excess of apoplexy.”

Abigail whispered: “Dr. Arbuthnot, what hope …”

But the doctor pretended not to hear her.

The apothecary was at the bed; and as the Queen lay back, her eyes closed, the room seemed to revolve round Abigail, and she fell swooning to the floor.

Anne was aware that something had happened and asked what it was.

“Lady Masham has fainted, Your Majesty,” said Dr. Arbuthnot. “Poor woman she has been with Your Majesty night and day and is worn out with exhaustion and her grief.”

“Poor Masham!” sighed Anne. “Poor, poor Masham …” She was uneasy because they were taking Abigail from the sickroom; but she could not remember the cause of her uneasiness.

“My brother …” she whispered. “My poor brother.”

The Queen was dying. She had lost consciousness and was fast slipping away.

Although there were services in which prayers were made for her recovery, the Council were making arrangements to send a message to Hanover the moment the Queen took her last breath.

It could not be long now.

Those watching heard the death rattle in her throat, they saw the film in her eyes.

As the doctors bent over the dead Queen they saw a paper protruding from under her pillow. It was taken out and handed to the Duke of Shrewsbury, who looked at it, nodded, and slipped it into his pocket.

“Lady Masham, wake up.”

It was Mrs. Danvers standing over her.

“The Queen?”

“She has passed away.”

Abigail stood up, feeling sick with exhaustion and anxiety for the future mingling with an overwhelming sense of loss.

“I will go to her,” she said. Then her mouth twisted into a wry smile. “It’s too late, though. She will never call me again.”

“Nor any of us,” said Mrs. Danvers.

Abigail shook her head. “What shall we do?” she whispered. “What will become of us?”

She went to the bedside and looked down at the Queen and the tears blinded her eyes as she stooped to kiss that cold forehead and slip her hand under the pillow.

It was gone. She should have known.

This is the end, she thought.

Shrewsbury, seated at the Council table, held up the letter.

“My friends,” he said, addressing his fellow members, “I think we can guess what this contains, but if we do not open it, we cannot be sure.”

“It may contain her last wish.”

Shrewsbury smiled at the speaker. “We are in no position for civil war and the people would never accept a papist. If we do not know what her last wish was, we cannot go against it.” He turned to the fire which was burning in the grate and going towards it held the letter up so that all the members of the Council could see it. “Gentlemen,” he went on, “are you of my opinion for the sake of England it is better that this letter remains unread?”

There was a brief pause, then a voice said: “I am of your opinion.”

“And I. And I.”

Shrewsbury smiled. “Unanimous,” he said.

They watched the paper writhing in the flames.

Sarah saw the messenger approaching. News from England was always eagerly awaited and she had heard already that the state of the Queen’s health was deteriorating.

This, she thought, as she hastened to greet the messenger, could be what we are waiting for.

She knew by the man’s face that it was.

“The Queen …” she began.

“Is dead, Your Grace.”

She snatched the letters from him.

“Marl!” she cried. “Where are you, Marl? The Queen is dead! This is the end of exile.”

The end of exile! How right she was! There was no longer need to remain abroad. Soon they would be back where the fields were greener, where everything she loved and cherished would be waiting for her.

Marlborough took the news more calmly. So much, he pointed out, depended on who was the next Sovereign of England. If it was the Pretender, their chances of returning to Court were small; but if the new King came from Hanover then he would have no reason to feel anything but gratitude towards Marlborough and his Duchess.

The next days were the most anxious Sarah had ever lived through.

“I should die,” she told John, “if we could not go back now.”

They travelled to Calais to be ready to embark as soon as they knew who was to be the new King.

It was over, thought Abigail. Shrewsbury and his Council had caused the Queen’s letter to be destroyed. They could guess its contents, and were not going to allow a papist monarch to mount the throne of England merely to salve a Queen’s conscience.

Bolingbroke was not in a position to act. She had seen him and he told her there was nothing they could do. The people, he believed, would soon tire of the German King who in any case showed no eagerness to accept the throne, and then they would be only too glad to turn to James.

But a papist! thought Abigail. Never! If he would but change his religion …

No, there was nothing which could save her now. Oxford had fallen—and she would not be long after him. The Queen’s love alone had kept her in her place and now that was over.

George I had been proclaimed King of England; the people of London were behind him. Marlborough was coming home.

Abigail sent her maid to tell Lord Masham that she wished to see him.

Samuel came at once and she went to him and put her arm through his.

“This is the end, Samuel,” she said. “There will be nothing more for us here.”

“I know,” he answered.

“So we will take the children and go away from Court.”

“It will be a different life for you, Abigail.”

“I know it is the end.”

“Or,” he said, “the beginning.”

She laughed and she was surprised by the warmth in that laughter. “It would depend on the way one looked at it.”

“Do you remember when we first met?” he asked her.

She nodded. “We were watching the Duke of Gloucester drill his boy soldiers in the Park.”

“Neither of us was very important then, Abigail.”

“We were not. And now it’s Lord and Lady Masham, with a family to keep.”

“We’ll go to the country. We’ll buy a manor there.”

“The thought of being a country squire is not distasteful to my lord?”

“I can imagine in some circumstances it would be very pleasant.”

“Yes, Samuel,” she said. “So could I!”

She wondered then whether she meant it. She thought of the joys of Court life, the intrigues and triumphs.

She would never forget the days when it had been necessary to be on good terms with Abigail Hill in order to get a hearing with the Queen. She would always remember the first time Robert Harley had leaned towards her, endearingly, affectionately and said: “We are cousins.”

She would never forget him; she would until she died ask herself with a touch of pain whether in other circumstances it might have been so different.

Revenged she had been, but there was little satisfaction in revenge. She had her sons; her daughter. They would have more children. Perhaps in them she could find the fulfilment she had failed to find in her own life.

It was over. There remained the country. There was no other choice.

The Marlboroughs landed at Dover to a salute of guns.

“Long live the great Duke of Marlborough!” went up the cry.

Sarah sniffed the air. Oh, how good it was to be back!

And there was Marl. The great Duke once more! The friend of the new King! The people were strewing flowers in their path; they were to ride through London in their glass coach.

“This is how it was after Blenheim!” cried Sarah.

And as the Marlboroughs rode into London, in search of fresh glories, Lord and Lady Masham, with their children, rode out seeking obscurity.