Courting Her Highness

QUEEN’S BOUNTY

Robert Harley, with his friend and disciple Henry St. John, stood on the edge of the crowd which was assembled near the pillory in Cornhill.

St. John knew that Harley was deeply disturbed, more so than he would admit; and the reason was this affair of Defoe.

Harley had said: “There is one of the greatest writers of our age. I want him to work for me.”

And before he could put that project into action here was Defoe—a prisoner during the Queen’s pleasure and sentenced to stand three times in the Pillory—at Cornhill, at Cheapside and at Temple Bar.

“I could have warned him,” muttered Harley. “I wish I had seen that pamphlet of his before it had been published.”

“It’s a brilliant pamphlet,” said St. John.

“Too brilliant. That’s the trouble, I’ve told you that the pen is a mighty weapon, St. John. It is because others are beginning to realize this that Defoe stands where he is today.”

“He’s coming now.…” warned St. John.

And there he was, the unrepentant scribe, the martyr to his cause, riding in the cart on his way to the pillory. This was usually the moment for which the crowd waited—when they would see the poor condemned wretch set in the wooden frame, his hands hanging before him, his neck and head in the holes provided for them, and himself helpless to face the scorn and fury of the mob. It was the custom to pelt the victim with rotten fruit and vegetables, stinking fish and any filth that could be found; many died of exposure to a cruel mob. And that this should be the fate of a man of great talent, perhaps genius—particularly a man who could be useful to him—filled Harley with indignation.

“He was a fool,” said St. John.

“He wrote nothing that was not true.”

“But this pamphlet of his The Shortest way with the Dissenters—why it gave pleasure to no one.”

“It gave pleasure to me, St. John, as all good writing must.”

“But the sentiments, Master, the sentiments.”

“All this conformity controversy in Parliament nowadays needs to be ridiculed, and that is precisely what Defoe did.”

“Yes, but in such a way that the High-Flyers took him seriously.”

“These High Churchmen take themselves so seriously that they think everyone else does the same. They have no humour—and that’s what Defoe has. If they hadn’t at first supported the Pamphlet before they realized Defoe was writing with his tongue in his cheek, they would not have made this trouble for him. So he is prosecuted for libelling the Church.”

“And what now?”

“God knows if he’ll withstand the pillory. If he survives Cornhill, it’ll be Cheapside tomorrow and the day after that Temple Bar. Come away, St. John. I don’t care to see the man subjected to insults.”

“Is there nothing we can do?”

Harley shook his head. “I shall do my best to have him released, but that would take time. If only I could talk to the Queen.”

“Well, why not?”

“I need to bring her to my way of thinking and I could not do that by a formal visit. I need to be on terms with her … as Marlborough is.”

“Ah, he has the Duchess to help him.”

“Yes and Anne dotes on the woman. Would that I could find someone to plead for me as Marlborough’s wife does for him.”

“There’s only one Viceroy Sarah.”

“God be praised for that. It is a marvel to me that she keeps her place in the Queen’s favour. Look. The crowd has divided. How silent they are! Usually the mob shouts so that you cannot hear yourself speak. How strange! What’s happening?”

The two men were silent while Daniel Defoe was set in the pillory. His expression was serene and untroubled; he looked as though he had no fear of the crowd and was completely unrepentant.

This was most unusual. A band of men with cudgels had placed themselves about the pillory.

“Listen now,” said one. “This is our Daniel. Anyone who tries to harm Daniel will get a crack on the head. Is it understood?”

“Aye,” roared the crowd. “ ’Tis understood.”

Someone in the crowd lifted a pot of beer and cried: “Good health and long life to you, Daniel.”

The crowd took up the cry.

Harley and St. John exchanged looks and Harley began to laugh.

“By God,” he cried. “He’s got the crowd with him. He’s got them, St. John.”

The hot July sun poured down on the prisoner’s head; he was clearly in great discomfort; yet his eyes lit up with appreciation for he had realized that the crowd was friendly.

A handful of roses was tossed at the pillory. Two girls ran forward and twined their ready-made garlands about it. Someone brought up a pot of beer and held it up to Daniel to drink.

“God bless you, Daniel,” cried someone in the crowd.

“Aye,” went up the shout. “We’re with you, Daniel.”

A ballad seller accosted the two men.

“Buy a ballad, sir. Daniel’s own. Buy a ballad. He’s a good man with seven children to support.”

Harley bought the verses and signed to St. John to do the same.

When the man had moved off, Harley said: “This is a sight such as I have never seen before. They’ll take him to Newgate after this. But I’ll have him out, I tell you.”

The crowd was becoming more noisy as Daniel’s supporters were growing. The guard about the pillory had doubled and if any man had dared throw anything but flowers at Daniel Defoe he would probably have paid for it with his life.

Harley said: “There’s no need to see more. Daniel will be well cared for.”

As they moved away he glanced at the verses and read aloud:

“Tell them the men that placed him here

Are scandals of the times,

Are at a loss to find his guilt

And can’t commit his crimes …”

“You see what I mean, St. John. Words like that can’t be ignored. Why do you think the crowd is pelting Defoe with roses? Why are they drinking his health? Because of words, St. John. Words … words … words! We are going to do battle and our first weapon will be words.”

Sarah had made her grief an excuse for staying away from Court, but when news reached her in St. Albans that the Lords had thrown out the Occasional Conformity Bill, and that the Tories finding themselves beaten had created four new Tory peers, she was incensed.

Marl was a Tory by instinct, but much as she loved and admired him she had a greater respect for her own views and these were growing more and more Whig. Marl ought to see that the Tories were against the prosecution of the war which he himself so firmly supported. The fact was that he was so occupied in Flanders that he could not see clearly what was happening at home and it was her duty to take command on the home front.

Four new Tory peers in order to get a Bill passed through the Lords! Sarah was not going to stand aside and see that happen. She was going to demand that there be at least one new Whig peer.

This was the best tonic to grief. Sarah left St. Albans at once for St. James’s.

Storming into the Queen’s apartments she found Abigail Hill seated at the harpsichord, and Anne dozing pleasantly in her chair.

Abigail stopped playing as she entered and turning saw the look of delight on the Queen’s face.

“My dearest, dearest Mrs. Freeman!”

“Yes, Mrs. Morley I am here!”

“So welcome! So welcome!”

Abigail watched the fond embrace. Anne was almost in tears.

“Do not think that my thoughts have not been with you all through this long and trying time. Do not think that I would not have been at St. Albans had you allowed me to come.”

“I was so filled with grief that I thought I should lose my reason—and so did those about me. Mr. Freeman even thought of giving up everything … everything to be with me.”

“Dear, dear Mr. Freeman! What a comfort. I understand your loss and your great solace. How alike our lives are, dear Mrs. Freeman.”

Sarah grunted with something of the old freedom of expression. If there was one thing she found hard to tolerate it was comparing her handsome brilliant genius of a Marl with that lazy witless Danish Prince.

“Well, now I am here,” she said, “and I wonder how Mrs. Morley has been faring in my absence.”

“Each day longing for our reunion.”

“When I heard the disturbing news I thought I could no longer stay away.”

“The disturbing news, my dear Mrs. Freeman?”

“This matter of new Tory peers being created to get the Conformity Bill through.”

“Oh, I am sure my ministers know what is right, Mrs. Freeman.”

“But I, Mrs. Morley, am far from sure.”

Anne gave a little gasp. Being absent from Sarah for so long she had not heard anyone contradict her so forcibly during that time, and when it happened it was a shock.

Sarah was aware of Abigail Hill still seated at the harpsichord.

“You may go,” she said.

Abigail’s eyes were on the Queen and Anne knew that she was thinking: Is it your wish that I should obey the Duchess?

Anne nodded dismissal and Abigail went away. What was the use of thinking she had a firm place in the Queen’s affections when Sarah only had to appear to make her understand how insecure that place was. Sarah could say this very day: Dismiss Hill. And Anne would meekly obey. Would she? She might put up a small resistance but it would soon be overridden.

Now this matter of the Occasional Conformity Bill. What would be the outcome? As far as Abigail could see, the greatest controversies in the country were concerned with religion; and the trouble over the Conformity Bill was an example of this. The Test Act had demanded that all public servants partake in communion in accordance with the rites of the Church of England when appointed to their posts; after that they might attend at intervals or not at all, but go to the services they preferred. This Act passed in the time of Charles II was typical of that monarch’s desire to placate two schools of thought at the same time. Occasional Conformity was all that was needed. The Tories had wanted to abolish this act and in its place set up another which was far less tolerant. This was the Occasional Conformity Act and would impose large fines on any person who took office and performed an act of conformity and afterwards attended a dissenting service. A second visit would make the offender liable to even heavier fines and banned from his office for three years.

Anne was a High Tory, a fervent churchwoman; and she had been convinced by her Tory Government that the Act of Conformity was necessary to the welfare of the state. Strangely enough the Lords had thrown out the Bill because William III had been a Whig and during his reign he had created a large number of Low Church Bishops.

And it was this act of creating four new Tory peers in order to pass the Bill through the Lords which had brought Sarah’s Whiggish principles into the fore and sent her hurrying to Court.

As Abigail left the Queen and the Duchess together she was not thinking so much of the rights and wrongs of the Bill as to the power which Sarah held over Anne. What happened now would be significant. Sarah was not only pitting herself against the Queen but against the Tory House of Commons.

As soon as the door shut on Abigail Sarah turned to the Queen.

“These matters are of too great an importance to be discussed before servants,” she said.

“Hill is most discreet.”

“I know it. It was for that reason I brought her to you. And I can see that she is giving satisfaction.”

“Such a good creature!” The Queen settled happily into her chair. How much more pleasant to talk of the virtues of dear Hill, for whom she had to be so grateful to her dearest Mrs. Freeman, than politics.

But Sarah of course had not come to discuss serving women.

“I confess, Mrs. Morley, that I was most disturbed. If men are going to be created to pass laws what are we coming to.”

“It has been done before.…”

“It may have been done before! You think that a good reason for repeating an iniquity? Mayhem and murder have been done before, Mrs. Morley, but that does not mean it is good and reasonable and right to do them again.”

“Mrs. Freeman misunderstands me.”

“I misunderstand nothing! This Conformity Bill has been thrown out of the Lords … so your ministers have advised you to create four new Tory peers in order to get it through. It must not be.”

“It is already being done.”

“I’ll not have it!”

Anne was astonished. She had longed to see Mrs. Freeman at Court, and now she had come there was this trouble. She had no intention of arguing. She hated argument. But even dearest Mrs. Freeman could not decide matters of state policy merely by demanding to do so.

“Well, Mrs. Freeman, come and sit beside me,” said Anne. “I want to hear all your news.”

“My news is too sombre, Mrs. Morley. For these last months I have thought of nothing but my loss.”

“My poor, poor Mrs. Freeman. There is no one who can understand that like your unfortunate Morley.”

“But,” said Sarah fiercely, “we have to grow away from our grief. It is selfish to mourn for ever.”

Anne flinched a little. It was most exciting to have the dazzling and beautiful Sarah with her, but just a little uncomfortable.

“I came to you because I have to talk to you about this disgraceful matter. Four Tory peers! It is a scandal. If you are going to create four Tory peers you must at any rate create one Whig peer. I shall insist on that.”

“My dear Mrs. Freeman, this is a matter for our ministers.”

“This is a matter for us,” corrected Sarah.

She began to pace the apartment while she expounded the follies of the Bill. It was iniquitous. It was intolerant. Anne repeated placidly: “It is a matter for our ministers.”

“Ministers!” stormed Sarah. “What concern have they for anything but their own advancement? We need to keep a firm grip on ministers. You will remember how difficult it was to get the Prince’s grant through. That was ministers for you.”

“I do remember and I shall be eternally grateful to you and Mr. Freeman for working so hard on the Prince’s behalf.”

“You will also remember that that grant was passed with a majority of one vote and that had not Mr. Freeman and I worked day and night it could never have come to pass and Mr. Morley would be some hundred thousand pounds a year the poorer.”

“We shall never, never forget the pains you and Mr. Freeman took, and I do assure you that both Mr. Morley and I can never express our gratitude. I remember my dear George was so ill at the time. Dear Mrs. Freeman, his asthma gives me the greatest cause for anxiety. I was nursing him at the time. Do you remember? I really believed I was going to lose him. I thought that fate was going to strike yet another blow at your poor unfortunate Morley.”

“That was when your ministers needed a little prodding and they got it. Now here is another occasion.”

“But, dear Mrs. Freeman, I declare you have become a Whig. I do not share your affection for those gentlemen—and I can tell you that it is a great sorrow not to be able to share everything with my dear Mrs. Freeman.”

“Let us get back to this matter of the peers.”

“Dear Mrs. Freeman, it really is a matter for our ministers.”

Sarah thought: I shall scream at her if she says that again. There she sits, the old parrot, not listening, not paying attention once she has found her parrot phrase, “It is a matter for our ministers.” We shall see, Mrs. Morley, we shall see.

“I suppose Godolphin is partly responsible for this,” said Sarah.

Anne did not answer and Sarah thought: And I have allowed his son to marry my daughter! I have brought him into our circle and this is how he repays me!

“He is our minister,” Anne reminded her.

Anything, thought Sarah, rather than send the fat creature off on to that minister refrain.

“I will speak to him,” said Sarah.

“One cannot be held responsible for one’s relatives,” Anne reminded her. “I know how grieved you were when Sunderland voted against the Prince’s Bill. I believe he was one of its greatest opponents. And my poor George suffering so with his asthma … fighting for his breath, and Sunderland working up feelings about him in the Lords. I remember thinking at the time: And this Sunderland is my dear Mrs. Freeman’s son-in-law. I shall never like that man again … but it does not make me any less fond of my dearest Mrs. Freeman. Nothing could change my affection for her.”

“I shall speak to Godolphin; I shall write to Mr. Freeman. If these Tory peers are going to take their places in the Lords then there must be at least one new Whig peer.”

“It is really a matter for the ministers.”

Infuriating old fool! thought Sarah. It is time I was back.

She had bullied Godolphin who could never stand up to her; she had written to Marlborough. They both advised caution. But when had Sarah ever been cautious? She was beginning to realize that she had been foolish to shut herself away from affairs. Marl was a genius, but he was not so perceptive as she was, and Godolphin was too timid. Neither of them—Tories that they were—had grasped the fact that they needed the support of the Whigs if they were going to carry on the war because the Whigs represented the commerce and finance of the country.

Sarah was fiercely on the side of those who wanted to throw out the Occasional Conformity Bill and although Anne supported it she was determined to bring the Queen to her way of thinking.

In this she would have Prince George on her side for he, when he had been appointed Lord High Admiral of England, had been obliged to take the Sacrament according to the rites of the Church of England and afterwards continued to worship at the Lutheran Chapel which he had attended all his life. It was therefore absurd for George to have voted for the Bill; nor would he have done so had not Anne insisted that he did.

The old fool, thought Sarah. Too goodnatured so say no, too anxious to please his dear angel, and too fat and lazy to discuss the matter with her.

Anne had to see Sarah’s point of view and Sarah was going to bring all her powers of persuasion to making her.

But first she intended to have her Whig peer and she had selected a certain John Hervey for the honour.

The Queen bleated that it was a matter for the ministers until Sarah’s fury could no longer be controlled.

“Unless Mr. Hervey is elevated to the peerage I shall leave Court and never set foot in it again!”

The Queen was distressed; Godolphin was shocked; Marlborough, deeply engaged in military operations, was horrified.

Thre was only one outcome. John Hervey became Lord Hervey and Sarah bowed her head in acknowledgment of victory.

Sarah was delighted when the Bill went through the Lords and emerged with an amendment which the House of Commons must surely reject.

She felt elated by her victory—for small though it was, it proved her to be a power.

It is time I came back, she told herself.

Sarah sent for Abigail Hill.

“You have done well while I have been away,” she said. “That flibbertigibbit sister of yours will have to mend her ways though.”

“I trust Alice has done nothing go displease your Grace.”

“Displease me,” cried Sarah. “I should quickly box her ears if she did. I should remind her that I took her from a broom—as I told you—and made her laundress in the household of his Grace of Gloucester. And now she had her pension and her place here—all due to me. I find her idle and scarcely worth her salt. She gossips too much.”

“I will tell her of Your Grace’s displeasure.”

“And that brother of yours.”

“Jack!”

“Jack indeed. He has been importuning the Duke for a place in the Army, if you please.”

“Oh, it is too much,” said Abigail, lowering her eyes and folding her hands together.

Sarah watched her with gratification. Abigail Hill had not disappointed her, although she had carried no tales. Perhaps Danvers and the rest took care what they said in front of the girl, knowing her relationship to the Marlboroughs and realizing of course that she would lose no time in reporting all she heard. There was no doubt about it—she was a good influence in the Queen’s apartment.

“Never mind, never mind. Although it would have been better if the boy had come to me. The Duke has much with which to occupy himself.”

“As has your Grace.”

“That’s true enough. I only have to turn my back and we have bodice-makers given grand titles. We’ll be hearing that grooms are being turned into noble Dukes next. And then, if you please, we have to show our piety by touching for the King’s Evil. Medieval, I call it. You should have told me what was going on.”

Abigail looked contrite. “Your Grace, I knew that you were in mourning.…”

“It’s of no account. Well, now I am here and I shall see that all goes smoothly and as it should. I believe the Queen has been pleased with you. You have looked to her comfort without intruding. That’s being a good servant. I am going to reward you.”

“Your Grace is so good.”

“My youngest daughter is with me. I did not care to leave her at St. Albans now that her sister is married and her brother … gone. So I have brought her with me. I want you to keep an eye on her. It means that you will accompany us perhaps to the opera or to the play. You will watch my daughter and make sure no harm befalls her.”

“And the Queen …” Abigail was terrified for the moment. Did this mean that she was going to be taken from Anne’s service? She could not have endured that. She pictured herself going to the Queen, throwing herself on her knees and demanding to be kept.

But Sarah went on impatiently: “Certainly not. The Queen would not wish to lose you. You have proved yourself a good chambermaid. This will be in the nature of a little treat for your good services.”

A treat! A duenna for the hot-tempered Mary who was too like her mother for comfort. She hoped that Anne would soon ask for her to resume her duties.

Anne said fretfully: “And where is Hill?”

“Your Majesty,” said Mrs. Danvers, “the Duchess said she was taking her to the opera.”

“The opera! Hill! But how very strange.”

“Yes, Your Majesty. It is strange that the Duchess should take the chambermaid to the opera.”

“Danvers, I should like you to bathe my feet. They are very swollen today. Oh dear, how I should love to go to the opera, but frankly, Danvers, I do not care to be carried there … and that is how it would have to be. I do believe my gout has been worse these last days. Hill had such soothing hands.”

Mrs. Danvers brought the bowl and bathed the royal feet.

There was not the magic in her hands that was in Hill’s. She closed her eyes. How tiring it had been this afternoon. Dinner at three of the clock had made George as sleepy as usual; and he had slept away that pleasant hour or two which she usually so enjoyed in her beloved green closet. It was Hill’s duty to sit at the tea table and pour the tea—she had rather pretty white hands. Her only beauty, poor Hill! Anne looked at her own. We have that in common, she thought. Poor Hill! So thin and plain. But such pretty hands and such a touch on the harpsichord, and her imitations were really amusing. They made George laugh. How she enjoyed seeing him amused—although not too much, for it could bring on the asthma. Hill had never done that. She was so discreet. If she saw it coming on—and she would be watchful—she would stop.

Such pleasant afternoons! And that nice page, Samuel Masham, usually accompanied the Prince. He looked a little glum this afternoon. In fact they were all glum—except the Prince, who was quickly asleep.

“We missed Abigail Hill,” said Anne to herself, with a little jolt of surprise. “All of us. Even George. I am sure he didn’t sleep quite so comfortably.”

And now Sarah had swooped on Abigail Hill and carried her off to the opera. Suppose Sarah should discover the charm of Abigail Hill. Suppose she carried her off to St. Albans. Then she would never want to lose her. Anne’s face grew long. She pictured them together—handsome flamboyant Sarah and quite indispensable Abigail Hill.

Her feet felt limp and only half dry.

“Danvers …” she began. But what was the use? It was only Abigail who could bring comfort to her poor aching feet.

Abigail … and Sarah! Together. And she confined to her couch or her chair with her dropsy and her gout. How she would enjoy being at the opera, listening to Sarah’s wit and with Hill close by to see to her wants.

Danvers was awaiting her command.

“Bring me writing materials. I want to write to the Duchess of Marlborough.”

While Danvers was obeying her she thought of Sarah who had been absent from her for several days and had not written. Sarah was always remiss in her correspondence; Anne had constantly to be reminding her to write. And now of course she would have less time than usual, since she had discovered the virtues of Abigail Hill.

“Dear Mrs. Freeman hates writing so much I fear, though she should stay away two or three days, she would hardly let me hear from her, and therefore for my own sake I must write her a line or two. I fancy now you are in Town you will be tempted to see the Opera, which I should not wonder at, for I should be so too if I were able to stir, but when that will be God knows, for I am still so lame I cannot go without limping. I hope Mrs. Freeman has no thoughts of going to the Opera with Mrs. Hill and will have a care of engaging herself too much in her company, for if you give way to that it is a thing which will insensibly grow upon you. Therefore give me leave once more to beg for your sake, as well as poor Mrs. Morley’s, that you would have as little to do with that enchantress as ’tis possible, and pray pardon me for saying it.

Your poor unfortunate Morley.”

She sent for Danvers to seal the letter and see that it was delivered. And afterwards when she sat dozing in her chair she thought: That was a strange letter I wrote to Mrs. Freeman. I wonder why I wrote it. Yet there is truth in it, little Abigail Hill is an enchantress of sorts. One does not notice her when she is there, but when she is away, how one misses her!

“Danvers.”

“Your Majesty.”

“When Hill returns please tell her that she is taking too much leave of absence.”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

“And send her to me … as soon as she comes.”

The Duchess of Marlborough was with her daughter Mary when the Queen’s letter was delivered to her. Mary sat sullenly watching her mother while she opened the letter.

The young girl’s blue eyes were fretful, her mouth—so like Sarah’s—was petulant. She was longing to return to St. Albans. He would be waiting for her. She would slip out in the evening and they would plan the future. Perhaps they would have to elope for it was certain that Mamma would never allow one of her daughters to marry a simple country gentleman. And that was all he was, even though he was the most handsome, most perfect man in the world. Wasn’t it enough that Henrietta’s husband was Lord Rialton and would be the Earl of Godolphin when his father died? Anne was Lady Sunderland and Elizabeth, Lady Bridgewater. Grand marriages for all three. They had married where their mother wished them to; so why shouldn’t Mary the youngest choose for herself?

She was so young yet; and dared say nothing, for she knew well enough how fierce Mamma could be when she did not want something—and she would certainly not want this marriage.

“But it is going to be,” said Mary to herself; and in her face was all her mother’s determination.

Watching Sarah reading the letter Mary thought: I shall hate her for ever and ever if she stops our marriage.

“H’m!” said the Duchess. “Sometimes I think that woman grows madder every day.”

Mary knew to whom she referred when she spoke in that slighting way. Mamma loved to speak contemptuously of the Queen, who had done so much for her. Perhaps, thought Mary, she will send me back to St. Albans with Abigail Hill in charge. That would be wonderful. One could do exactly what one liked with Abigail Hill. One could bully and browbeat her into accepting just anything.

“Is it from the Queen?” asked Mary.

“It is. She is a jealous old fool. She cannot bear that I should be with anyone but herself. What next!”

“Mamma, do you propose to send Abigail Hill to St. Albans with me?”

“No I do not. She is too useful at Court. The Queen would not like that at all.”

“She would not wish to lose Abigail then?”

Sarah let out a spurt of laughter. “Abigail! She cares nothing for her. She’s a good chambermaid … nothing more. The Queen likes her there because she does what is expected of her without obtruding. But she is so jealous of my noticing anyone … just anyone … that she thinks of a plain little chambermaid as an enchantress. Think of that! Abigail Hill.”

“I was only thinking, Mamma, that you might have wanted her to be in charge of me. It would take me off your hands if Abigail and I went back to St. Albans.”

The Duchess’s glittering eyes were fixed on her daughter.

“Both you and Abigail stay precisely where you are,” she said coolly.

Mary quailed. How much does she know? she wondered.

How pleasant it was in the green closet! Abigail poured the tea and brought it to her mistress, so quietly, so efficiently, just the right amount of sugar. Why was it that it was never quite the same when others made it? George sat in his chair, so contented now—except of course when his asthma troubled him, and even then so patient … so resigned. Dear George! He seemed not to mind that he had never fulfilled his early promise of becoming a great soldier or sailor, just as she had accepted the fate of never having had the children they had longed for. Now she dreamed of being a great Queen. Often she talked to Hill about her hopes, for to talk to Hill was like talking to oneself. She never shouted or contradicted or burst into loud laughter that had a hint of derision in it.

“I look upon my people as my children, Hill, the children I never had. Then I see myself as the Mother of them all and I want to do what is best for them just as I should for my babies had they lived.”

“Your Majesty, I believe the people look upon you as the Mother of them all.”

“Do you think Hill that a Queen can—if she has good ministers—be an inspiration to her people that a King can never be?”

“I do, Your Majesty. Think of Queen Elizabeth. An inspiration … it is exactly that.”

Anne nodded contentedly. “When I think of that, Hill, I cease to mourn quite so sadly.”

“It is God’s consolation,” answered Abigail.

Dear Hill. So right-thinking! So deeply religious!

“And there is the Church, Hill. To uphold the Church and the state—that is my duty.”

“Oh, Your Majesty is good … good!”

Dear Hill! Not only were her deeds a perpetual comfort but her words also.

What happy days! And she was beginning to grasp affairs of state. Here in the green closet she received her favoured ministers and how much easier it was to grasp a situation over a dish of tea than at a Council meeting. She felt so at peace, with one of the dogs on her lap and George dozing in his chair and Hill never far distant.

Samuel Masham was a frequent visitor because he always accompanied the Prince, and he was a young man on whom George seemed to depend as she did on Abigail. Not quite as much, of course; that would be impossible.

“There is a cold wind today, Your Majesty.” Abigail laid the shawl about her shoulders.

“I notice it now you mention it.”

She always anticipated a want. What a creature!

“The Duchess is still at St. Albans, I suppose.”

“I believe that to be so, Your Majesty.”

Abigail lowered her eyes to hide the faint mischief in them. The Duchess’s children did lead her a dance. Now it was Mary wanting to marry someone whom the Duchess considered unsuitable. Abigail hoped that little affair would keep Mamma occupied at St. Albans for some time. It was so peaceful at Court without her.

“How peaceful it is!” said the Queen. “Do you know Hill, I think one of the states most desirable as one gets older is peace. I am sure His Highness would agree with me.”

“I am sure he would, Your Majesty.”

How long, wondered Abigail, before she began to understand who was the disturber of the peace, how long would she allow the Duchess to dominate her and set the pattern of her life? Sometimes it seemed as though the answer was: For ever. There were others when Abigail was not so sure.

“Hill, who is invited to the closet this afternoon?”

“Mr. Harley, Madam, and Mr. St. John.”

“Oh yes, yes. Marlborough’s protégés. He seems to think highly of them and he is a very clever man. The Duchess is not so sure of them. Well, perhaps we shall discover, eh, Hill?”

Perhaps we shall discover! There were moments when Anne lifted her from her position as a chambermaid and made a confidante of her, and to be a confidante of a Queen was to take part in politics.

“It might be that Mr. Harley would like a dish of tea, Hill.”

Abigail stood before him and a shiver of excitement tinged with apprehension ran through her. His eyes, betraying nothing of his feelings, rested on her not lightly but as though they would probe the depth of her mind. As he accepted the tea she caught the smell of wine on his breath; he had been drinking before he came. Why not? she asked herself. So had the Prince, over his dinner; that was why he could not keep awake.

“Thank you, Mistress Hill,” he said. His tone was courteous but his voice harsh.

“And Mr. St. John?”

What a handsome young man! Considerably younger than Mr. Harley. Twenty years? Not quite so much as that. Fifteen perhaps. And clearly his disciple. Mr. St. John was too bold. Abigail had heard from Samuel Masham that he had the reputation of being a rake. Now his eyes were on Abigail appraisingly, but differently from the manner in which Mr. Harley watched her. St. John was no doubt noticing her sandy hair, the freckles of which she could never rid herself, the pinkness at the tip of the nose which was too long, the colourlessness of eyes that were too small. He would be dismissing her as unbedworthy. But still he was interested. Yet not so interested as Mr. Harley.

The realization came to Abigail that she was no longer merely the chambermaid to pour the tea, to fetch and carry the Queen’s fans, cards or shawls, and that these men, who were clearly going to be important in the country’s affairs had discovered this startling fact even before she had.

Mr. Harley was talking to the Queen of Daniel Defoe. Abigail seated herself on a stool close to the Queen’s chair, where Anne liked her to be, and listened. Mr. Harley was now trying to plead for Defoe. What an extraordinary voice he had; it was inharmonious, and he all but stuttered; yet he made his points with a brilliance and tact which was admirable.

“Your Majesty’s reign will be one remembered through the ages,” he was telling Anne. How had he known that that was one of the dearest wishes of her heart? “Conquest, yes, Madam. That makes for greatness, but there is something more valuable, more endurable: Literature.”

“I believe you have a wonderful collection of books, Mr. Harley.”

“To collect books is a hobby of mine, Madam. And I believe that at this time our country has a greater contribution to make to literature than ever before.”

The Queen folded her hands. What pleasant conversation! What an accomplished man! Yes, she had heard of the people he mentioned and it was admirable, quite admirable, that they found so much in the times to inspire them.

“Sometimes, it does not inspire them to admiration, Madam,” suggested St. John.

“It is of slight importance,” retorted Mr. Harley. “It matters only that they are inspired.”

Mr. Harley led the conversation this way and that. He mentioned Jonathan Swift, Matthew Prior, Joseph Addison, Richard Steele, William Congreve, John Dryden and at last he came to the point of the discussion: Daniel Defoe.

“I believe he is under sentence for some misdemeanour,” said Anne, frowning.

“For writing a pamphlet, Madam.”

Anne shivered. “I would not compare such a man with Mr. Dryden whose work I admire. Such amusing plays! I think we should have one performed for my birthday, Hill. Remind me.”

“Yes, Madam.”

“Had he been a less brilliant writer, Madam, he would now be free.”

Anne nodded. “Such amusing plays,” she answered.

Mr. Harley had a way of bringing the conversation back to what he wanted to say, and he had come to talk of Daniel Defoe for whom he obviously had a great admiration. Abigail realized at once that his idea was to have the man released from Newgate. But he did not know Anne if he thought that because she found his company stimulating she would grant any request. These people underestimated their Queen; she could be as determined as any of them to have what she wanted. She never raged and stormed as some people were apt to do. But she made her point and clung to it as stubbornly as any mule.

She had not invited Mr. Harley and Mr. St. John to the friendly intimacies of the green closet to discuss the affairs of a scribbler who had foolishly been caught up in politics and in consequence found himself in Newgate Jail.

Abigail inwardly laughed. It was so amusing to listen to Mr. Harley on the theme of Defoe while the Queen repeated at intervals. “Such a clever man, Mr. Dryden. Hill do remind me. We will have the play at St. James’s for my birthday.”

And when they left they must have been deeply disappointed, for they had gained nothing, in Abigail’s opinion, but perhaps a little understanding that the Queen was not what they had believed her to be.

She would have been surprised if she could have heard their conversation as they sauntered across the path.

“What did you think of her, St. John?”

“Scarce a beauty and devilish sly.”

“It may well be that her mental accomplishments make up for her lack of physical attraction.”

“She’s quiet as a mouse. They call her the shuffling little wretch at court, so I heard. Danvers and the rest are pleased to put on her all the most unpleasant tasks.”

“Danvers and the rest could well be fools.”

“Come, Master, don’t tell me you’re taken with the woman.”

“Mightily taken.”

“And you not a man for the wenches.”

“Your mind runs along wearisomely well-worn paths, Harry. Did you know there are other games more amusing, more exciting than those of the bedchamber?”

“An impossibility,” answered St. John.

“Rake! Libertine! You’re missing much in life.”

“You are proposing to play games with Mistress Hill?”

“Perhaps. She’s a deep one that. Worth watching. Who is she, do you think?”

“Brought to court by Viceroy Sarah, being some distant relation in service, which could not be tolerated, of course. Connection of Her High and Mightiness a serving wench! Never! Better to have her at Court—in a post of spy, you understand.”

“So she is a Marlborough spy! I doubt it, Harry. I doubt it very much.”

Robert Harley was smiling complacently. He was well pleased with his visit to the green closet.

Abigail would have been surprised, for he had failed completely to do anything for Daniel Defoe. She did not guess then that he had achieved his main object. He had seen Abigail Hill and had decided that he had not been mistaken in her.

It was on the night of the 26th November that the great storm broke over London.

The Queen slept through the beginning for she could sleep through most things, but the sound of the rising wind which seemed to shake the very battlements of St. James’s Palace kept Abigail awake.

She rose from her pallet on the floor in the Queen’s room and wrapped her robe about her, for she was certain that even Anne could not continue to sleep through such noise. Even as she did so the chamber was lightened by a brilliant flash of lightning followed immediately by the loudest clap of thunder Abigail had ever heard.

“What is it?” called Anne. “Hill! Hill!”

“I am here, Madam. It’s the thunder and lightning. It seems to be a bad storm. Shall I make some tea or would Your Majesty prefer brandy?”

“I think brandy in the circumstances, Hill.”

Abigail had disappeared, but before she was back there was another violent clap and the sound of falling masonry.

“I think, Madam, that it might be wise to leave your bed.”

There was Hill with a warm robe to put about the Queen’s shoulders.

“Shall I need this, Hill?”

“I am afraid the draughts might bring on the shoulder pains, Madam.”

“You are right, Hill. Of course you are right. Oh dear … what is happening?”

“It’s a very violent storm, Madam.”

“And right overhead. Oh dear me … Hill. There again!”

The Queen shut her eyes. Abigail knew that whenever any disaster threatened she thought of the wrong she had done her father and that some curse had come upon her.

“It’s only a storm, Madam.”

“I do hope damage has not been done to the poor, Hill.”

“We must see what can be done about it, if that should be so, Madam.”

“Yes, yes, Hill.”

“My angel. My dearest.” George was bursting into the apartment, a robe about him, his wig, having been put on in a hurry, awry. He was wheezing painfully. “Vot is this? You are safe, my angel. Ah, thank Got. Thank Got.”

“I’m safe enough, George. I have Hill here. You must not get so excited, dear love. You know it brings on the wheeze. Is that Masham? Oh, Masham, is His Highness warmly clad? I do not want him to take a chill again.”

“Yes, Your Majesty. He is wearing his warm underwear.”

“I want no more chills.”

“Masham,” said the Prince. “We need a little something for the cold to keep out.”

“Yes, Your Highness.”

“Hill,” said Anne, “brandy for his Highness. Oh dear, who is that screaming?”

It was some of the maids of honour who were terrified of the storm. “Bring them in, Hill. We will all be together.”

Abigail obeyed, and all through that horrifying night she remained beside the Queen.

That was the most fearful night Abigail had ever lived through and it was not until the next morning that the furious gale had abated; by that time it had left behind tremendous damage.

The streets were blocked with fallen masonry; trees had been uprooted by the hundred; the Thames was blocked with broken craft of all description and many battleships had been damaged in the North Sea.

All through the days that followed news of the disaster was brought to the Queen. Fifteen of her warships with countless smaller craft had been destroyed, hundreds of merchant ships were missing; the sea had swept inland; the rivers had overflowed; houses had been demolished.

There had never before been such a storm in living memory; all prayed that there never would be again.

The south of England lay shattered beneath its impact, although in the north it had been scarcely felt, and it was said that nowhere in London had it struck so fiercely than at St. James’s Palace where part of the battlements and many of the chimneys had been wrenched off. In the parks, trees had been pulled up and flung aside as though by some giant hand—trees which had stood there for many, many years.

“Nothing,” said the Queen, “will ever be the same again.”

They were sad days which followed the great storm as news of disaster after disaster kept coming in.

Anne was horrified to learn that a stack of old chimneys in the episcopal palace of Bath and Wells had fallen and that the Bishop and his wife, Dr. and Mrs. Kidder, had been killed in their beds.

“What terrible disaster, Hill! It is like a judgment.”

Then the news reached the Court that the recently built Eddystone Lighthouse had been swept into the sea and that its architect Mr. Winstanley had gone with it.

“It is like a judgment,” repeated the Queen.

Abigail, who knew how the Queen’s thoughts were running, refrained from mentioning the cause of the Queen’s remorse—her disloyalty to her father. Instead she said: “Madam, you will doubtless decide to help those who have suffered from the storm.”

“I shall indeed, Hill.”

“And perhaps a service to thank God for bringing us safely through the storm and asking him not to send such a one again.”

“Oh, Hill, of course. Of course. That is what we must do.”

So the Queen’s thoughts were turned from the possible curse which might have fallen upon her and gave her mind to good deeds.

“Madam,” said Abigail, “in the streets they begin to call you Good Queen Anne.”

Good could come out of evil then. The storm had been quite terrible, but it did help her people to understand how much she cared for their welfare.

She sent for Godolphin and they arranged that there should be a fast throughout the country—a public fast with special services in the church.

There should be a general proclamation.

“Hill,” she said, when Hill was massaging her painful limbs, “I sometimes think that good can come out of evil.”

“I am sure you are right, Madam.”

Soon after the great storm the Archduke Charles of Austria was expected to spend a few days in England on his way to Spain to claim the throne.

He had been proclaimed King of Spain in Vienna and had met the Duke of Marlborough in Düsseldorf that October. There he had presented the Duke with a diamond encrusted sword and earnestly thanked him for all he had done.

It was important therefore that the Duke be in England to receive the visitor when he arrived. Sarah was delighted to see her Marl. No matter what success or failure they had to suffer, for both of them these reunions were the most enjoyable periods of their lives. Some might maliciously say it was fortunate for John Churchill that he did not have to live day after day with Sarah without hope of escape; they might hint that the great felicity of the marriage—which none could deny—was based on the long absences, the fact remained that both could be completely happy in those short weeks when they were together.

Sarah raged about the follies of the Queen, the intractability of their daughter Mary who—at her ridiculous age—was trying to make a most unsuitable match; she might talk of the absurd knighting of bodice-makers, the difficulties of bringing son-in-law Sunderland to heel, her suspicions of Robert Harley and Henry St. John—of whom Marl and Godolphin seemed to have such a high opinion—but all the same there was no joy like having her husband home with her—safe within her sight.

And the same applied to Marlborough. He might be one of the most ambitious men alive; his heart was deep in military affairs; he longed to continue the war, but he yearned all the time to be at Sarah’s side. None but himself saw her soft, tender and gentle, for she had no softness, tenderness nor gentleness for any but him.

Marlborough, with the Duke of Somerset, went to Portsmouth to greet Charles of Austria; and it had been arranged that Prince George should go to Petworth, the Duke of Somerset’s mansion, there to greet the guest in the name of the Queen and bring him on to Windsor.

“I do declare,” said Anne, “that I am a little worried for Mr. Morley to make the journey at this time of the year.”

“It’ll do him good,” countered Sarah, who was now at Court superintending all the preparations for the visit.

“But you know, Mrs. Freeman, how bad his asthma has been this winter. He was bled three times in forty-eight hours and it was only the blisters that relieved him.”

“A little more action would be good for him.”

“Dear Mrs. Freeman, you enjoy such rude health yourself that you do not always understand the weakness of others.”

Sarah allowed the faintest look of exasperation to cross her face.

Hill would have understood my anxiety, thought the Queen; and dismissed the thought at once. It was disloyalty to dear Mrs. Freeman, and it was such a pleasure to have her back at Court. There was not the same peace, but how vital Mrs. Freeman was, and what a pleasure to look at those flashing scornful eyes and to listen to the invective which came tripping from that fluent tongue. One felt so alive with Mrs. Freeman about. And how handsome she was! One forgot how handsome until one saw her—with her beautiful golden hair hanging about her shoulders or dressed high for a state occasion.

All the same she was worried about George and she did wish Mrs. Freeman would have been a little sympathetic. The roads would be even worse than usual at this time of the year after the bad storm.

So George had gone off to Petworth, and when he returned he would be accompanied by their august visitor with Somerset and dear Mr. Freeman.

It was clear that Sarah believed this was as much her occasion as anyone else’s. Who, for instance, had made it possible for Charles of Austria to go to Spain and lay claim to the throne? Marlborough! Whose military genius was deciding the fate of Europe—and England? The answer was the same. And on whom did Marlborough depend for counsel and comfort and to fight his battles at home. His Duchess.

She behaved as though the Queen were her puppet. She all but ordered her; but not quite. Anne never argued; she would nod and smile and then go her own way; or sometimes make up her mind, find the phrase she needed to express it, and go on repeating it at intervals.

Nothing could have maddened Sarah more, but at the same time even she could not be blind to the warning it implied. John had cautioned her a hundred times. He was, of course over-cautious; but in her calmer moments Sarah did admit to herself that the Queen was a stubborn woman who could at times, as she put it, brandish the orb and sceptre.

It was evening when the party arrived at Windsor. Anne had ordered that every alternate man in the guard of honour should hold high a lighted flambeau, and the sight was impressive. The Queen, with Sarah—who should have been behind her—almost at her side, stood at the top of the staircase to greet her guests.

The Archduke was a delicate looking young man, handsome yet with a melancholy expression, and graceful manners; his blue coat with its gold and silver galoon was very becoming.

Poor young man, thought Anne. He looks tired.

He stooped and kissed the hem of her gown, then he kissed her cheek.

Sarah exchanged glances with John. But for you, she was reminding him, that young man would not be on his way to Spain. I hope they realize this.

John returned the smile. Never did a man have a more faithful champion.

Before meeting for supper the company would retire to their apartments and the guest taking the Queen’s hand led her to hers and, when that was over, Prince George conducted the Archduke to his.

Anne was pleased to see Hill in the apartment quietly waiting to be of use, and for a moment she thought how pleasant it would be if instead of going down to the banquet she could visit the green closet where she could lie back in her chair and leave everything to Hill.

Almost immediately it was time to assemble before supper and the ceremonies began. All the ladies of the Court must be presented to the Archduke. He seemed to like them, for he kissed them all with a little more heartiness than seemed necesary and, during dinner when he was seated at the right hand of the Queen, he kept rising to attend to the wants of some lady.

Anne glanced about the table at Sarah who was completely absorbed in Mr. Freeman and he in her, at George who was completely absorbed in, to him, the most serious business of life—eating and drinking.

What a handsome young man! thought Anne. My boy would be a young man now. Would she never have a child? Fruitless pregnancies came and went and she had almost accepted them as part of her life. They were no more inconvenient than the gout and the dropsy. But never a child.

How morbid she was—and at a banquet! And this was such an important occasion. When that young man was King of Spain how friendly England would be with his country for he would be grateful for ever—and it was all due to the Freemans.

Dearly beloved Sarah! But how much more comfortable to lie back in the green closet. She thought of Hill’s white hands among the tea things. So pleasant.

She was relieved when she could retire to her apartments.

George sat wheezing in his chair. She noticed that he was very breathless after a banquet—even though George’s appetite made a banquet of every meal.

“I fear this has been a little trial to you, my dearest,” she said.

“Bed vill be goot.” George’s pronunciation grew more broad when he was tired.

“The journey was too much for you, my love. I was saying to Mrs. Freeman I was uneasy about your making it.”

“Oh … that journey. Never shall I forget. How glad I am, I said to Masham, how glad the Queen does not come. The roads … my dear love … the roads …”

“The storm of course has devastated everything. It was really not necessary for you to go. I would rather have gone myself.”

“That, my angel, I vould never allow.”

Dear George—only stern when he felt the need to protect her!

“It iss forty miles from Vindsor to Petvorth, they tell me. Fourteen hours it took, my angel, and no stop ve made safe vhen the coach was turned over and ve vas stuck in the mud.”

“My poor, poor George. And how was your wheeze then?”

“My veeze vas terrible, my love, vas very terrible.”

“My poor, poor George.”

“And ve should be there now, but for the men who lift up the coach vith bare hands, my angel, vith their bare hands … and they carry the coach and set it on the road.”

“That was wonderful, George. What good and faithful servants! You must present them to me and I will tell them how grateful I am. I was so anxious. I said continuously to Mrs. Freeman how I wished you had not gone.”

“But I vould not haf allowed my angel to go.”

“Nor should I have allowed mine.”

“Vell, ve are safe now … and tired … and let us to bed. But a little brandy vould be varming.”

“A little brandy. I will call Hill. Hill! Hill!”

She came at once. She could not have been far away. How pleasant she looked—how simple after all the brilliant costumes of the evening!

“His Highness fancies a little brandy, Hill. I will take some, too. Such a tiring day … and another before us tomorrow. It will help us sleep.”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

And almost at once—how was she so quiet and so quick?—there she was.

So pleasant … sipping brandy with George dozing in the chair and Hill hovering in case she should be wanted.

“Hill, tell Masham His Highness is ready for bed.”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

“I too, Hill. Oh, what a tiring day!”

Samuel Masham went with the Prince into George’s dressing room and Abigail remained with the Queen.

“Such a day, Hill! What ceremonies! And this young Archduke—King as he is now. I hope he is allowed to remain so, poor boy. But I daresay Mr. Freeman will see to that. I thought Mrs. Freeman looked magnificent. And so delighted to have Mr. Freeman back. But I am worried about the Prince, Hill. He does not look well to me and that journey to Petworth must have been an ordeal. His coach stuck in the mud … overturned, if you please. And the boors had to lift it out. I really cannot think it has done His Highness any good at all. I wish you would speak to Masham, Hill. I want the greatest care taken of His Highness. Make sure that his underwear is of the warmest and he should not be in draughts.”

“Your Majesty can trust me to speak to Masham.”

“I know, Hill. I know. And now to bed … I am so tired. And tomorrow of course there will be more and more ceremonies.…”

More and more ceremonies, thought Abigail, with the Duchess of Marlborough at the Queen’s right hand, forcing herself forward, already recognized as the power behind the throne, as no King’s mistress had ever been more so. And Abigail Hill—confined to the bedchamber, but only for the term of Her Grace’s pleasure.

The Archduke Charles was considerably refreshed next day when he joined the Queen in preparation for the ceremonies. Dinner must be taken in public, to be followed by a concert—instrumental and vocal—and after that there would be more music and, of course, cards.

Charles looked even more handsome than he had the previous night, as dressed in his crimson coat he greeted the Queen and her attendants.

Anne found it difficult to suppress her yawns as the day went on. Dinner at three and then the long afternoon of entertainment before supper. Oh for an hour or so in the green closet! She saw that George felt as she did and was thinking longingly of that comfort.

Sarah of course felt no such desire. What energy! What vitality! Dear Mrs. Freeman makes me feel tired merely to look at her. But how handsome! How admired! And no wonder.

Charles was paying attention to her. Like everyone else he knew her importance. And how she enjoyed it! Such occasions were perfection to her. We are really quite different! thought Anne.

How glad she was that the supper was now over and there was dear Mrs. Freeman ready to perform her duty, standing before her with the bowl in which she would wash her hands and the towel across her arm.

But Charles had risen and was attempting to take the towel from Sarah’s arm.

Sarah said: “It was my duty and my honour to do this service for Her Majesty.”

Charles replied: “But at this time you will let me have that honour?”

He took the towel from Sarah and dipping it in the water, lifted one of Anne’s hands and washed it; and when he had done this he washed his own, while Sarah stood holding the bowl, with all eyes upon her; and then Charles took off a diamond ring and taking Sarah’s hand slipped it on her finger.

Sarah’s eyes gleamed with satisfaction. This was an acknowledgment of her importance.

In their apartments Sarah held out her hand with the flashing diamond in it.

“Worth a fortune,” she said.

John took the hand and kissed it.

“You know why he did it?” he said.

“Because he knows that if he wishes for England’s support he has to have mine.”

“Spoken like my Sarah.”

“And how else should I speak, pray?”

“In no other way, for I would not have my Sarah different in any small detail.”

“So I am appreciated.”

He caught her in his arms.

“It pleases me,” she said, “to be embraced by the greatest genius of our day.”

“No,” he said, “it is the great genius who is being embraced.”

“Together we are supreme, John.”

“You understand the meaning of that gesture of the Archduke?” he asked her.

“Of course. I have just told you.”

“It’s more than that. His ancestor Charles V gave a diamond ring to the mistress of François Premier when she held the bowl for him in similar circumstances. But he left his in the bowl. Charles put his on your finger. He could not treat the Duchess of Marlborough as a King’s mistress.”

“I should hope not. I am a respectable woman and I am thankful that at least my fat friend sets a good moral example to her subjects.”

“Ah, Sarah, what of the Queen? Should you not be in attendance?”

“There is only one on whom I intend to attend this night, my lord. Why do you think I got Abigail Hill her place?”

“You think it wise to neglect her …” began John.

But she laughed in his face and such times as these were the most precious occasions for them both.

All over Christmas John remained in England, but he was making plans for his spring campaign. Sarah spent her time between the Queen and her husband and whenever possible they escaped to St. Albans. A sullen Mary had been given a place in the Queen’s household as lady in waiting on the death of Lady Charlotte Beverwaret. “Where I can keep an eye on her,” said Sarah grimly. But relations between mother and daughter were decidedly strained, for Mary was not one meekly to accept meddling in her life. John, distressed by the relationship between his wife and daughter, did all he could to put it right, but while Mary continued affectionate towards him she made it clear that she had no love for her mother.

“Who would have children!” cried Sarah. “Ungrateful creatures!” But Mary continued resentful and brooding, and avoided her mother as much as she could. “It’ll pass,” said Sarah. “I remember her sullen moods of the past.”

During Anne’s birthday celebrations John Dryden’s play All for Love was performed in St. James’s Palace.

It was a pleasant occasion, particularly as Anne had announced on that day that she intended to celebrate her birthday by making an endowment to poor clergy. It had disturbed her for some time, she had explained to her ministers, because those who were working in the Church were so ill paid.

She had talked about this with Hill during those winter days when George had dozed, awaking now and then to emit a grunt when she addressed him, and Hill had understood perfectly how anxious she was, for she had heard that some of the clergy and their families were actually in want. “Doing the Church’s work, Hill, and in want! I remember Bishop Burnet’s advising my sister Mary and her husband William to do this. But it was useless. William thought only of war … and Mary thought exactly what he wanted her to think. I am thankful that the dear Prince is quite different. There could not be a better husband.…”

Abigail only interrupted with: “Nor a better wife than Your Majesty.”

Anne smiled. “Thank you, Hill. I could wish all my subjects could enjoy the happiness of marriage as I have done. There is only one sorrow, Hill. My babies … and particularly my boy. But I was telling you of my plan. I intend to establish a fund for the clergy. I shall make over my entire revenue from the First Fruits and the Tenths … which is from the Church … back to the Church for the benefit of the Clergy. I have been discussing this with my ministers and I have asked them to make it legal. My uncle Charles took this money to give to his mistresses, Hill. But I want to give it to those who are dedicating their lives to my church.”

“Your Majesty is so good.”

“I want to do good to my people, Hill. You, I know, understand that.”

Hill lowered her eyes and nodded.

Shortly afterwards the fund was created and made known throughout the country. It was called Queen Anne’s Bounty; and when the Queen rode out the people cheered her. She was becoming generally known as Good Queen Anne.