Courting Her Highness

INTRIGUE IN THE GREEN CLOSET

Robert Harley sat in his favourite spot at the Apollo Club, indulging his favourite pastime—drinking. Harley enjoyed the night-life of London. He liked the atmosphere of the clubs which were springing up all over the City. He even visited the coffee houses and taverns in order to exchange conversation with literary acquaintances who frequented them. Next to drinking he enjoyed talking, and when Harley talked others enjoyed listening; for he was witty, brilliant and persuasive, in spite of his discordant voice and hesitant delivery.

Since his new appointment—he had recently replaced Nottingham and become Secretary of State for the Northern Department—he still found time to mingle with his literary friends and if he was not at the Apollo he would be at the Rota, invariably accompanied by his friend and disciple, Henry St. John, who, naturally enough, had received an appointment at the same time as Harley and was the new Secretary at War.

They had made their way through streets in which the celebrations for the victory of Blenheim were at their height. The coffee houses were full of people sipping hot coffee, chocolate or Nants brandy. The taverns were even more crowded. There were already signs of drunkenness and as the evening progressed these would naturally increase. Harley, with St. John beside him, had had to push his way through the crowds.

The comparative peace of the Apollo was very pleasant, so was the taste of good brandy.

Harley looked sardonically at St. John and said: “This could well be called Duke’s Day. That screaming hysterical herd will crown the ducal head with laurels when he returns—the victorious conqueror. But remember they would as readily have screamed for that head to be cut from the ducal shoulders and placed at Temple Bar to be spat at and scorned, had the battle gone the other way. There’s the mob for you, Harry.”

“Well, ’twas always so.”

“True enough. Nor was I intending to make an original observation in stating the obvious. No, I am merely asking you to observe an action natural to the hysterical screaming uneducated mob and to realize that since it is possible successfully to gauge its reaction, how easy it could be to control it.”

St. John looked intently at his mentor.

“Marlborough!” went on Harley. “That name is on every tongue. The Great Duke! The Victorious Duke! The Victor of Blenheim! He disobeyed instructions from home and by great fortune—for him—he won his battle. Ah, if it had gone the other way. That screaming mass of ignorance would have torn him to pieces. And now, it would appear that we shall be ruled by the Marlboroughs.”

“And so have we been since Anne came to the throne, for does not Anne rule us, and is not Anne ruled by Sarah?”

“Ruled by women. Is it a healthy state of affairs, Harry? For I would take the sad story further and say that Marlborough is ruled by his wife—so we might all call ourselves Sarah’s subjects.”

“Has the Queen no will of her own?”

“She has a stubbornness. She comes to a point when she makes up her mind and will not be turned from her opinion—even, I believe, by Sarah. One realizes this by the summing up of opinion which is repeated and repeated in face of all arguments. I often wonder whether even Sarah can break that down. And therein lies my hope.”

“Your hope, Master?”

“Well, do you wish to remain one of Sarah’s subjects?”

“I loathe the woman, but while the Queen is besotted by her how can we help it?”

“There are always ways, my dear fellow. The Marlboroughs are supreme now … at their peak, shall we say. Never can they climb higher than they are at this moment. Now is the time to assess their power, to find their weaknesses.”

“But …”

“I know. I know. We are Marlborough’s men. We are his protégés. To him we owe our advancement. He trusts us. Now we come to his weakness. It is never wise—in politics to trust anyone.”

“I have trusted you.”

“My dear fellow, we are travelling companions—we go together. Your support is useful to me; my influence is useful to you. We are not rivals. We move in unison. It is the Marlboroughs who are our rivals. If we are not careful we shall find that we must agree with Marlborough in all things—and that, like as not, means obeying Sarah—and if we do not, we shall be out.”

St. John shrugged his shoulders.

“You would accept this state of affairs? A great mistake, Harry. Never accept anything unless it is agreeable. Pray accept some more brandy for that at least you know to be agreeable without doubt.”

“So … you intend to work against Marlborough?”

“You express yourself crudely. Let us say this, Harry, if we would advance we do not stand still. We go forward. We explore the territory and assess its advantages. Well, that is what I intend to do.”

“But how?”

Harley laughed. “Can you not guess? I shall tell you then, because we are in this together, St. John. You know that as I march forward I take you with me. That’s agreed, is it not?”

“We have worked together; you have helped me, encouraged me.”

“And when I receive my Government appointment you have yours. We’re in harness, Harry. Don’t forget. Now in what territory would you reconnoitre if you were surveying the coming battle? You are at a loss, Harry. That’s rare with you. In the Queen’s bedchamber, my dear fellow! That is the place. And the time is now. You will see I am ready to go into action.”

Glorious days! thought Sarah. Letters from Marl telling of his plans and his love for her. “I would give up ambition, my hopes for future glory, for the sake of my dearest soul.” They were bound together again and there must be no more follies. She was certain that if by any chance there had been a little truth in the rumour Sunderland had reported to her, Marl had learned his lesson. He would never risk looking at another woman.

She had been down to look at the site for the new Palace. Woodstock was both delightful and romantic. There Henry II had dallied with the Fair Rosamond Clifford, and to avoid the jealousy of Queen Eleanor had had a bower built for her within a maze to which few had the clue. Eleanor determined to destroy her rival, arranged that a skein of silk be put in Rosamond’s pocket that it should be unravelled as she walked through the maze, and thus Eleanor, following the silken clue, was led to the bower where she offered Rosamond a choice between a dagger or a bowl of poison.

Rumour! thought Sarah mockingly, knowing how rumour could arise. But the fact remained that Rosamond died soon after her liaison with the King was made known and there seemed little doubt that Eleanor had had a hand in it.

Sarah could well sympathize with the Queen. I’d be ready with the dagger and the poisoned bowl for any woman Marl preferred to me! she thought. But how foolish! He preferred only her. Did she not carry a letter in her pocket in which he told her so with the utmost emphasis.

The romantic past of Woodstock made even her imaginative. Here the Black Prince had been born; here Elizabeth had been imprisoned; Charles I had sheltered here after the Battle of Edgehill; but now in place of Woodstock there would be Blenheim, and when people passed this way they would not think of Elizabeth or Charles or the Fair Rosamond—they would say: There is Blenheim which commemorates one of the greatest victories in English history made possible by England’s greatest soldier.

It was a beautiful spot; two thousand acres of parkland watered by the River Glyme. Sarah was impatient, and when she had viewed the site engaged Sir Christopher Wren to draw up plans.

Wren of course was getting old and perhaps it was wise to engage another architect to submit his ideas. She had heard that the Controller of Works was doing a very fine job for the Earl of Carlisle, rebuilding his mansion—Castle Howard. He was the rising architect; Wren was the waning one.

“Your Grace should certainly give John Vanbrugh a trial. He’s an amusing fellow besides being an excellent architect. He’s the man who writes those witty plays.”

“He can show me what he can do,” Sarah had said; and as a result the plans submitted by John Vanbrugh had been chosen in preference to those of Wren.

So far so good. But there were troubles in the family circle and again it was Mary. She was only sixteen and very beautiful—perhaps the most beautiful of an extremely handsome family.

She was young, but Sarah had seen since that unfortunate affair at St. Albans that Mary was the sort who needed to be married young.

She had not talked to Marl about their daughter. He was far too indulgent where his daughters were concerned. In fact had he not been so devoted to her they might have joined forces against her. But Marl would never do that. Throughout her stormy relationships with her family John had always done everything in his power to bring her children back to her. “You must listen to your mother. Really she knows best.” And those bold girls of hers—Henrietta and Mary particularly—would fling their arms about his neck and say: “But Papa, you understand. We know you do!” There could have been conflict in the family but for Marl’s complete loyalty to her.

And now there was Mary. She remained sullen and on bad terms with her mother. Really the girl should be whipped. And, Sarah told herself and Mary, if I had more time I might be tempted to do so.

Mary’s lips curled in contemptuous disregard and it was all Sarah could do to prevent herself striking the girl.

In any case she knew that she must get her married quickly.

There were suitors in plenty. In the first place who would not want to mate with the Marlboroughs? And in the second, in spite of her present sullenness, Mary was a very attractive girl.

Lord Tullibardine had tentatively approached Sarah and she was by no means averse to such a match. The Earl of Peterborough’s heir was clearly attracted by the girl; and Lord Huntingdon had hinted that he was interested. Besides these there were others whom Sarah could not consider, but it was obvious that it would be the simplest matter to get Mary married.

But every time Sarah approached the girl she was sullen.

“I have no wish to marry any man you may choose for me.”

“So you intend to die unmarried?” demanded Sarah.

“I did not say that.”

“You will marry whom I choose for you or not at all.”

“Then there is no alternative but to die unmarried,” retorted the insolent creature.

“Lord Huntingdon is the son of the Earl of Cromartie,” Sarah reminded her daughter.

“I am aware of it.”

“So you consider he is not good enough?”

“I consider I am too young to marry—as you told me recently.”

“Too young for an unsuitable marriage.”

“I cannot see how suitability affects age.”

“I can see how your insolence is affecting me.”

That was how it was. Perpetual strife; and now Lord Monthermer, son of the Earl of Montague, was expressing interest.

“Lord Monthermer is a very worthy young man,” said Sarah.

“Being the future Earl of Montague?” asked Mary.

“Those who turn away the best prizes often have to accept something less valuable later on.”

“I am still too young, Mamma, to be interested in these glittering prizes.”

Who would have daughters!

And thus it was. Taking Mary to St. Albans in the hope that a sojourn from Court would enable her energetic mother to instill a little sense into her foolish young head; going down to Woodstock, having meetings with John Vanbrugh. It took so much time so she could not be with Anne as much as the latter would have liked.

Mrs. Morley must realize how busy I am with my affairs, Sarah told herself. In any case there is Abigail Hill to make sure that everything runs smoothly in my absence. That is exactly why she was put where she is.

So during those weeks when Harley was planning his strategy, Sarah, immersed in her own affairs, left the fort wide open to her enemies.

The Queen was preparing to go into the green closet. George had come to her apartment to accompany her there and was at the moment standing at the window commenting on the passers-by. His remarks were malicious; he enjoyed poking fun at the oddities of others, although, thought Abigail, his own obesity was scarcely attractive; but perhaps this was the reason for his delight in the physical disabilities of others.

“We are ready now, my dearest,” said Anne.

George turned reluctantly from the window and yawned.

“You’ll have your nap, my dear, in the green closet. Hill will make some bohea after a little while and that will revive you.”

“The sucking pig was goot,” said George. “But I think I haf ate too much of it.”

“Dearest, you always eat too much sucking pig—and then there was the wild fowls and fricasse. You’ll sleep it off, never fear. Hill, who will be in the closet today?”

“Mr. Harley, Madam, and Mr. St. John … among others.”

“Pleasant creatures, both,” said Anne; and they went to the green closet.

Abigail, while waiting on the Queen, was conscious of Mr. Harley’s interest. Every time she lifted her eyes it seemed that she met his. His smile was warm and friendly; and she wondered what had happened to arouse his interest in her. She did not imagine that he was attracted by her, for she was not an attractive woman, except to perhaps Samuel Masham who was clearly affected by her; but Samuel was not a great politician—merely a humble servant to royalty like herself, meek and never forgetful of his place. Robert Harley was different. He was one of the most important men in the Government; and surely there was only one reason why he could show his interest in a humble person such as herself.

Yet he had not attracted scandal by his affairs with women. He was respectably married and by all accounts was faithful to his wife, although he was a notoriously heavy drinker and a lover of the night-life of London. But what did it mean?

She watched him talking to the Queen. He knew how to pay a compliment and Anne was obviously pleased with his company. And Mr. St. John could supply his own particular brand of wit.

It was a successful afternoon—Prince George comfortably sleeping without snoring too loudly, Anne sipping tea and listening contentedly while Mr. Harley talked of the advantages which had come to the country since the Queen’s reign. He did not mention Blenheim, though.

It was when he was taking his leave that he found an opportunity of coming close enough to Abigail to whisper: “Could I have a word with you alone?”

She looked startled and he went on, “I have a matter to discuss with you which I think will be of great interest … to us both.”

“Why … yes,” she murmured.

“I will wait in the ante-room. Come when you can.”

Shortly afterwards she made her way there to find him patiently waiting for her.

“I knew you would come,” he said, his voice warm and friendly.

“You said you had a matter to discuss.”

“Yes, I have made a very pleasing discovery.”

“About … me?”

“You and myself. We are cousins.”

“Cousins! Is it indeed so?”

“You are in the same relationship to me as you are to the Duchess of Marlborough. Your father was my cousin.”

“Mr. Harley, is it really so?”

He laughed. “You seem more surprised than pleased. But I can prove it to you.”

“But of course I am honoured to be so … so well connected.”

“It was your name that caught my attention. Abigail is my mother’s name. It is a popular name in our family.”

“It is scarcely unusual.”

“But that was what interested me and then … I discovered the connection. I was … delighted, and I could not refrain from telling you so.”

“It is a pleasure for me,” said Abigail, “but for you …”

“You are indeed as modest as I have always heard you are. There is one thing I wished to say to you and it is this: Cousins should meet now and then, should they not? A relationship is a bond. Do you agree? I hope therefore that we shall meet often in Her Majesty’s green closet.”

“I am sure Her Majesty will be pleased to see you at any time.”

“And you too?”

“I, of a certainty,” said Abigail with a blush.

She went back to the Queen a little bewildered but pleased. What exalted relatives she possessed! And how much more charming was Mr. Harley than the Duchess of Marlborough. He talked to her as though she were a friend—not, as the Duchess did, like a poor relation only fitted to be a glorified servant.

Abigail was excited. Why, she asked herself, had Mr. Harley seemed so pleased by the relationship? He was not a young man to be easily excited. He was a very ambitious middle-aged one.

A thought came to her. Could it possibly be that Robert Harley, one of the leading politicians, believed the acquaintance of a chambermaid was worth cultivating?

What did Harley want? Abigail was no fool. He wanted a closer relationship with the Queen and he believed he could reach it through his cousin. People were noticing the Queen’s fondness for her. This must be the case. It had come to Robert Harley’s ears, and because of it he was proud to recognize his cousin.

For, pondered Abigail, I have been his cousin for a very long time, but it is only now that he has taken the trouble to find out.

She could think of nothing else but Harley’s pleasure in his discovery, the courteous manner in which he had spoken to her.

I am important, thought Abigail. Not only to fetch and carry for the Queen, but for the influence I can have with her. I am becoming a little like my cousin Sarah.

What if one day I should be in Sarah’s position?

Samuel Masham noticed the change in Abigail.

“Something has happened,” he said when she joined him in the ante-room after the Queen and her husband had retired for the night. “You are different.”

Did she then betray her feelings, Abigail wondered, she who had always prided herself on so successfully hiding them. She studied Samuel shrewdly. They were very close friends; he sought her company whenever possible and she trusted him as she did few people.

“Nothing has happened,” she told him. “I have, though, discovered a new cousin.”

“Who is that?” asked Samuel sharply.

“Mr. Harley.”

“The Secretary of State?”

“Yes, he asked to speak to me and then told me he had discovered the relationship. He seemed very pleased about it. I have been wondering why.”

“People are beginning to appreciate you, Abigail. I was afraid …”

“Yes, of what were you afraid?”

“That perhaps … someone was paying court to you … and you were rather pleased about it.”

“No, no one is paying court to me, Samuel.”

“You are wrong, Abigail,” he told her vehemently. “It is what I have been doing for a long time.”

She lifted her green eyes to his. “But, Samuel …”

“I think we could be very happy together, Abigail.”

“You mean …”

“I mean in marriage.”

Marriage! She considered it. The Prince’s page and the Queen’s chambermaid. Their children growing up at Court. She remembered the marriages of the Churchill girls and how Anne had presented them all with handsome dowries. They would make good marriages … if their parents were important at Court. No, not their parents. It would be their mother, for Samuel would never be important. Perhaps he knew it. Perhaps that was why he admired her. If she married Samuel—and if she were to have a husband it would have to be Samuel, for who else would want to marry her?—she would guide his destiny as well as her own, as well as their children.

And the Queen was fond of her. Not as fond as she was of Sarah Churchill, of course; but the Queen was capable of great fondness for her female friends. People were noticing.… That was what she kept coming back to. Robert Harley was anxious to claim her as cousin because people were noticing her, Abigail Hill.

“Well, Abigail,” he said. “You don’t hate me, do you?”

“No, Samuel. You know I’m very fond of you.”

“Fond enough for marriage?”

“I’d like to think about it.”

He was contented. Samuel would be easily contented.

What an exciting life was opening out for Abigail Hill! She was asked in marriage—which was something she had once thought would never happen to her. More than that, ambitious men sought her friendship—because of the influence they believed her to hold with the Queen.

“Good day to you, cousin.”

She was in the garden and she could have sworn he had waylaid her.

“Good day to you … cousin.”

“You hesitate.”

“It is a somewhat distant relationship. You were my father’s cousin.”

“Well, that makes me yours of a sort, and as I told you once before I am as nearly related to you as the Duchess of Marlborough. Though I promise you I shall not attempt to treat you with the scorn I have seen her give you.”

Abigail said: “I was a poor relation.”

“My lady was not always so rich; but she knew how to feather the nest, eh?”

“She is, I am sure, very clever.”

“At feathering nests? But there are times when I think the lady is but one half as clever as she believes herself to be, and do you know, little cousin, it is a very dangerous thing to do to overestimate one’s brilliance.”

“I am convinced of it.”

“There may come the day when the Queen of Bedchamber loses her crown.”

“That is scarcely likely to be permitted.”

“The improbability often becomes the possible. You would be surprised how often!”

“And you would be pleased to see it.”

“I did not say so, cousin. But I should always be pleased to see merit rewarded. Pray tell me, will the Queen be receiving in the green closet today?”

“I believe she will.”

“And who is to be there?”

“The Queen will be alone with the Prince. She did not sleep well, so I shall play to her on the harpsichord and perhaps sing a little.”

“I should like to hear you play on the harpsichord. I have always admired your singing.”

She lifted her eyes to his and regarded him steadily for some seconds.

“You wish an audience with the Queen this afternoon?”

“An audience? That has a formal ring. I should like to be there … to talk to the Queen … soothingly … but without others present.”

Abigail’s heart began to beat faster.

“Would that be possible?” he asked.

“It might be.”

“If you suggested it to Her Majesty? That I had no tiresome business with which to weary her. Just a dish of bohea …”

“It might be possible …”

“I should esteem it a cousinly favour.”

“I will speak to Her Majesty. Present yourself and if … it is possible, you shall be invited.”

He took her hand and kissed it gallantly.

“How pleasant it is,” he said, “to have relations in high places.”

A hint of mockery? Perhaps. But his eyes were gleaming; and he was asking a favour.

She was beginning to understand something about him. He hated the Churchills—and so did she. How could one love someone who had done one so much good and never allowed one to forget it?

No wonder she was excited. She had entered into a liaison—strange and mysterious as yet—with one of the Queen’s leading ministers. She, Abigail Hill, might yet take a part in shaping her country’s destiny.

A delightful man, this Robert Harley, thought Anne. Such pleasant conversation. Hill played the harpsichord softly—a piece of Purcell’s which was among Anne’s favourites. George dozed contentedly and Mr. Harley told her what she most wanted to hear, how fortunate her dear people were to have such a monarch. In the coffee houses and taverns they talked continually of her as the Good Queen. The revival of touching for the King’s Evil had touched them deeply. Such a clever way Mr. Harley had of expressing himself. He hinted that the people of England rejoiced in their Queen and that they felt it was an act of Providence which had brought her to the throne. That was very comforting, for always at the back of her mind was the memory of her father, who had been so devoted to her, and whom she had been led to betray.

Led to betray. Mrs. Freeman had been so vehement against him, and in those days she had believed that Mrs. Freeman was always right.

Mrs. Freeman was still her very best and dearest friend, but she did spend a lot of time away from the Court. She was continually going to St. Albans and always managed to be at Windsor Lodge when the Court was not in residence. If one did not know what heavy family commitments were Mrs. Freeman’s, one would almost think she deliberately set out to avoid her poor unfortunate Morley.

How her thoughts ran on, and there was amusing Mr. Harley being so pleasant.

He had discovered he was Hill’s cousin and seemed pleased about it. She was pleased too. It was good for Hill to be connected with a family like the Harleys.

“We have something more in common, Madam, than our cousinship, and that is our desire to serve you—a desire which is unrivalled throughout your kingdom.”

What charming things he said! And when he had gone she told Hill how pleased she was to discover that she had such an exalted relative. Of course she was some distant connection of Mrs. Freeman, but Mrs. Freeman had never treated her as anything but the humblest of poor relations. Mr. Harley on the other hand had nothing but respect for her.

Anne felt a flicker of uneasiness. If Hill became too exalted, might that not alter her? Suppose she became too proud to perform the menial tasks which she now did so cheerfully? Suppose she became arrogant and demanding … like some people.

Nonsense, said the Queen to herself, that would not be my Hill!

That was the first of many meetings, and it became the accepted procedure that on those occasions when the Queen said: “No visitors,” Abigail would let in Mr. Harley and he and the Queen would chat together—not necessarily of state affairs, but now and then they crept in and Mr. Harley never made them dull or boring. He explained everything so perfectly and was never arrogant or obscure. Secretly Anne much preferred him to Sidney Godolphin, who was so cold and formal in spite of his timidity and desire to please. Mr. Harley amused one and laughed at people in the nicest possible way so that one could not help joining in the fun.

George’s asthma was troubling him more than ever, which meant that his night’s sleep was often broken; he dozed more frequently during the day and perhaps this was as well, for he had become such a staunch admirer of the Freemans since Blenheim that he might not have appreciated some of Mr. Harley’s wit.

It was not that it was exactly aimed at Marlborough and his Duchess, but somehow they were included in it; and Anne, in spite of her desire to be loyal to her dearest friend, had to recognize the truth of some of Mr. Harley’s comments.

Mr. Harley was so devoted to the Church, and anyone who cared so much for the spiritual well-being of the nation was Anne’s friend. Dear Mrs. Freeman had never been reverent; in fact sometimes Anne had feared that she was almost irreligious; so how pleasant it was to listen to a clever politician talk with such reverence for the Church!

“The Church,” said Mr. Harley, “could be in danger from certain elements in this country. I am sure Your Majesty would want above all else to keep it strong and aloof from conflict.”

“It would be my first consideration, Mr. Harley.”

“I knew it.”

“And you really think that the Church is being put in jeopardy in … certain quarters?”

“I think this may be so, and when I have some proof of this I shall crave permission to set it before Your Majesty.”

“I pray you will without delay.”

He talked to her about the glorious age which was opening out for England. There were certain times in a country’s history, he said, which were known as glorious ages. The Elizabethan age had been one; and now there was another glorious Queen on the throne and the glory of the age was becoming apparent through the literature of the times.

There were some in the country who sought to suppress this. One of the greatest writers of the age was at this moment languishing in prison.

Who was this? Anne wanted to know.

It was Daniel Defoe. A charge had been trumped up against him. An age which imprisoned its great writers was defeating itself.

Anne wanted to hear more about Daniel Defoe, and Harley talked of him—his brilliance, his wit, his works. He told how the people had been angered when he was set in the pillory, how they had garlanded him with flowers, had drunk his health and set a guard about him.

Anne listened, indignant.

It was well she had Mr. Harley to visit her informally and let her know everything that was going on, for there was much of importance that was kept from a ruler.

Harley was delighted with his discovery of the new relationship. He hoped Abigail Hill understood how important it was. He was certain she did, for there was subtlety behind that demure smile. She had her part to play in this. She was very necessary to him; he never lost a chance of telling her so. His gaze was caressing and Abigail was a little bewildered. He fascinated her, as more than a cousin or a conspirator—for she was well aware that this was a conspiracy. She had never met such a man before. She knew that he was overwhelmingly ambitious, that he was determined to be at the head of the Government, to rule the country; and it was the most flattering thing that had ever happened to her to be selected as his partner. She could not understand her emotions; she was less calm than before and although she hid her excitement she believed that she did not completely succeed as far as he was concerned. He was deferential towards her. Who before had ever been deferential to Abigail Hill, except Samuel Masham? She had shelved that matter for she was too excited by Robert Harley to think very much about Samuel Masham at this time. He paid her delicate compliments—even about her appearance. She was different from the pretty dolls with their paint and their powder and their ridiculously dressed hair. She had character. She was changing. Her sister Alice noticed it. “Lor, Abby,” she said, “what’s happened to you? Are you in love?” With a subtlety which matched Harley’s, she confided in Alice that Samuel Masham had asked her to marry him. Alice was excited. “Abby! Married! Who ever would have thought it!”

“I have not accepted his offer yet,” said Abigail; a remark which sent Alice into fits of laughter.

“The airs!” she cried. For she did not believe Abigail would refuse such an offer, since when would she be likely to get another?

How could she explain to Alice, even if it had been desirable for her to do so, which of course it was not, that she had matters of far more interest than marriage with Samuel Masham with which to occupy herself.

Sometimes Abigail allowed herself to dream. Suppose Robert Harley were unmarried; suppose he married her. She would remain with the Queen; she must never leave the Queen; others less wise than herself might imagine that their influence was so great that they could bully and neglect and keep it. Abigail would never make such a mistake.

To keep Anne’s need of one, one must be constantly there, always ready to console, listen, and comfort with those menial attentions (washing feet, massaging limbs swollen with the gout and dropsy, to play, to sing, to do what was required of one at any moment, to make sure that one’s absence would immediately be noticed with regret). That was the secret some had forgotten. Not that Sarah Churchill had ever retained her hold on Anne through the comfort she offered. Sarah was brilliant, vivacious, domineering, arrogant; she was the exact opposite of Anne and when they were children the Princess must have admired the forceful girl who had nothing but her good looks and her flamboyant personality. But the Princess had become a Queen and the brilliant Sarah was showing herself to be a fool.

And so would Abigail Hill be if she allowed herself to dream too much. Robert Harley and she were partners, but the love of power was at the root of their relationship. Power for him. And for me, thought Abigail.

I must keep my feet on the ground. I must not let Robert Harley dominate me, for if I do I shall be as foolish as Sarah Churchill has become.

Daniel Defoe was released from prison as a result of Robert Harley’s conversations with the Queen; he was conveying to her that while certain people were in power she would be only a cypher, for that was what they intended. There was no doubt to whom the epithet “Certain People” referred, though as yet Harley had not mentioned the names of Churchill and Godolphin.

To turn her thoughts from Robert Harley, Abigail began to think increasingly of Samuel Masham. He was as yet a page in the household of the Queen’s husband. But then she was only a chambermaid in that of the Queen. That was what they appeared to be to the undiscerning. But that could be easily changed.

Lord Masham … Lady Masham? Why not? Had Harley been free, had his interest in her been due to love instead of her peculiar influence with the Queen, she might have been a Duchess. For it was not difficult to imagine Harley a Duke—never Samuel Masham, though.

But Samuel would do exactly as she wished; there could be many advantages in a marriage with Samuel.

When she was with Robert Harley she forgot all about Samuel Masham. He talked to her in his caressing way which was full of hidden meanings.

It was natural at this stage not to state too openly what their intentions were, but there was one major issue and both were very much aware of it.

Together they were going to bring about the downfall of the Churchills. Harley was going to take the place in the country’s affairs now occupied by the Marlboroughs and their faction; and the power behind the throne which for so long had rested in Sarah was to be Abigail’s.