The Merry Monarch's Wife

THE ORANGE MARRIAGE

THEY WERE TROUBLOUS TIMES. WE HAD DECLARED WAR ON the Dutch with our French allies. It had to be. It was a clause in the Dover Treaty which we had pledged and must therefore be honored. Charles had received great benefits from the treaty and must keep on good terms with his powerful kinsman across the water.

The perpetual need was money…and men. Mothers and wives tried to keep their men at home for fear of their falling into the hands of the pressgangs who would send them to fight on land or sea.

Charles made speeches in Parliament. The Dutch war was necessary, he declared. The Dutch were our natural enemies: they filched our trade; they attacked our ships; we must drive them from the seas.

There was growing concern about religion. Charles, it was said, had been too lenient with the Catholics. The fact that the Duke of York openly professed his faith was causing greater anxiety as time passed and it seemed certain that he would follow his brother to the throne.

This, of course, brought home to me afresh my own deficiencies. I was clearly to blame. Barbara Castlemaine had given ample proof of the King’s virility; Nell Gwynne now had two sons; and Louise de Keroualle, who after her initial reticence had become the acknowledged mistress of the King, had just given birth to a son.

So there could be no doubt. I was always on the watch for the suggestion which might arise again, since it had twice before. Many would continue to ask: should not the King free himself from this barren wife?

I had had Charles’s assurance that he would never divorce me, but could one rely on Charles? There was a rhyme, written by the irrepressible Earl of Rochester, which was being circulated throughout the court. Rochester had had the effrontery to pin it on the door of the King’s bedroom. It was:

Here lies our Sovereign Lord the King

Whose word no man relies on

He never said a foolish thing

And never did a wise one.

Charles was the first to appreciate the rhyme. It was amusing, witty and there was some truth in it.

His retort was typical of him. “’Tis true, Rochester,” he said. “But remember my words are my own, my actions my ministers.’”

I quickly learned that Louise de Keroualle was more clever than any of her predecessors, and therefore more dangerous. She was indeed Louis’s spy.

She was possessed of all the graces she had learned at the French court; she was elegant and dignified; I imagined Charles enjoyed mental as well as physical stimulation with her. She was without doubt maîtresse en titre. Nell Gwynne was her great rival, but Nell, of course, was a child of the streets of London: she could amuse; she had wit; and she was very pretty. But Charles was a cultured man and there were times when he wished to be with people of his own kind. Yet I imagined there were occasions when he wanted to escape from Louise to Nell.

From what I knew of the little playactress, she was of a tolerant nature. It must have been a great adventure for her to have attracted the King. She was, I believe, less demanding than any of his mistresses had ever been, and asked only for privileges for her sons. She had two of them now — fine boys and a further reproach to me. And because she did not ask, she did not receive.

She had, though, demanded a title for her eldest son, who was now the Earl of Burford. How she must have laughed to think of herself…little Nelly…fighting for a living, selling her oranges, getting her chance on the stage…and then becoming a favorite mistress of the King, side by side with such as Lady Castlemaine and the Duchess of Portsmouth, as Louise de Keroualle had now become.

There was a story that in the King’s presence she referred to their little son Charles — named after his father — as the “little bastard.”

Charles protested and she flashed back “I call him so because that is what he is. I might as well drop him from this window for who cares for him? Certainly not his father. So I say, poor little bastard.”

It was playacting, of course. They were in the town of Burford at the time and Charles called out dramatically, “Save the Earl of Burford!”

That was good enough for Nell. Her son had a title. He could stand beside the offspring of Barbara Castlemaine and Louise de Keroualle.

There was an undercurrent of unease everywhere. The conversion of the Duke of York was at the root of it. The country was divided. I knew that many prayed that I would have an heir — the King’s legitimate son to be brought up in the Protestant faith. There would be trouble if James came to the throne.

And then…there was Monmouth; and the deeper the resentment against the Duke of York became, the more blatantly Monmouth displayed his Protestantism. It was clear what was in his mind. What he longed for was that the King should declare he had married Lucy Walter. The fact that she would have been completely unsuitable to marry the King was of no importance. Charles had been merely an exile at the time. How simple everything could have been! But much as Charles doted on his son, he was not prepared to lie to that extent for him. Monmouth had his followers and he was very wary of Louise — a Catholic who would surely work against him.

The young Duke sought every way of showing people that the King regarded him as his beloved son, and the rumor about the box containing documents proving Charles’s marriage to Lucy Walter was revived.

“There never was a marriage, so there never were these documents,” Charles declared emphatically, “and therefore they cannot be discovered.”

Monmouth wanted to command the forces which were being sent to Flanders.

Charles told me of this, for he was perplexed.

He said: “How can he? He lacks experience. I know he is popular. He is so good-looking, but that is not enough. He came to me, begging me on his knees to give him the command.”

“You have not done so!” I cried in dismay, knowing his weakness where Monmouth was concerned.

He shook his head. “No…but he was so appealing. He really is a handsome boy…and affectionate. I know that much of his love and devotion is for my crown, but perhaps without that useful ornament, there might be just a little for my plain self. Poor Jemmy. It is not an easy position for him. There is adulation wherever he goes, and he is ambitious, as most of the young are. I sometimes think he might have been happier if he had been a son of one of Lucy’s other lovers.”

“Are you sure he is your son?”

“There is little doubt of it. He is pure Stuart. I see ourselves reflected in him.”

“And what have you decided?”

“I’ve sent for Arlington. He will take care of it. Monmouth will be known as commander, but there will be others to take care of the troops.”

I marvelled at his tolerance toward Monmouth. I often thought of the affair of Sir John Coventry and that poor beadle who had lost his life. Surely those two events should have shown Charles the nature of his beloved son and how dangerous his ambition could become.

Louise was very unpopular with the people. In the first place she was a foreigner and, even more detrimental, a Catholic. I had always been under suspicion because of my religion. It was strange that the English, who were lackadaisical in their attitude toward religion, should have felt this passionate determination not to tolerate a Catholic on the throne.

There were times when it was quite dangerous for Louise to ride out in her carriage, for the mob could be fierce against her.

“Go home, papist,” they shouted at her. “Go back to where you came from.”

It was different with Nell Gwynne. She had a way of charming the people. After all, she was one of them. They would surround her carriage, shouting good wishes, and she sometimes gave a performance of mock-royalty, which amused them and made them cheer her the more.

“Long live Nelly,” they cried. “God bless pretty, witty Nell.”

There was one occasion when she was in a closed carriage and people mistook her for Louise. They gathered round, shouting abuse, and someone threw a stone. Nell let down the window and looked out.

“You are mistaken, good people,” she cried. “This is not the Catholic whore but the Protestant one.”

There was much laughter and cheering, and shouts of “God bless Nelly.”

Nell bowed and smiled and waved her hand in imitation of a languid royal personage, which amused them the more; and, instead of a dangerous situation, it turned out to be a very merry one.

IT OFTEN AMAZED ME, when I looked back on that innocent girl I had been on my arrival in England, that I had been able to accept Charles’s mistress as a matter of course. There could have been only a few faithful husbands at court, or wives for that matter. Licentiousness was the way of life here. I deplored it and sometimes thought how happy I could have been if Charles had loved me as I loved him; but that was not to be and I had had to come to terms with it.

I was grateful to him because he had refused to set me aside. I must be relieved because he had a great deal of kindness in his nature and the rare ability of putting himself in the place of others. He understood my love for him and appreciated it; he understood that Monmouth’s arrogance grew out of his insecurity. There was so much love in Charles and I had long before decided that I would rather accept his mistresses than be without him.

The war with the Dutch gave cause for anxiety. We had our victories but, like many such, they were hollow ones.

There was news that a battle had taken place under the Duke of York at Southwold Bay. Ineffectual as James could be in so many ways, the navy was an obsession with him and he had become a good commander. Against him on that occasion was De Ruyter, the Dutch commander of some renown. It had been a fierce battle and the struggle a desperate one. Many ships were lost and among the casualties was the Earl of Sandwich.

I was saddened, remembering the day he had come to bring me to England, and felt how pointless were those hard-won victories which turned out to be so indecisive.

Charles too was distressed by the death of Sandwich. He sailed to the Nore to meet James who was returning with the fleet. Many of the ships had been severely damaged and the number of wounded appalled him. He was particularly depressed by the latter and gave orders that care for them must be the primary concern.

About a month later he took me down to inspect the ships. Then all signs of battle had been removed and I enjoyed the expedition with him. It was on such occasions that I felt that I truly was the Queen.

And so the time was passing. Charles showed little sign of age. He was as vigorous as ever; when he removed his wigs one did see that his black hair was liberally streaked with gray, but when the wig of luxurious curls was on his head he seemed as young as ever.

James was looking for a wife and when Mary Beatrice of Modena was found for him, there was dissatisfaction throughout the country. The English, as ever, were wary of Catholics. I was one — but I think that by this time they had come to realize I was a docile one. But Catholicism allied with barrenness could make a queen very unpopular.

However, the marriage went ahead. Mary Beatrice, a young girl of fifteen, could not have much influence, and in any case James was already too steeped in his religion to be weaned from it even if he did have a Protestant wife.

I was also sad when I heard that the Earl of Clarendon had died abroad. I remembered him so well and wondered if he had felt a twinge of conscience when his daughter Anne died. He had not been very kind to her at a time when she needed kindness. But he had been a good husband…if that meant a faithful one. He was a man of high moral standing, but lacking in kindliness, so different from Charles who would never have turned against his own daughter in her time of need. Clarendon had not always been a friend to me — still I could be saddened by his death.

A certain interest was aroused when workmen, doing repairs in the Tower of London, found the skeletons of two young boys buried under the stairs. These, it seemed without doubt, were the remains of the young princes who had disappeared some two hundred years before — little Edward V and his brother the Duke of York. It was during the reign of Richard III that they disappeared, and it was said that they had been murdered on the orders of King Richard. People talked of the unfortunate boys for a while and then forgot them.

Life went on much as usual. Louise de Keroualle and Nell Gwynne still reigned in Charles’s seraglio, but I had my place and if Charles often preferred the society of his mistresses, there was a growing affection between us. There were times when he came to me, I believe, for quietness and peace.

I began to feel a certain satisfaction in my role. At least I had some place in his life.

But behind the serenity the storm was growing. It was still what many people in England thought of as the Catholic menace. It was the old story: the Queen was Catholic and barren; James, the heir to the throne, was openly Catholic, and now he had married a Catholic wife.

Something was certain to erupt.

I HAD PROMISED ANNE HYDE that I would keep an eye on her daughters, and I was a frequent visitor to Richmond Palace where they were being brought up.

The Duke of York was an indulgent father, as Anne had been another. There was, I have to say, little discipline in the household. Anne, the younger, had taken very little advantage of the tuition which was provided. It was a matter of study if you want to — and Anne clearly did not want to.

Her handwriting was indecipherable and if she were reproved she would say that writing made her eyes tired. She did have an affliction of the eyes which seemed to contract her lids, and it was true that she was short-sighted. So this excuse was accepted, for the Duke had made it clear that above all things he wanted his daughters to be happy. It may be that he remembered his own childhood when, like most of the family, he had been a homeless exile; and I imagined that Henrietta Maria might have been an exacting parent even with James, one of her favorites.

It was always interesting to go to Richmond and on this occasion I wanted to see them, particularly Mary, because I knew of the secret negotiations which were in progress, now we were at peace with Holland, for a marriage between her and Prince William of Orange. Mary was only fifteen, and I could guess how disturbed she would be at the prospect of leaving her comfortable home.

Moreover, from what I knew, William was not the most attractive of young men. He was a Protestant, though, and the country would approve; and it was very necessary to have that approval.

I remembered, some years ago, William had paid a visit to our court. He had probably been about twenty then, for he was twelve years older than Mary. His mother was Charles’s sister Mary, who had been the Princess Royal of England, and his father, the Prince of Orange, had died at the time of young William’s birth, so in his cradle the boy became Prince of Orange.

He must have been amazed by what he discovered at his uncle’s court. Young, inexperienced as he was, he attracted the interest of the courtiers and they decided to amuse themselves at his expense.

I remember the occasion well, for I felt sorry for the young man.

They had made him drunk — a condition which was new to him. They had caroused with him…leading him on to such mischief that he tried to force his way into the quarters of the ladies-in-waiting, and when he met resistance, broke a window and attempted to climb in. The jokers then thought that was enough and took him away. I recall how Charles laughed about his sober nephew’s drunken attempts at depravity.

And this was the young man whom it would be expedient for Mary to marry.

I came to Richmond with some trepidation, for I was sure I should find Mary very apprehensive.

As soon as I arrived I realized that she had heard the rumors.

Everything was much as usual in their apartments. Mary and Anne had always been together, Mary being the more dominant of the two, and they were surrounded by their close friends and attendants.

Their governess was Frances Villiers, daughter of the Earl of Suffolk. I had heard from her how difficult it was to teach Anne.

“Mary is different,” she said. “She is quite interested in learning. Of course, the Duke adores her, and she does not want him to think she is ignorant like her sister. Anne does not care. The only one who can tell her what to do is Sarah Jennings. They are very close friends and you would sometimes think Sarah was the mistress. It is pleasant to see the friendship between all the girls.”

I joined them. Anne was sitting next to Sarah Jennings, a very bright-looking young woman, the kind who would stand out among others…not necessarily because of her looks…but perhaps because of her somewhat imperious manner. I could well believe in her mastery over her lazy mistress.

They rose when I entered and came to do homage to the Queen — Mary first. I felt a pang of anxiety. She was so young and rather pretty with her dark hair and almond-shaped eyes. She had the Stuart look, and she was a sensible girl. I knew that the Duke was passionately devoted to her and indulged her greatly. She could have been spoiled but, to her credit, she was not, and was a very pleasant girl.

“Your Majesty,” she began.

I smiled and took her into my arms.

“Dear Mary,” I said. “You are well, are you?”

“Yes, thank you, Your Majesty, and you?”

“I am well, thank you. And here is Anne.”

Anne looked at me with that rather vague expression which was due to her short-sightedness.

“Anne, my dear, you are well?”

“I thank Your Majesty, yes.”

I smiled at the attendants: Anne Trelawny, Mary’s special friend, and Elizabeth Villiers, Frances’s daughter, and, of course, Sarah Jennings.

They rose and curtsied, then retired so that I was apart with Mary and Anne.

I wished there need not be this ceremony. I would have liked to talk naturally to all the girls. I was particularly interested in Sarah Jennings and Elizabeth Villiers.

“Madam, has the new baby come yet?” asked Mary.

She was referring to the expected child of her stepmother, the new Duchess. Birth was always a rather depressing topic for me. Mary of Modena had already borne three children in the short time since her marriage. The first, a girl, had been named Catherine after me, but had died almost as soon as she was born. There was a son who had died and a daughter Isabel…and now the prospect of another.

“Not yet,” I told them.

“It would be nice to have a little stepbrother,” said Mary. “Though it is not the same as if it were our mother.”

Both she and Anne looked mournful. They had loved their mother and I fancied they both resented their father’s remarriage.

Anne took a sweetmeat from a bowl beside her.

“Oh, Anne,” said Mary with a little laugh. “You should not eat so many of those.”

“I like them,” said Anne.

“She eats them all the time,” Mary told me.

“Do they not spoil your appetite?” I asked.

Anne said they did not. Nibbling sweets was a habit she had acquired from her mother. Anne had become very fat in the last months of her life. I could not forget her lying on her deathbed…searching for the truth…worrying about the future of her girls.

“Sarah will be getting married soon,” said Anne. “John Churchill is always coming here to court her. His family think she is not good enough for him.”

“Sarah will certainly not agree with that, I am sure,” I remarked.

“Sarah is wondering if she is too good for him,” said Mary.

“I am not surprised at that,” I said. “Well, is she going to marry him?”

Anne nodded. “She really wants to. But she is saying…not yet. She thinks they ought to wait.”

I wonder,” said Mary, “what it is like to be married?” There was a faint note of fear in her voice.

“In time you will know,” I told her.

“Yes…a husband will be found for each of us.”

“That is certain to be so.”

“Sarah must not go when she marries,” went on Anne. “I could not do without Sarah.”

“You are very fond of her,” I said.

“So is my stepmother. She knows that John Churchill wants to marry Sarah. She likes to help them. She thinks it is romantic.”

“In my opinion,” I commented, “from what I know of Sarah, if she wants a marriage, a marriage there will be.”

Anne smiled and nodded.

“My stepmother was not very happy when she was told she must marry,” said Mary.

“She was very young. It was a shock. It can be a shock when you are very young.”

“When you married the King you were old.”

“In comparison, yes. I was nearly twenty-four.”

“That is very old. My stepmother was fifteen.”

“That is very young.”

“I am fifteen,” said Mary, almost pleadingly.

I thought, she wants to talk to me, alone. I decided I must arrange this.

“When my stepmother heard she was to marry my father,” went on Mary, “she wept all day. She screamed and kicked and refused to leave her bed.”

“Did she tell you this?”

“Yes. She is not very much older than I am. Four years only.”

“Then she is like one of you girls.”

“She is happier now,” put in Anne.

“I think she does not mind our father so much. I think she quite likes him. She loves the King. She says he has been kind to her…always.”

“The King is always kind,” I said warmly.

“Yes,” agreed Mary. “And when you came to England, were you frightened?”

“A little. But I wanted to come. I had heard of the King.”

“Oh yes, my uncle is a very nice man. The nicest man in the world…next to my father.”

She looked at me steadily and I wondered how much a fifteen-year-old girl knew of what happened in a court like this one.

“And now she has one baby,” said Mary. “That must be nice.”

“Nice! I thought what a mild way of describing the experience! What joy it must be! If only it had happened to me.

I felt sorry for Mary groping in the dark, aware that it was going to be her turn very soon.

When I was taking my leave, I kissed Anne but I held Mary close.

I said quietly: “I would speak with you, Mary.”

We looked at Anne who was peering at the box of sweetmeats, and Mary followed me out of the room into the small antechamber.

“What is it, Mary?” I asked.

“They are talking about my cousin, the Prince of Orange.”

“Do you know him?”

“No, not well.”

“And there is often talk…”

“Are they arranging a marriage?”

“People in places like ours will always have plans made for them. Sometimes…quite often…they come to nothing.”

“I do not want to go away. I want to stay here always…with us all together. My friend Anne Trelawny, and Elizabeth Villiers and Sarah Jennings…and most of all my sister. I want it to go on like this.”

“There is always change, my dear.”

“But if this Prince of Orange…”

“You will probably like him. Your stepmother did not want to come here but she is happy now.”

“The Prince of Orange is old.”

“Oh no…he is a young man.”

“He is twelve years older than I.”

“That is not so very much for princes. Think of your stepmother and how much older your father is than she.”

She looked at me, her eyes brimming with tears.

I took her in my arms and comforted her. But what could I say? Mary would be sacrificed as thousands like her had been before.

POOR MARY! I was so sorry for her.

The Prince of Orange had arrived in England. From what I heard from Charles, he was not a very attractive young man.

“Plain spoken, as you would expect,” said Charles. “Not given to courtly manners.”

“Perhaps he has other qualities.”

“I have no doubt he has. He is a very serious young man. He has informed me that, before he proceeds with the marriage, he wishes to see the Princess. Ah well, it is one of the terms of the peace treaty between us. To my mind, he is an ambitious young man. Mary has a chance…a faint one…of reaching the throne.”

I winced and Charles, realizing why, laid a reassurign hand on my arm. He was reconciled to the position and he wanted me to be. I must drop this habit of mine of reproaching myself every time this matter was hinted at.

He went on: “We shall see what the Duchess of York gives us this time. It is likely that the infant may entirely spoil Mary’s chances. But who is to say? I was telling you that young Orange is a very serious young man.”

“I am thinking of Mary.”

“I also. Poor child! James dotes on her, and I think she will not be happy to leave her home.”

“I know she is frightened.”

“They are all frightened when they have to go away to a strange man and a strange court. You know that, Catherine.”

“I was not frightened. I wanted to come.”

He looked melancholy. “Your disillusion came after.”

“Oh no…no.”

“I understand, my dear. We were not so unfortunate, you and I. Certainly not I. But the ordeal now lies before my poor little niece. She has confided in you?”

“A little.”

“And her stepmother too, I’ll swear. ’Tis a pity she has had such a good home, as it gives her the more grief to leave it. Well, the young man wishes to make his inspection. He is quite blunt about it. He does not get his manners from the Stuarts. It’s the stolid Dutch influence coming out.”

When Mary heard the news, she was smitten with grief and she was in a state of fright when she was presented to her prospective bridegroom. I did not know what happened at that interview, and I believe for Mary it was mercifully brief. He appeared to be satisfied with her; she was less pleased with him.

She took to her bed and gave herself up to futile tears. In vain did Anne and the other girls try to pacify her. Nothing could turn her from her melancholy.

I went to see her. There was a note of cheerfulness then because negotiations were lagging a little and Mary’s eyes shone with the hope that the marriage might come to nothing.

William was insisting that it take place immediately, but Charles wished the peace terms to be dealt with first.

He said: “The young man behaves like an impatient lover. I can scarcely believe that of him. He is an astute fellow. He wants to make sure of the marriage. There will be a close bond between our countries if it is settled, which it would not be easy to break. Well, he is my sister’s son and soon now he will be my brother’s son-in-law. He is clever, you know. I wish I could like him as much as I respect him.”

“He certainly does not resemble the friends you like to have around you.”

“There you have it. There is no wit in him. He is all sound common sense and honesty. A stern Protestant. That is why the people like this marriage. It really is a desirable match from all sides.”

“Except poor Mary’s,” I said.

“Mary will get used to him. After all, she has to marry one day. Why not Orange?”

“She is so very young.”

“James was hoping to get the Dauphin for her, but she’ll do better with Orange than at the court of France.”

“Let us hope so.”

Mary’s tears availed nothing. On the Sunday of the fourth of November she was married. I could have wept for her. She looked such a child.

An altar had been set up in her bedchamber. The King was beside me; the Duke of York and his Duchess Mary Beatrice, so heavily pregnant that she looked as though she would give birth at any moment, and the Bishop of London who was to perform the ceremony.

Mary looked dejected and I longed to comfort her.

Charles took her to the altar. He smiled at the pregnant Duchess and said: “We must make haste, lest my sister the Duchess gives us a boy.” Smiling roguishly at William, he added: “And the marriage should be disappointing.”

There was no smile on the face of the Prince of Orange, but he must be hoping that the child would not be of that sought-after sex.

Charles was in a light-hearted mood that day. I could see that he was amused by the Prince of Orange; he had a certain admiration for his astuteness and amazement at his inability to see a joke. He could not help calling attention to William’s foibles, and during the service, when William must say he would endow his wife with all his worldly goods, he placed some gold coins on the book which was open before the pair.

“Gather it quickly,” Charles whispered to Mary. “Put it in your pocket, for it is all clear gain.”

William did not appreciate such frivolity; but he had achieved what he wanted: alliance with England.

There was great rejoicing throughout London because Mary had made a Protestant marriage. Poor little Mary! If only she had been as satisfied! It was sad to see her woebegone face, which was an indication of what she thought of the marriage.

I wondered what was in William’s mind when, two days after the wedding, the Duchess of York gave birth to a boy who seemed likely to survive.

With somewhat malicious intent, Charles decided that the Prince of Orange should stand as sponsor at the baptism of the child, who had disappointed him in his hopes of the crown of England. It was implied that this was a great honor for the Prince. William was not of a nature to respond with the charm Charles would expect from one of his own courtiers in a similar situation, and he did so with a bad grace, knowing full well why the offer had been made.

He made no secret of this disappointment and looked so glum that people wondered whether he was already regretting his marriage.

As for Mary, she was the picture of wretchedness, and every now and then burst into tears.

Then there was consternation throughout the court, for Anne had been smitten with the smallpox. The Duke of York was frantic with anxiety. He gave orders that Mary must not on any account go near her sister — nor must any who had been in contact with Anne approach Mary.

Mary was more unhappy than ever. Besides her miserable situation, she had to endure separation from her beloved sister. She wanted to be alone and it seemed that her bridegroom was quite content to let her be so. The ladies-in-waiting whispered together about his uncouth behavior. They called him the Dutch Monster until someone thought of Caliban and that became the favorite.

Meanwhile the mournful bride kept mainly to her own apartment, praying that the wind would be too strong for her to leave England.

When I saw her she burst into tears.

I said: “My dear Mary, it will not be so bad.”

“He doesn’t like me,” she answered.

“He does. He wanted to marry you. Remember, he insisted on the marriage taking place at once.”

“That was because he wanted the alliance. And now my half-brother is here, and he wishes he hadn’t married me. Oh, how I wish he had not!”

“You’ll feel better in time. One always does. It seems difficult at first. We most of us have to leave our homes and families…just as you are doing. I had to.”

“But you were coming to England…I am going away from it.”

“But England was not my home.”

“You came to my uncle the King. I have to go with…Caliban.”

“You must not call him that. You will find him a loving husband when you get to know him.”

“I have to leave it all…my dear, dear father…Anne. What of Anne? She will get better, will she not?”

“Of course she will get better. She is already improving.”

“But I shall not see her…and we have always been together.”

“Dear Mary, you have to accept your fate.”

“How I wish I could see Anne…say good-bye to her.”

“Your father has given instructions that this must not be. It is for your sake.”

“But to go right away…without saying good-bye.”

“You will come back on a visit.”

“It is not the same.” She threw herself into my arms. “Oh…I want to stay. I want it to be like it used to be.”

What was the use of trying to comfort her? She would not be comforted.

We heard that Frances Villiers, who was to have accompanied Mary, had caught the smallpox. That was a further blow for Mary. She looked so young and lonely, and fervently she prayed that the wind would not change.

But it did and the time for departure had come.

Mary was weeping profusely. She threw herself into her father’s arms. She took a tender farewell of the King. She and I embraced, and she gave me two letters which she asked me to give to her sister Anne as soon as I was able to see her.

“Tell her I love her and pray every night for her recovery.”

“I will,” I assured her.

“Tell her that I wish more than anything on earth that I could be with her.”

“I will tell her that.”

Frances Villiers was to die a few days later, and I was glad that Mary did not know this. Three of Frances’s daughters were in the suite going with Mary to Holland. They were Mary Villiers, who was now Lady Inchiquin, Anne Villiers, and that other sister Elizabeth who had been Mary’s companion at Richmond.

At least Mary would have some familiar faces around her. Fortunately she did not know then what trouble Elizabeth Villiers would cause her.

My heart was smitten with pity when I looked at the poor child’s blotched face, and I was sure it could not have given much pleasure to her surly husband.

The Duke of York was greatly distressed. I thought at one stage he was going to refuse to allow her to go.

But that, of course, was out of the question. She was now William’s wife.

The last farewells were said. The time had come for Mary to embark on her new life as Princess of Orange.