The Queen's Devotion: The Story of Queen Mary II

EARLY DAYS

There have been two people in my life whom I have loved beyond all others, and it has always weighed heavily upon me that I was called upon to decide between them and, in choosing one, I betrayed the other. I did what my heart, my faith, my sense of duty dictated and ever since I have suffered from the torment of knowing of the pain I inflicted and from which I myself will suffer to the end of my days.

I want to go right back to the beginning, to project myself into the past, to see it more clearly than I could when it was happening. I want to ask myself: what should I have done?

I was born in St. James’s Palace at a time when my birth was of little interest to any except my parents, for a most significant event was taking place. My uncle, King Charles, recently restored to his throne after more than ten years’ exile, was about to marry the Infanta of Portugal — an event which generated great excitement and expectation throughout the country. In any case, I was only a girl, and fifteen months after my birth, a boy was born to my parents, a fact which robbed my birth of any importance it might have had.

In the beginning the world was a wonderful place; the days were full of sunshine; I was surrounded by people who loved me and, being cherished by all, I was led to believe that the world had been created for my pleasure.

The best times of all were when my parents visited us. Everyone was so respectful to them that I quickly realized how important they were. My mother would take me up into her arms. She was like a big soft cushion into which I could sink with a feeling of cozy security. She would caress me, murmur words of love to me and pop a sweetmeat into my mouth and show me in a hundred ways how much she loved me. But the most important of all was my father. When he came into the nursery crying: “Where is my little daughter? Where is the Lady Mary?” I would stagger or toddle and later run to him, and he would pick me up and set me on his shoulder so that I could look down on everything from my lofty perch. I loved all those around me but no one so much as I loved my father.

Once I heard someone say: “The Duke loves the little Mary beyond all others.”

I never forgot that and I used to say it to myself when I was in my bed alone. I would listen for his coming; and often in later years, when I was haunted by memories of the fate which had overtaken him, I would recall those days and, sickened with doubts and self-reproaches, I would contemplate the part I had played in his tragedy.

How often then did I sigh for those days of my youthful innocence, when I thought the world a beautiful place in which I should be happy forever.

When he visited us he would not let me out of his sight. I remember an occasion when he even received some of his officers to discuss some naval matter and he kept me there with him. He was Lord High Admiral of England then and I remember his seating me on the table while he talked to them; and, to please him, I know now, the men commented on the extraordinary intelligence, vitality and charm of his daughter — and how delighted he was.

Sometimes it is difficult to know whether I really remember certain incidents from those days or whether they were talked of so frequently that I convince myself I do.

There is a miniature of me painted by Nechscher, a Flemish artist of whom my father thought highly. I am holding a black rabbit. They told me how my father used to join us at the sittings and watch me fondly while the artist was working. In my mind’s eye I can see him clearly, but was I really aware of him at the time?

There are some days which I do remember and I can be certain of this. I was nearly three years old. It was cold, for it was the month of February. I knew something important was taking place. Snatches of overheard conversations came to me.

“I hope the Duke and Duchess will get what they want this time.”

“Well, I don’t know. The boys are sickly and I reckon he wouldn’t change the Lady Mary for all the boys in Christendom.”

When my father came to see me, after the usual rapturous greeting, he said: “You will be happy to hear, my daughter, that you have a little sister.”

I remember my bewilderment. A little sister? I already had a little brother. There were always nurses around him and he did not mean a great deal to me.

“She will join you here,” went on my father, “and you will love her dearly.”

“You love her?” I asked.

I must have shown my father that I feared she might supplant me in his affections, for he gave me a smile of immediate understanding.

“I love her,” he said. “But whoever came, it would always be the Lady Mary who had first place in my heart.”

Excitement followed. Young as I was, I was to stand as sponsor for my sister; and Anne Scot, the Duchess of Buccleugh, was to be the other. Later I learned that this honor had been bestowed on her because she had recently married my cousin Jemmy, who had become the Duke of Monmouth.

I certainly remember that occasion well. It was presided over by Gilbert Sheldon, who was the Archbishop of Canterbury at the time, a very stern and formidable man of whom I should have been very much in awe but for the presence of my powerful father who would never be stern with me, or allow anyone else to be.

The new baby was christened Anne, after our mother, and in due course she joined the nursery at Twickenham.

THE HOUSE IN TWICKENHAM belonged to my grandfather — my mother’s father, the Earl of Clarendon. He was a very important man, I realized, though I saw him rarely. There was another grandfather, whose name was always spoken in hushed whispers, because he was dead, and when I was very young indeed, I knew there had been something very shocking about his death.

Some people called him The Martyr. Later I learned that he had been king and that wicked men had cut off his head. I shivered every time I rode past that spot in Whitehall where they had performed this dreadful deed.

I was growing very fond of the new baby. My sister Anne was a placid child. She rarely cried and smiled readily. She was always eager for her food and everyone was delighted because of this. I was with her a great deal, and thought of her as my baby. She seemed to like me to sit near her cradle. She gripped my finger in her dimpled hand so tightly when I held it out to her and I found that endearing.

And then suddenly the peace of Twickenham was shattered. There was commotion everywhere; people were running back and forth, all talking at once. I had to find out what was wrong.

Then I heard that one of the maids had been found dead in her bed. There was no mystery as to how this had happened. It seemed they had thought we were safe at Twickenham, but the dreaded plague which had been sweeping through London had reached us here.

“The Plague!” Those words were on everybody’s lips.

My parents arrived. I was caught up in my father’s arms. Anne and my brother were examined by our mother. My father did the same to me.

“Praise be to God!” he cried. “Mary is well. And Anne and the boy?”

“All is well,” said my mother.

“There is no time to be lost. We must leave at once.”

The next thing I remember is riding away from Twickenham and on to York.

I WAS HAPPY IN YORK. The time sped by. We saw our parents more often there, although my father was absent now and then for long spells which seemed intolerable. The Fleet was at that time stationed on the East Coast and he was often with it.

There was war as well as plague. We knew little of that in York until we heard of the glorious victories not only off the coast of Lowestoft but also at Solebay.

These names sent a glow of pride in me for years after because my father was always mentioned in connection with them. He had been in charge of the Fleet which had beaten our wicked enemies, the Dutch. I loved to hear of his successes. I only regretted that he had to go so far away from us to do these wonderful deeds.

I heard one of the attendants say: “These victories will bring a little comfort, and the Lord knows, we need it in these terrible times.”

I had heard only a little of the scourge which was sweeping through the country and devastating the capital. All it meant to me was that we had had to leave in a hurry for York, where I saw more of my parents than I had in Twickenham. It was only after that I heard accounts of the red crosses on the doors with the words “God have Mercy on us,” which meant that there was plague in the house. I did not hear until much later of the macabre death carts which roamed the streets, and the dismal cry of “Bring out your dead,” and how the bodies which were piled into those carts were taken to pits outside the city walls where they were hastily buried.

It was much later when I heard of the terrible tragedy which had followed the plague year, when London faced another monumental catastrophe and was almost completely destroyed by fire.

And when I did hear in lurid detail of the horrors of those burning buildings, of weeping, homeless people, of the crafts on the river into which they crowded with as many of their belongings as they could hope to save, my thoughts were dominated by two men, the brothers who had gone out unceremoniously into the streets, wigless, short sleeves rolled up, sweat streaming from their faces while they gave instructions and supervised the blowing up of buildings to make gaps and so stop the fire spreading further. For those two men were the King and my father, his brother, the Duke of York.

He was a hero, my clever, wonderful father. He had saved the country from the Dutch at Lowestoft and Solebay as he had helped to save London from that all-consuming fire.

Of course, I learned all this later. In the meantime I was kept in my cocoon of safety.

The memories of York were of days of great happiness, broken only by occasional clouds when my father disappeared for a while. Then I heard that his absences would be even longer, because the King had summoned him to attend Parliament, which was now held in Oxford, because of the state of the capital.

Then my dismay was great, but he consoled me by saying he would come to see me whenever he could.

“When you are older, I will tell you all about it,” he said. “Now all you have to do is wait and as soon as I am free I shall be here to see my little Lady Mary.”

“I will come with you to Oxford,” I said hopefully.

“Ah! What a pleasure that would be!” he replied, smiling. “But, alas, there is no place for little girls in the King’s Parliament. But one day ... soon ... we shall all be together ... your little brother, your little sister, your mother ... the whole family of York.”

It was a long time before we were.

And so I was growing up. There were times when I was vaguely aware of trouble. My grandfather Clarendon suddenly disappeared from the scene. We had never seen a great deal of him, but it seemed strange when his name ceased to be mentioned. I knew he had been very important and Lord Chancellor and a friend of the King and my father, having been with them when they were in exile. He was my mother’s father, so it seemed strange that we should stop speaking of him.

I did hear someone say that he was lucky to have escaped to exile before he lost his head. There was enough against him to bring about his downfall, and his continual carping at the King’s way of life meant that even that long-suffering monarch was eager to be rid of him.

I was bemused by these scraps of gossip which I tried hard to understand. I had one grandfather who had lost his head; and here was another who, it appeared, had escaped in time before being deprived of his.

I knew my mother was deeply affected by his departure and I believed my father was, too.

But when they were with us, they were always their affectionate selves. I think my sister, Anne, was my mother’s favorite, though Anne did not resemble her at all except in looks. I had heard it said: “The Lady Mary is Stuart from head to toe. The Lady Anne is a Hyde.” I was tall and at that age slender, dark-haired with rather long almond-shaped eyes. Anne was always plump; her hair was light brown with a reddish tinge in it. I was pale; she was rosy. She would have been very pretty but for a slight deformity of the eyes. Her lids were contracted a little which gave her a rather vague look. It had affected her sight in some way.

Anne was very good-natured, rarely cross and fundamentally lazy. She did not like trouble of any sort and, in her sunny, good-natured way, she made a very good job of avoiding it. When she was tired of doing something, and as we grew older that particularly meant lessons, she made the excuse that her eyes hurt.

We were very happy together in those days. She laughed at me for wanting to learn about everything.

“You do it, sister,” she would say, “and then you can tell me all about it.”

I quickly realized that my mother was reckoned to be clever. It was true that she often decided what was to be done. My father used to say: “You are right, of course, my dear.” She was very friendly with a great number of the serious people at court. I had heard the King refer to her as “my serious-minded, clever sister-in-law.” I was rather surprised that she should have doted so fondly on Anne, who had little to say and refused to learn. Their only common interest seemed to be their love of sweet foods. Many times I had seen them sitting close, a dish of sweetmeats between them, and they would be eating all the time.

There was an occasion when the physicians pointed out that my sister was growing unhealthily fat and could damage her health if she did not give up the habit of consuming sweetmeats at every opportunity.

My mother was frightened. Perhaps she blamed herself for allowing her daughter to share her own weakness. In any case, Anne was sent away for a while with one of my mother’s ladies. She was to be watchful of what Anne ate and my mother could trust her friends to keep a sharper eye on my sister in a different house than in her own, for there she suspected that her friends would give way to her pleadings for more of the sweetmeats she loved so much.

I was very sad to lose my sister. Life was not the same without her good-natured smiles. I pictured her on a strict diet, deprived of her sweetmeats. Perhaps she was taking it all in her good-tempered manner.

It was a happy day when she returned, good-natured as ever and, if not exactly thin, less rotund than she had been.

Everyone declared that the cure had been a miraculous one, but it soon became clear that the temptation presented by a dish of sweetmeats was still irresistible. However, we were all so delighted to have her back that we could only smile at her indulgences.

During Anne’s absence I missed her so much that my parents decided I must have a companion to compensate me for the loss of my sister and, to my great joy, Anne Trelawny joined the household. She was a few years older than I and we were firm friends from the beginning. It was wonderful to have someone to confide in; and Anne was sympathetic, understanding and all that I could ask for in a friend.

My sister Anne must always have what I had and when she came home and saw that I had a friend, she must have one too.

She made this desire known to our mother who immediately set about looking for someone suitable.

She had been particularly interested in one of the maids of honor, a certain Frances Jennings who came from a family of somewhat obscure origins. It was something of a mystery that she should be received at court, but Frances herself was very engaging — not exactly beautiful, but attractive and quick-witted. My mother, herself of a lively mind, liked to have people of her own sort about her, and she was more attracted to intelligence than ancient lineage. Hence she took a special interest in Frances and when a connection of the noble house of Hamilton was attracted by her, my mother helped to advance the match.

Frances had a younger sister, Sarah, whom she was anxious to bring to court and when the young girl was introduced to my mother, she found her very bright indeed. She was about five years older than my sister Anne, which seemed no drawback, and she would, my mother was sure, be a lively, entertaining companion for our somewhat lethargic Anne.

A position in our household was naturally accepted with alacrity by the ambitious Frances for her sister, and I am sure now that from the moment Sarah entered our household, she was fully aware of the advantages which had opened up for her.

She knew exactly how to behave with Anne and, almost from the day of her arrival, they were the closest friends. We were a happy quar-tet: Anne Trelawny and myself, my sister Anne and Sarah Jennings.

Then a certain anxiety crept into my mind. I felt something was not quite right. My mother had changed. She seemed a little absentminded at times. She would smile and nod but her thoughts seemed elsewhere. In spite of her plumpness, there was a drawn look about her face. I noticed that its color had changed. Her skin had a strange yellowish tinge and now and then she would put her hand to her breast and wince.

I thought at first that she was anxious because her father had gone away, and when I thought of what I should feel if I lost mine, I could understand her sorrow. But there was only one Duke of York and Lady Mary; and no father and daughter loved each other as we did. My mother had lost her father, who had run away to save his head. But there was something else. Once I saw her walking in the gardens with Father Hunt, a Franciscan; and they were talking earnestly together.

I knew that Father Hunt was a Catholic and I was sure that Gilbert Sheldon, Archbishop of Canterbury, would not be very pleased to see my mother in close conversation with him. Then I saw my father join them and the three of them walked off talking closely together.

I did not think very much about that at the time, until I heard that the people did not like my uncle’s marriage to Catherine of Braganza, because she was a Catholic, and the English did not like Catholics.

This and the change in my mother’s looks were like vague shadows, but so slight that they did not linger long in the warm sunshine of those happy days.

MY MOTHER WAS GOING TO HAVE A BABY. That was the reason for her being ill, I supposed. She was so plump and her figure so round that her pregnancy was scarcely noticeable.

Anne and I eagerly waited to hear whether we should have a little brother or sister. We hoped for a sister. Brothers were a disappointment. They were always ill.

To our delight it was a little girl. They named her Catherine, in honor of the Queen.

We talked a great deal about her — or rather, I talked and Anne listened. Anne preferred to listen. Sometimes I thought she was getting more and more lazy.

My father came to see us. It was a cold day in March and the year was 1671. I was at that time nearly nine years old and Anne already six. I was greatly alarmed because I saw the pain and suffering in my father’s face.

He sat down and, putting an arm round each of us, drew us to him and held us closely. Sobs shook his body. I was filled with horror as well as sadness to see my invincible hero so broken with grief.

“My dearest daughters,” he said. “The most terrible of calamities has befallen us. How can I tell you? Your mother ... your mother . . .”

I kissed him tenderly, which only made him weep the more.

He said: “Children, you have no mother now.”

“Where has she gone?” asked Anne.

“To heaven, my child.”

“Dead ... ?” I whispered.

He nodded.

“But she was here . . .”

“She was so brave. She knew it could not be long. She was very ill indeed. There was nothing that could be done to save her. My children, you have only your father now.”

I clung to him; so did Anne.

He told us that he had been with her at the end. She had died in his arms. She had died happy ... in the way she wished. We must try not to grieve. We must think of her happy with the angels in the true faith of the Lord.

We were bewildered. We could not believe that we should never see our mother again. Neither of us could visualize what our lives would be like without her. There would be changes.

We were soon to discover that.

We had lost her, yes. But there was something more than that. What we did not know then was that, on her deathbed, she had received the viaticum of the Church of Rome and that my father was also wavering toward the Catholic faith.

Unfortunately, my father was not keeping this a secret. He was too honest. He believed he would be false to his faith if he tried to disguise it. I was to learn that he was a man of very little judgment. Already he had taken the first step which was to lead to disaster. And we children, because he was after all his brother’s heir, were not without importance to the State.

So there were changes. In view of his religious leanings, which were becoming public knowledge, the Duke of York could no longer be allowed to supervise his children’s upbringing, and because of their position in the country, it was necessary for the King to take the matter in hand.

RICHMOND PALACE

It was decided that the old palace of Richmond should be our new home. Lady Frances Villiers was to be our governess and in charge of our household; and our tutors would be appointed by the King.

The Palace of Richmond had originally been called Sheen, but when the Earl of Richmond, who became Henry VII, took the crown after defeating Richard III on Bosworth Field, he called the palace after himself and it became Richmond.

When much has happened in a place, some of the past seems to linger there and people like myself become fanciful. My sister did not feel this at all; but Anne Trelawny understood immediately and I talked of it to her.

I remember approaching the palace with our party and thinking: this is to be our new home. There were several buildings, but they did not seem to match each other, though they all had circular towers and turrets. I noticed the chimneys. There were several of them and they reminded me of inverted pears.

My grandfather had lived here once — that grandfather whom we mourned every January. He must have stood in this very spot, where I was at that moment, looking at those upside-down pears. It was a dwelling of ghosts and shadows. I hoped my father would come often.

It was rather intimidating, on our arrival, to be greeted by Lady Frances Villiers. She was smiling, but I sensed she could be formidable. She curtsied, but I fancied she meant to imply that this gesture was a formality, necessary because of our rank, and that we should have to submit to her will.

I was surprised to see that there were six girls with her — some obviously older than I was.

I glanced at my sister. She was not very concerned.

“Welcome to Richmond Palace,” said Lady Frances. “We are so happy to be here, are we not?” She turned to the girls, who stood a pace or two behind her.

The tallest of them answered: “We are very happy to serve the Lady Mary and the Lady Anne, my lady.”

“We shall be a most contented household,” went on Lady Frances. “It gives us great pleasure to be here. I and my daughters have come to serve you and I know we shall all be good friends. Have I your permission to introduce my daughters to you, Lady Mary, my Lady Anne?”

I nodded my head in as dignified a manner as I could muster, and Anne smiled broadly.

“My eldest daughter, Elizabeth . . .”

I often wondered long afterward why some fate does not warn us when a meeting which is going to have a great impact on us takes place. I feel there should have been some premonition to tell me of the effect this girl was going to have on my life. So often I have said to myself, from the first moment I met her I knew I had to be wary of her, that she was sly, clever — far cleverer than I could ever be — and that she disliked me because she, who considered herself my superior, should have to pay homage to me simply because I had been born royal.

But no, I thought that afterward, when I knew. It took me a long time to discover how devious she was. But I was young and innocent; she had the advantage. I could easily have had her dismissed. I only had to say to my father, “I do not like Elizabeth Villiers,” and, although he was no longer in control of the household, my wishes would have been respected. But she was subtle. She did not betray herself. That was where she was clever. She knew how to deliver a barb where it hurt most, but it would be couched in soft words so that only those who understood could be aware of the venom. She was too clever, too subtle for me. That was why she was always the victor, I the victim.

But I deceive myself. None of this was at all clear to me at that first meeting.

She was by no means handsome, but there was something unusual about her looks. Perhaps this was because there was a slight cast in her eyes. It was hardly perceptible. I caught it at times. Her hair was of an orange tinge. “Ginger,” Anne Trelawny called it, and Anne, my dear friend, liked her no more than I did.

The other daughters were being presented.

“My ladies, my daughters, Katharine, Barbara, Anne, Henrietta and Maria.”

They curtsied. Anne Villiers reminded me of her sister Elizabeth; she had shrewd eyes and a penetrating look. But she was less impressive — perhaps because she was younger.

And so we were installed in the Palace of Richmond.

LIFE IN LONDON had settled down to normality. The city had been almost rebuilt and was a much more beautiful and cleaner place than it had been with its reeking gutters and narrow streets.

My father, with the King, had taken a great interest in the rebuilding. They were often in conference with the architect, Sir Christopher Wren, while the work was in progress.

My father at this time was not a happy man. I guessed he was grieving about my mother’s death, and the failing health of my little brother, Edgar, gave him great cause for concern.

He talked to me at this time and I learned more from him than I ever had because I believed he was so distressed that he did not always consider his words, and sometimes it was as though he were talking to himself.

I was glad in a way, though sad because he was, but I did begin to learn a little of what was happening about me.

He was angry on one occasion.

“Bishop Compton will be coming here,” he said.

“To us?” I asked. “But why?”

“The King has appointed him. He is to instruct you and your sister in religion.”

“That does not please you?”

“No. It does not please me.”

“Well, why do you let him come?”

He took my face in his hands and gave me one of his melancholy smiles.

“My dearest child, I have to submit to the King’s wishes in this matter.” He was angry suddenly. “It is that or . . .”

He released me and turned away, staring ahead of him. I waited.

“I could not face that,” he murmured. “I could not lose you.”

“Lose us!” I cried in alarm.

“Well, they would take you from me. Or ... they would restrict our meetings. My own children ... taken from me ... I am unfit to take charge of their education, they say. And all because I have seen the truth.”

This was beyond my understanding. I could only think of being taken from him and I could visualize no greater calamity. He was aware of my concern and was my loving father immediately.

“There. I have frightened you. There is nothing to fear. Anything but that. I shall see you ... as always. I would agree to anything rather than that they should take you from me.”

“Who would take me from you? The King, my uncle?”

“He says it would be for the sake of the country ... for the sake of peace. He says, why do I not keep these matters private? Why do I flaunt them? But you must not bother your little head . . .”

I said firmly: “My head is not little and I want to bother it.”

He laughed and seemed suddenly to change his tone.

“It is nothing ... nothing at all. Bishop Compton will be here to instruct you in the faith you must follow, according to the laws of the country and the command of the King. You must listen to the Bishop and be a good little member of the Church of England. Compton and I have never been great friends, but that is of no moment. He is a hard-working fellow and has the King’s favor. He will do his duty.”

“If he is not your friend . . .”

“Oh, it was a long-ago quarrel. He had the temerity to dismiss a man who acted as secretary to your mother.”

“Did my mother not wish him to be dismissed?”

He nodded.

“Then why? Could you not ... ?”

“This was the Bishop of London and the secretary was a Catholic. It is over. Your mother was not pleased. Nor was I. But ... the people here ... they are so much of one mind and they will listen to no other. Now, my dearest, let us have done with such talk. The fault was mine. Bishop Compton will come to you and he will make good little girls of you both. It is the King’s wish that he should come, and we must needs make the best of it.”

“But you are unhappy.”

“Oh, no ... no.”

“You said that we could be taken from you.”

“Did I? Let me tell you this ... nothing, nothing on Earth will ever take my children from me.”

“But . . .”

“I spoke rashly. I did not want this Compton fellow to be here, but I see now that he is a good man, a religious man. He will obey the King’s commands and make good Protestant young ladies of you. That is what the King wants and you know we must all obey the King. He says it is what the country wants and the country must see it being done. That is important. He is right. Charles is always right.”

“Then you are not unhappy?”

“At this moment, with my dearest child, how could I be unhappy? You are to have a French tutor. You will like that. I believe you are interested in learning.”

“I like to know.”

“That is good. And Anne?”

I was silent and my father laughed.

I went on: “She does not care for books because they hurt her eyes.”

He frowned. “She certainly has an affliction. Poor child. But she has a happy nature and we must keep it so.”

When he left me he had banished my fears.

I WAS LEARNING MORE of what was happening around us. There was always gossip among the attendants; the girls naturally heard it, and the elder ones, like Elizabeth Villiers and Sarah Jennings, understood what it was all about.

These two had taken a dislike to each other. Sarah, by this time, had complete domination over Anne, and my sister was hardly ever seen without her friend. It was not that Sarah was sycophantic. Far from it. There were times when one would have thought she was the mistress, and Anne the attendant.

I think Elizabeth Villiers resented her. She had not succeeded in forming that sort of alliance with me; and she probably recognized in Sarah one of her own kind. They were both ambitious and knew that to have one foot in a royal household was one step up the ladder to power.

They realized far more than we did then what our position could be and that there was a chance — though remote — of our reaching the throne if certain eventualities were to come to pass. They recognized in each other a rival for power, and that made them natural enemies. In their way they were both formidable, though their methods were different. Sarah spoke her mind without fear; Elizabeth was soft-spoken and sly. I think, on the whole, I preferred Sarah.

We were all sitting sewing one day. I quite enjoyed needlework. Anne would sit idly with the work before her, not attempting to use her needle. It hurt her eyes, she usually said. Sarah would laugh and do hers for her. I liked to do something with my hands while I listened to the music one of the girls would play; and sometimes there was reading.

On this occasion, Elizabeth Villiers said: “The Bishop will soon be here. He will make sure that the Lady Mary and the Lady Anne keep to the true faith.”

“He is a very clever man,” said Sarah.

“And of the right persuasion,” went on Elizabeth, “which is very necessary.”

“Do you think the Duke is happy with the appointment?” asked Anne Villiers.

Elizabeth smiled a little superciliously. “The Duke will realize it is the best possible conclusion.”

Sarah commented that the Duke would know it was what the people wanted and it was always wise to listen to them and let them think they were getting their way.

“They are certainly getting their way on this,” said Anne Villiers. “I am not surprised the Duke does not like the Bishop.”

I must have shown that I was listening intently, for I saw Elizabeth’s eyes on me as she said: “We all know that the Bishop had Edward Coleman dismissed from the Duchess’s household while she was alive and all because he was a Catholic, which the Bishop thought was a bad influence. The Duke held nothing against Edward Coleman for that but, of course, he could not save him.”

I was thinking of what my father had told me and I remembered seeing him with my mother in the company of Father Hunt, the Franciscan. The trouble was all about religion and that was why Bishop Compton was coming here to teach us.

Elizabeth had turned the conversation round to great families. She had succeeded in bringing to my notice that my wonderful father had to bow to the will of the King, not realizing that he himself had already told me that. Now she wanted to attack Sarah in the same oblique way.

She was growing more and more annoyed by the influence Sarah exerted over Anne, and I dare say she thought that if she were not careful Sarah would have more power in the household than she did. She was hinting now that Sarah was of low birth, and she would stress the fact by saying that she was very sorry for those who lacked the advantage of birth and breeding.

“I have the utmost admiration for those who rise above it,” she said, smiling benignly on Sarah. “Of course, we Villiers are of an ancient family. The name is enough to tell you that. We have been known at court through the centuries. Our kinsman George Villiers, the present Duke of Buckingham, is one of the King’s greatest friends. Oh yes, it is certainly good to be of noble lineage. Do you not agree, Sarah?”

Sarah was ready. “That would depend,” she retorted. “It can be of an advantage, of course, but it can also be a disadvantage. When there is a disaster in a family, a little anonymity can be very desirable.”

“Nothing can alter the glory of an illustrious name.”

“Ah, but the higher the family, the greater the fall. One does not have to look very far for an example. A great family such as yours must find the exploits of The Lady very distressing.”

I saw the color rush in to Anne Villiers’s cheeks. Elizabeth looked coldly at Sarah and the cast in her eyes had become almost a squint.

“I don’t understand you, Sarah,” she said.

“Oh, didn’t I make myself clear? I am sorry. You were speaking of your illustrious family name and I was saying what a pity it was that one member of it should make it ... notorious.”

“What ... do you mean?” stammered Anne Villiers.

“I refer to Barbara Villiers, of course. Your cousin, is she not? My Lady Castlemaine, no less. I believe they sing lampoons about her in the streets.”

“She mixes in the highest circles,” said Anne Villiers.

“Indeed, yes.” Sarah obviously could not resist going on. “That is why she has become so well known not only at court, not only in London, but throughout the country.”

“There are many who would be greatly honored by the King’s friendship.”

“Honor?” went on Sarah. “There are times when it is difficult to differentiate. What is honor? What is dishonor? It is for all to make up their minds.” Sarah was smiling triumphantly, because she knew Elizabeth Villiers had been trounced.

I was rather bewildered by this conversation and took the first opportunity of consulting Anne Trelawny.

“It seemed to me that they were talking in riddles,” I said.

“Not they. Elizabeth Villiers does not like Sarah Jennings, so she wants to remind her all the time of her obscure origins, and that it is only by sheer good luck that she has a place here. But Sarah is not going to take that lightly. She retaliates that people in great families can act scandalously, and, of course, Barbara Villiers is the notorious Lady Castlemaine, and is the cousin of these Villiers girls.”

“Anne,” I said, “people seem to want to keep things from me. Don’t you, please. I am not a child any more.”

“I dare say you will be going to court one day and you will know about these matters. You would soon discover that Lady Castlemaine is the King’s mistress, for they make no secret of this. He spends much time with her. She is most indiscreet. And everyone knows what happens between them.”

“But the King is married!”

That made Anne smile. “It makes no difference. It happens with people in high places.”

“It does not happen with my father,” I said fiercely.

Anne was silent. Then she said: “The King is so often with Lady Castlemaine.”

“But what of the Queen? Does she know this?”

“The Queen most assuredly knows.”

“The poor lady.”

“Yes, that is what many say. But life is like that.”

“I like my uncle so much. He is so merry ... and kind.”

“He is much liked.”

“I cannot believe he would act so.”

“People have many sides to their natures. This is one of the King’s. Lady Castlemaine is not the first by any means. You know of your cousin, the Duke of Monmouth. You know he is not heir to the throne, but he is the King’s son.”

“I do not understand.”

“He was born when the King was in exile. He is without doubt the King’s son. The King accepts him as such. But he is not the King’s legitimate son and therefore cannot inherit the throne. As you grow up you learn to accept that such things happen.”

“I am glad my father is not like that.”

She looked at me a little sadly but with great affection.

“I think the Queen must be very unhappy,” I said. “I am sorry. She is such a kindly lady. I shall never like the King so much again.”

THE BISHOP HAD ARRIVED. He was a man in his early forties, I imagined, which seemed ancient to us. He was not unkind, nor very severe, but he was determined that he was going to teach us to become good Protestants.

I understood later that he was not very learned academically and that side of our education was neglected to some extent. What he was determined to do was set our feet on the right path and, in view of our parents’ religious inclinations, it was very important that we should not be contaminated by them.

That was exactly what he had been ordered to do and I realized later that it was a perfectly reasonable arrangement. My father was, at that time, heir to the throne, for it seemed that Queen Catherine was barren; my mother had died in the Catholic faith and my father leaned strongly toward it; and the English were determined never to accept a Catholic king.

I learned too how the King was exasperated by my father’s attitude toward religion. But my father was a good man, an honest man; he could not deny his faith; he was like one of the martyrs who suffered so much during their lifetimes and were so revered after their deaths. He would have died for his faith — or lose a crown for it. People might say he was a fool. That may have been from their point of view, but he was a good fool.

He had been told that, if he tried to bring his children up in the Catholic faith, they would be taken from him; and that was why Bishop Compton had been sent to teach us.

I was quite pleased that a more serious attitude was being taken about our education. It was true enough that we were never overworked, and if we did not wish to attend lessons there was no compulsion to do so. Anne hardly ever sat for them; that was why in later years she had to exert herself just to write a letter. I was different. I liked to learn, and I was happy to work with my French tutor who was delighted with my response.

Both Anne and I learned to paint and our drawing master caused a certain amount of amusement when he arrived, for he was a dwarf, only three feet ten inches high, and he had a wife who was more or less the same size as he was. He was an excellent miniature painter, very dignified and always behaved with very special decorum.

I liked Richard Gibson and enjoyed the lessons with him. He was well known throughout the court and he and Mrs. Gibson were a most unusual pair. They were by no means young, having lived through the reign of my murdered grandfather and the days of Oliver Cromwell to the restoration of my uncle Charles. They were great favorites at court.

They had had a wedding in my grandfather’s court, which had been celebrated in verse by the poet Waller. There had been a banquet in honor of them which the King and my grandmother Queen Henrietta Maria had attended. People marvelled at them, for they must have been nearly sixty years old at this time and they had had nine children, all of whom were of normal size.

Even Anne enjoyed drawing under Richard Gibson’s tuition.

And eventually my father became reconciled to the fact that the King had undertaken the education of his daughters.

THE YEAR AFTER MY MOTHER’S DEATH, baby Catherine and my little brother Edgar, who had been ailing all his brief life, both died. My father was very sad. He had suffered so many misfortunes.

He took a special delight in being with Anne and me, and our continued good health was a great comfort to him.

Edgar’s death had made a difference and, growing up as I was, I sensed it. Something had changed. Anne and I were more important, especially myself. It was clear why.

Queen Catherine, poor lady, continued to be barren. My father, next in line, had lost his wife and there were no remaining sons of the marriage; and after him came his daughters.

There was a certain amount of whispering about my father’s preoccupation with the Catholic faith, which grew stronger rather than diminished.

I once heard someone say: “If he must be so, why let the whole world know it?”

Because he was an honest man, was the answer. There was no deceit in him.

The people were uneasy and that made them forget his glorious naval victories which at the time had made him so popular. They wanted my father to understand that they would never accept a Catholic king on the throne of England.

It was for this reason that Anne and I must not only observe all the ceremonies of the Church of England, but we must be seen taking part in them.

Oh yes, the death of my mother, followed by that of little Edgar, had given Anne and me a new importance.

And particularly myself.

I WAS ELEVEN YEARS OLD NOW and learning more every day. I was not excluded from the gossip as I had been; and there was a good deal of it among the girls of the household. Sarah Jennings was very interested in what was happening — and so was Elizabeth Villiers. I think they were both rather excited to be in such a household as ours which was really right in the center of affairs, although it might not seem so to us who were living in it.

Of course, a certain amount of attention would always be given to the heir of the throne, but for a long time it had been thought that the King would certainly have a son. He had enough illegitimate ones — lusty at that — to prove that the inability to get an heir was not due to him. It was ironical that he could beget them on so many of his fair subjects and fail with his queen. It seemed to be one of the perversities of life. Poor Queen Catherine! I can sympathize with her now.

Intrigue was rife. The Queen could not produce the heir: the Duke of York was suspected of being a Catholic. There was, of course, the Duke of Monmouth. Illegitimate, yes, but a Protestant and young and handsome, a favorite with the people. Surely he could produce healthy sons. An illegitimate Protestant would be preferred to the true heir who was a Catholic.

That was the opinion at the time and I was not unaware of it.

It changed the attitude of the girls. They were more free with their gossip. Elizabeth Villiers was particularly watchful of Anne and me. Anne was completely obsessed by Sarah Jennings. It was always “Sarah says . . .” or “Sarah doesn’t do it that way,” “I must ask Sarah.” Sarah had Anne’s heart and mind, it seemed. And there was I, with my dear friend Anne Trelawny. Nor had I made a confidante of any of the Villiers girls, although there were six of them.

I did not realize until later that Elizabeth would have liked to have the same dominance over me that Sarah had over Anne, for it was just possible that I might become a very important person indeed.

She was jealous of me. I understand a great deal now which I did not at that time. She would have loved to be in my position! I think Elizabeth Villiers wanted power beyond anything else. I know now what lay behind that intent gaze which I had often found fixed upon me. She was thinking: this girl, this stupid creature, if events shape as they may well do, could be Queen of England one day. And I, brilliant, clever, capable Elizabeth Villiers, will be nothing ... or someone of comparatively little importance — perhaps — if I am lucky — in her household.

That would have been galling to someone of Elizabeth Villiers’s nature. There were times when she tried to win my favor, but there were others when her envy got the better of her good sense and she sought to wound me.

She knew of the love between myself and my father and she tried to undermine it. She was well aware that to me my father was the hero of many naval victories, the man who had fought the flames during the Great Fire of London, the loving father adored by his children; and she wanted to show me that my idol was not all I thought him; and in her way, which was subtle enough for a young and innocent girl of my age, she set about doing it.

It was when we were all together at one of our sewing sessions that she began to talk about someone named Arabella Churchill. It was the first time I had heard the woman’s name mentioned.

“It really is most scandalous,” said Elizabeth. “How can she be so brazen? This is the third, and all born out of wedlock. A boy this time, they say, and healthy. These children always are. Is not fate unkind? Sons of a marriage die one after another while the little bastards live on.”

“And they say she is by no means beautiful,” said Anne Villiers.

Elizabeth laughed. “Well, some like them that way. She has other attractions doubtless.”

Henrietta Villiers asked: “Is it true that her legs were the great attraction?”

“Yes indeed,” replied Elizabeth. “She had an accident in the riding field and her legs were very much in evidence. They happened to be seen by a certain person ... and he fell in love with them.”

“With a pair of legs!” giggled Henrietta.

I was only half listening. I supposed this was another of the King’s amours. They included court ladies, actresses from the theaters, women of all sorts and classes. This Arabella Churchill would be one of a crowd. I always felt uneasy when they discussed the King’s morals. After all, he was my uncle. He knew that there was gossip about him but he was just amused. He was very good-tempered.

I heard Anne Villiers saying: “She is very tall and nothing but skin and bone — not good-looking at all.”

“Only a magnificent pair of legs,” said Elizabeth, raising her eyes to the ceiling in an expression of wonder. “Yet she inspired a personage.”

Sarah said that there was so much beauty at court that perhaps it was refreshing to find a lack of it.

“The gentleman concerned,” went on Elizabeth, glancing at her sisters, several of whom could not restrain their giggles, “is said to have an odd taste in women.”

I was getting more perceptive. The pauses and the exchanged glances startled me. I thought suddenly, I believe they are talking about my father. I could not believe this though. This Arabella Churchill had had three children. When the first would have been born, my mother was alive. It was nonsense. But the suspicion remained.

I said to Anne Trelawny when we were alone: “Arabella Churchill’s lover? Who is he?”

I saw the flush in her face and she did not answer.

I said: “Was it my father?”

“In a court like ours these things happen,” she said uneasily.

I could not forget that, while my mother was dying, he had been in love with Arabella Churchill’s legs. I discovered that her first child had been born in 1671 — the year my mother had died — and now there was this one.

I remembered my father’s sorrow over my mother’s death. How he had wept and seemed to care so much, and all the time he was making love with Arabella Churchill. And I had believed he was heartbroken by my mother’s death. How could he have been?

Life was full of hypocrisy. People lied. They deceived. Even my noble father.

Elizabeth Villiers had succeeded in what she had intended to do. Nor did she leave it there.

She had a clever way of steering the conversation round to the way she wanted it to go. In the days of my innocence I believed that it happened naturally, but now I was beginning to see it differently. She was clever; she was subtle; she was five years older than I and when one is eleven that is a great deal.

At this time her aim was to poison the relationship between my father and me. It may have been because she thought he might yet turn me into a Catholic and so jeopardize my way to the throne and, as my attendant, she would be without the benefits accompanying such a position. Or it might have been that, disliking me as she did, she could not bear that I should know such happiness from a love the like of which I imagine could never have been hers.

When one of the courtiers began acting strangely and it was said that he was suffering from a bout of madness, Elizabeth remarked that he reminded her of Sir John Denham.

One of the younger girls asked who Sir John Denham was.

It was obviously what Elizabeth had expected, and she said quickly: “It was something which happened some time ago. It was very unsavory and perhaps best forgotten, though there will always be people to remember it.”

“Oh yes,” said Anne Villiers. “Whenever Sir John’s name is mentioned, people will remember.”

“Do tell us what happened,” begged Henrietta.

And then I heard the story of Sir John Denham.

It had started in the year 1666, just after the Great Fire. Sir John Denham had gone mad suddenly and thought he was the Holy Ghost. He even went to the King to tell him so.

Henrietta and Maria Villiers giggled at the thought and my sister joined in.

Elizabeth reproved them rather primly.

“It is not a joke,” she said. “It was very serious and you should not laugh at the misfortunes of others.”

“It was due to his wife, was it not?” said Anne Villiers. “He had married her when she was eighteen and he was a very old man. You can guess what happened. She had a lover.”

Elizabeth was giving me a covert glance, so I guessed what was coming.

“Sir John was so upset,” she went on, “that he went mad. And then she died. It was said she was poisoned. The people blamed Sir John at first. They gathered outside his house and called on him to come out that they might show him what they did to murderers. The people are fickle. When he gave his wife a fine funeral and wine was served liberally to all the people who had come to see her buried, instead of attacking him, they said he was a good fellow and it must have been someone else who murdered his wife.”

“Who?” asked Henrietta.

“I really do not think we should talk of this,” put in Elizabeth. “It is not really a very pleasant subject.”

“But I want to know,” said Henrietta.

“You are not to . . .” Elizabeth made a great show of embarrassment, as though forcing herself to be silent.

Sarah looked at her cynically. Sarah was more shrewd than the rest of us. That was why she and Elizabeth were so wary of each other. I wondered whether she would discuss the case of Sir John Denham with my sister when they were alone together. Anne might be too indolent to ask, but she seemed to be listening with interest; I supposed it would depend on whether Sarah wanted Anne to know.

I did bring the matter up with Anne Trelawny. I trusted her completely and it was always a joy to talk over things with her, because she never tried to impose her will on mine.

“Do you remember all that talk about Sir John Denham who thought he was the Holy Ghost?”

“Oh yes,” said Anne reluctantly. “It happened a long time ago.”

“Round about the time of the Great Fire.”

“I thought they said she died the year after the Fire.”

“She had a lover.”

“They said so.”

“Who was it?”

“Oh, people will talk!”

“Was it my father?”

Anne blushed and I went on: “I guessed it was by the way Elizabeth Villiers talked.”

“She’s a sly creature, that one. I had even rather have Sarah Jennings, though I must say she can be a trial, and I could well do without her.”

“What happened? Was there a big scandal?”

“I suppose you could call it that.”

“And my father?”

She shrugged her shoulders.

I said: “I now know about Arabella Churchill. She is still with him, is she not?”

“Both the King and the Duke can remain faithful to those who really mean something to them. The King had been very friendly with Lady Castlemaine for some years and there is this play actress, Nell Gwynne.”

“Pray do not change the subject, Anne. I said I want to know. One of the Villiers girls said that when Sir John provided the wine, someone else was accused of the murder.”

“They had to blame someone.”

“My father?”

“No ... not your father.”

“Then whom did they blame?”

“Well ... they said ... your mother . . .”

“My mother! She would never have done such a thing!”

“Of course not. As a matter of fact, the post mortem proved that Lady Denham had not been poisoned at all. So it was a lot of lies.”

“Not all,” I said. “I suppose Sir John did go mad and his wife did take a lover, and that lover was . . .”

“Dear Lady Mary,” said my friend Anne. “You must see the world as it really is. You cannot shut your eyes to the truth. Your father is not unlike the King in this. They were both born to love women. It is part of their natures. I sometimes think that the King is so greatly loved because of this weakness. He is the people’s charming, wayward King. He has so much that is good in him and must be forgiven this foible. And as for your father, he loves you dearly, as you love him. This love between you is a precious thing, the best you will ever know until you have a husband who will love you, too. Accept what is good in life. Do not allow others to influence your feelings toward those you love.”

“I wanted him to be perfect, Anne.”

“No one is that. Life is very rarely perfect and never for long. If you are going to savor the best of it, accept what cannot be changed and enjoy it while you are able. When you have learned to do that you have mastered as valued a lesson as ever Bishop Compton can teach you.”

THE STEPMOTHER

My father came to see me. He wanted to be alone with me and I knew he had something of great importance to tell me.

“My dearest daughter,” he said. “I want to talk to you very seriously. I know you are young, but I want you to try to understand the position in which I find myself.”

I nestled closer to him. No matter what evil stories I heard about his relationships with women, I still loved him the same. To me he was always the tender loving father, and whatever he felt for those women did not touch us.

“You must know that the King cannot get children,” he began.

I wrinkled my brows. I had often heard that this woman or that was going to have the King’s child.

He noticed this and went on: “No child who could inherit the throne. The Queen, it seems, cannot produce one. Now this is of some significance to us. I am the King’s brother and, if he were to die ... Oh, do not look alarmed ... he is not going to die for a long time. He is hale and hearty. But there are those who say, yes, but suppose there was a riding accident ... some mishap. Who knows in this life? And if your uncle died tomorrow ... well, we must be prepared. I should be king then.”

“I know that,” I said.

“Well, I have two beautiful daughters and God knows I love them well, but the country looks for sons. People have this obsession for the masculine sex. That is a custom. They will take a woman, yes, but they would rather a man and they maintain that it is the duty of the heir to the throne to get sons if he possibly can.”

“My mother is dead now,” I said.

He looked mournful. “Alas,” he murmured. “But that is why they expect me . . .” He paused and, gripping my hand firmly, he went on: “to marry again.”

“To marry? Whom would you marry?”

“Ah! That is the question. The matter is being raised. Believe me, my love, there are many who would like to give birth to the heir of England. So I must needs put the past behind me. I must take a wife. I must show them that I will do my best to give them an heir.”

I could not help thinking: you will do that with ease. If Arabella Churchill, with the enticing legs, were your wife you could have several already. I did not say that. It would have wounded him deeply. He would not want me to know of such matters. But I kept thinking of my mother, with the pain in her face just before she died, and at that time he was Arabella Churchill’s lover.

These thoughts persisted, and I remembered what I had heard about the days when they were young and in exile at the court of the Princess of Orange, and how my father had fallen in love with my mother and proposed marriage to her. Then there came the Restoration and the Duke of York was no longer a wandering exile, and the marriage, which might have been acceptable when he had been, was no longer suitable for the brother of the King. There had been opposition, but my father had remained true to his word. I had liked that story. It fitted in with the image of him which I had created for myself.

And now he was going to marry again, so that he could get an heir to the throne because, although he already had my sister and me, boys were preferable.

“So you see, my dearest,” he was saying, “your father must do his duty. I hope you will like your new mother.”

“I could not have another mother,” I said. “I had one and I have lost her.”

He nodded and looked mournful again. Perhaps I was growing cynical, but I fancied he was not displeased at the prospect of having a new wife.

It might be that she would be young and beautiful, so that he would not have need of those others.

EVERYONE WAS TALKING about the proposed marriage of the Duke of York. It was freely discussed by the girls. There seemed to be no reason to be discreet about it, even though he was the father of Anne and me, since it was being spoken of throughout the court.

The Duchess of Guise was highly suitable. Would it be the Duchess? Then there was the Princess of Wirtemburg. There was also Mademoiselle de Rais.

“I wonder which one it will be,” said Elizabeth Villiers. I imagined she did not want it to be any of them. Or if there had to be a marriage that the bride would be ugly and barren. I imagined she was hoping that one day — some time ahead maybe — I was going to be Queen of England.

To me it seemed preposterous and I could not conceive its ever coming to pass. The idea filled me with dismay. But if my father married and there was a son, the household at Richmond would sink into insignificance.

Poor Elizabeth! How sad that would be for her!

Then there suddenly appeared another candidate for marriage into the House of York. This was Princess Mary Beatrice of Modena.

My father had sent the Earl of Peterborough to the Continent. It was said he was to spy on these ladies and to report secretly on them in such a way that none should know the true verdict but the Duke of York himself. But by some means we heard of the reports.

The Duchess of Guise was very short and not elegantly shaped; nor did she appear over-strong and it seemed unlikely that she would produce the much-desired heir. Mademoiselle de Rais? The Princess of Wirtemburg? Fair enough, but in the meantime my father had seen a portrait of the young Mary Beatrice of Modena.

I like to remember that when he made his choice he came first to me.

“She will be your companion,” he said. “Peterborough sent home such a report to me. She is of middle height, which is good, for although I would not choose one who was low in stature, I would not care to have a wife look down on me. Her eyes are gray and she moves with grace. She has a sweet innocence, for she is but a child yet. She is strong and very young. She would bear sons, this little lady. Peterbor-ough reports that, although she is gentle and of great modesty, yet she discourses with spirit. Methinks you will like my little bride from Modena.”

“It is not for me but for you to like her,” I said.

“You are right, but I should like to have my dearest daughter’s approval. She will give it, I know, when she knows that is what I wish. My dearest child, I am going to bring you a little playfellow.”

SHE WAS YOUNG and very frightened. I liked her from the moment we met. My father was proud of her and must have thought himself very lucky to have such a beautiful bride.

There was, of course, a faction who were against the match. They called it the Papist Marriage and tried to prevent its taking place; and when they heard it had actually been celebrated they suggested that my father should retire and lead the life of a country gentleman somewhere away from the court. This the King refused to take seriously.

I did not know at that time how intense the feeling against my father was becoming. If only he had not been so frank, so honest. If he had only been like the King, who leaned toward the Catholic faith but was wise enough not to let his subjects know this, how different everything might have been! But my father was no dissembler. To deny his faith would be a mortal sin to him.

At this time I could only be glad that he had acquired such a charming bride. I understood absolutely how he had been prevailed upon to marry; and although I could never forget my mother, I ceased to mourn for her so acutely and began to like my stepmother.

My father had said he was providing us with a playmate and this was true in a way. She was about the same age as Elizabeth Villiers and Sarah Jennings, but she seemed younger and, in spite of the fact that she was the daughter of a great house, she lacked the air of superiority which characterized those two. Fifteen was young to be married, particularly when the union brought with it two stepdaughters only four and six years younger than herself.

I sensed that she was very unhappy to have been taken away from her home and sent to a strange country and to a husband who must seem very old to her. My father was, in fact, twenty-five years her senior, but, I told myself, she would soon discover what a wonderful man he was — the best in the world — and when she did, she would cease to regret her marriage and would stop mourning because she had not become a nun, which was the life she would have chosen for herself.

Because of my understanding and the closeness of our ages, she began to confide in me.

“The thought of marriage was very unpleasant to me,” she told me in her musical voice with the quaint accent. “I had set my heart on going into a convent.”

I felt very sorry for her, putting myself in her place and imagining being forced to leave my father and go off to some foreign land.

When I learned a little more about her life, I thought it was not such a tragedy for her that she had come to us. Her childhood had not been as happy as mine had.

Poor Mary Beatrice, born to the illustrious House of Este, noted for its chivalry, its bravery, its encouragement of literature and all forms of art and civilization in general!

Unfortunately, her father Alfonso was a victim of crippling gout and depended on his forceful wife, the Duchess Laura, who ruled not only her household but the country. Mary Beatrice could scarcely remember her father, for he had died when she was very young. There were two children, Mary Beatrice and her brother, Francisco, two years her junior.

Her father’s brother, Rinaldo d’Este, was appointed guardian of the children on Alfonso’s death, but it was Duchess Laura who assumed command.

“My mother is a very good woman,” Mary Beatrice told me. “We did not always understand that when we were children. We thought she seemed very harsh, but it was because she was always concerned with what was best for us. You see, she thought we must never show weakness so that we might grow up strong.”

“So she was very severe with you.”

“For our own good,” insisted Mary Beatrice. “I hated soup. It made me sick once and ever after I did not want to take it. My mother said that was weakness. Soup was good and nourishing. I must overcome my petulance and folly. I must learn to like soup because it was good for me. So every day I must sit at table and take soup. There was always to be soup for me.”

I shivered and had a quick picture of my mother sitting on a chair with my sister Anne beside her, a bowl of sweetmeats beside them. I could hear my mother’s voice, laughing as she said: “You eat too many sweetmeats, child. I fear you are as partial to them as your mother is. So no more, eh? Let us be strong or the palace will not be big enough to hold us. Look at this plump little hand . . .” taking Anne’s hand and kissing it. And a few minutes later that plump little hand would be reaching for a sweetmeat and my mother, watching, would laugh and jokingly scold as she took one herself.

How different from ours Mary Beatrice’s mother must have been!

“I was not allowed to leave the table,” she went on, “until every drop of the soup had gone. But I did teach myself not to be sick. My mother is a very strong, good woman.”

“I should have hated to be forced to take what I did not want,” I said.

“The soup was usually well watered with my tears. She was right, of course. One has to learn to do things one does not like. It makes it easier to face the world.”

I wondered whether drinking soup she had hated had made it easier for her to come to England. I did not believe it had for a moment and I felt very critical of Duchess Laura and a fresh flood of sadness for the loss of our kind and clever mother.

“Our lessons were not easy either,” said Mary Beatrice. “Many times I was beaten because I could not remember a verse in one of the psalms. You see, my mother wanted the best for us. She wanted us to be clever, so that we were prepared for anything that might happen to us. It was all for our benefit. The doctors once said that my little brother was not strong enough to sit so long over his lessons. He should be more in the fresh air. But my mother replied that she would rather have no son at all than a dullard. So poor little Francisco had to persevere with his lessons.”

How different it had been with us! I remembered Anne, lolling indolently in her chair. “I shall not do lessons today. My eyes will hurt if I try to.” And everybody said she must not hurt her eyes. Lessons were there if we wanted them, but no one in the household should think of forcing the Lady Anne to learn if she did not want to.

Poor, poor Mary Beatrice — although it must be rather pleasant to have learned as much as she appeared to have done.

“You will find my father very kind,” I assured her. But I could see that she was unsure and uneasy, although she had already been charmed by the King.

I was a little piqued to realize that she wished my uncle had been her bridegroom instead of my father — and not because of his superior rank. I had heard it said so often that the charm of the King was unsurpassable. Kindliness was at the very essense of that charm and, because of her youth, and perhaps her beauty, he had made a very special point of showing affection and kindness to his new sister-in-law.

He appeared often at St. James’s Palace, which was my father’s official residence and, of course, with him would come the courtiers so there were some very lively gatherings.

My uncle obviously liked Mary Beatrice. He was always attracted by beauty such as hers, and I realize now that he made such a show of favoring her because of the unpopularity of the marriage. He wanted to soothe the people’s fears regarding it. But at the same time, he deplored my father’s preference for the Catholic faith — or rather his refusal to keep it a secret.

This show of favor had its effect on Mary Beatrice and she was no longer the melancholy girl she had been on her arrival.

The shock of meeting her husband who was so much older than she was had subsided a little. My father was making her see that he was not an ogre. In fact, I thought she was beginning to like him, but her uneasiness had not entirely disappeared.

Elizabeth Villiers talked of the great excitement there had been on Guy Fawkes Night, the fifth of November, just a short time before Mary Beatrice arrived in the country.

“The fires were bigger than ever this year,” said Elizabeth. “There were grotesque images of Guy Fawkes. Hideous, they were. Well, he did try to blow up the Houses of Parliament, so it is understandable that people remember. It was all due to the Papist Plot. It will never be forgotten while there are Catholics in the country.”

She began to chant,

Remember, remember the fifth of November

The gunpowder treason and plot

I see no reason,

The gunpowder treason

Should ever be forgot!

“That is what they sing!” Her eyes were wide with innocence. “Why did they make such a special occasion of it this year?” she asked.

This was Elizabeth stressing the unpopularity of my father’s marriage.

I was pleased when it became clear that Mary Beatrice was not afraid of my father as she had been at first. When I grew older I realized that, with his great experience of women, and his considerable charm — although some degrees less than that of the King — he had begun to win her affection. I noticed the smiles they exchanged and that the melancholy which she had not succeeded in hiding on her arrival was no longer there. There was an acceptance of her new life which grew firmer every day.

Card-playing was one of the most popular pastimes at court and Mary Beatrice was expected to join in. She told me that she disliked it and that she found no excitement when she won and she hated to lose.

“Then if you do not want to play, why did you do so?” I asked.

“I am told it is expected of me and some of the company look very displeased when I show no enthusiasm for the game.”

“But it is amusing!” I cried. “I play now and then. Even my sister does. We like it very much.”

Mary Beatrice shook her head. But that was just a minor irritation.

DURING THE MONTHS that followed and as my father was revealed to Mary Beatrice as the considerate and kindly man he was, she grew to love him. The lazy manner of our court must have seemed a great contrast to that of her mother’s. She remained enchanted by the courteous attention paid to her by the King. And she was becoming a lighthearted girl of sixteen.

Of the four ladies she had brought with her from Modena two were young. One of these was Anna, the daughter of Madame Montecuculi, the lady who was in charge of them all; and the other was Madame Molza, who was only a little older than Mary Beatrice herself. The other lady was Madame Turenie, who had been with Mary Beatrice since she was a baby.

Through the veiled remarks of Elizabeth Villiers and the sophisticated comments of Sarah Jennings and some of the older girls, I was getting a deeper understanding of my father’s position.

There had been a time when he had enjoyed a popularity almost to rival that of the King. His dalliance with Arabella Churchill and involvement in the Sir John Denham affair were dismissed as romantic waywardness, to be expected in a man of the world; but what remained unforgiven was his adherence to the Catholic faith and now his marriage to a Catholic. The King and heir to the throne might be as lecherous as they pleased. Their religion was another matter. England had experienced Catholic Queen Mary, the bigoted daughter of King Henry VIII, and they were determined never to have another Catholic monarch on the throne if they could help it.

And as time was passing, it seemed more and more likely that my father would inherit the throne. Forgotten were the victorious naval battles which had made a hero of him. Now could be heard the first rumblings of the storm and I was to learn how significant that would prove to be.

There came a day when Mary Beatrice had some exciting news.

“I am going to have a baby,” she said, her beautiful eyes alight with happiness.

We were all very excited, particularly my father. He embraced me with the fervor he always showed at our meetings.

“I am so happy that you and your stepmother are such good friends,” he said. “Nothing could delight me more. And soon you will have a little brother ... or sister. That will be wonderful, will it not?”

I said it would, but I could not help thinking of those other little brothers who had lived a while in our nursery and caused great concern until they passed on.

I hoped this one would not be like them.

THE CHASTE NYMPH

Our household was no longer at Richmond. It had been moved to St. James’s, that ancient palace which had once been a hospital for women suffering from leprosy. That was years ago, before the Norman Conquest, of course. It was dedicated to St. James and the name remained when it became a palace. Like Richmond, it was a place full of memories, and because of my growing awareness of all the murmurings about my father’s leanings toward Catholicism, I thought of my namesake, Mary, who had lived here when her husband, Philip II of Spain, had gone away. He had not been a very kind husband; he was obsessed by his religion and such people are often too busy doing their duty toward God to be over-concerned with people. Perhaps they felt people were not very important. However, in spite of the fact that nowadays I often thought of sad, cruel Queen Mary who had ordered people to be burned at the stake because they would not become Catholics, I was happy to be near my father and Mary Beatrice.

It was at this time that I first met Frances Apsley. Frances’s father was a friend of mine, and because of this she had been given a place at court.

From the moment I met her I was entranced. When she was presented to me I felt that I should have been the one to kiss her hand and do homage to her because of her excellence, which I could never match.

She was a few years older than I was and when she talked to me I was too bemused to take in what she had said. I did gather that her father was Sir Allen Apsley.

My father had been good to hers, she told me.

When she was about to leave, I said that we must meet again.

“I have my duties,” Frances told me.

“I shall write to you,” I said, and Frances replied that that would give her great pleasure.

I was so filled with admiration that I must have shown it, and when I met Mary Beatrice I spoke of Frances Apsley to her.

“Ah yes,” said my stepmother. “A very pleasant girl, and a beautiful one. Your father is friendly with her father. They were together during the long exile. Sir Allen was always loyal and worked hard to bring about the Restoration.”

It was the beginning of that passionate friendship which I shall remember all my life. I was very fond of Anne Trelawny; she was my confidante and had been from childhood — but this was different. Anne was to me just another girl, older than I, wiser in many ways, my very good friend. But Frances was like a goddess.

I thought of her a good deal and I decided I would write to tell her of my feelings. This I did and her response was immediate. She told me that she cared for me in the same way as I did for her and that we must meet whenever it could be contrived and when we could not we would write to each other.

So began our romantic correspondence. We would ask people to take our letters to each other. I prevailed on my drawing master, little Richard Gibson, to do it and he was eager to oblige. I noticed that people were very ready to please me nowadays. True, my stepmother was pregnant, and if she had a son my position would change immediately, but the son had not yet put in an appearance and royal babies had a habit of either being girls or not surviving.

Sarah Jennings was a good courier although I did not altogether trust her. I preferred to use my little dwarf.

Frances had given a new zest to the days. Each morning when I awoke, my first thoughts were of her. Should I see her that day? Would there be a letter from her? Life was wonderful. I loved and was loved.

I wrote to her and told her that I felt toward her as though she were my husband. My love for her was greater than I had ever felt for anyone before — even my father. I loved him dearly but he was just a father. This was different.

I was very young and totally innocent. I knew that this was how lovers talked to each other — in plays for instance. Unlike my sister Anne, I liked to read of romance and passion in those pieces where the lovers were a young man and woman, but I saw no reason why the lovers should not be of the same sex.

I gave Frances a new name. It was Aurelia, a character in one of Mr. Dryden’s comedies. In this, Aurelia was a delightful creature whom everyone loved. As for myself — I must have a special name, too. It was difficult to find anything that fitted myself. Beaumont and Fletcher had written of a young shepherdess named Clorine, who was faithful through all sorts of trials.

So we became Aurelia and Clorine. It gave a romantic secrecy to our correspondence.

One day my father came to see me.

He said: “You are growing up, daughter. Twelve years old, no less, and Anne coming on a little way behind. The King thinks it is time you made an appearance at court now and then. After all, you are my daughters.”

“What shall we have to do?”

“Well, he has an idea. He thought it would be rather interesting if you gave a performance. Some play ... something in which you could sing and dance to show the court you have not been idling all this time.”

“A performance! Do you mean act?”

“Why not? It will be amusing. You will enjoy it.”

“Like actors on a stage?”

“And why not? But your stage would be Whitehall. I have a plan. I am sending for the Bettertons ... the great actors. They will come to court and teach you how to say your lines. We shall make sure that you have some beautiful dresses. It will be a great introduction to court. I shall be so proud of you.”

“Anne and I to act! Do you really think we can?”

He touched my forehead lightly. “Do not frown, dearest daughter,” he said. “When Mrs. Betterton has coached you, you will act perfectly. You will enjoy it. Some of the girls can join in. Jemmy will help. He will want to be in it. He will be coming over to see you.”

I was a little taken aback and I wondered whether Frances would be present to see me act. I should have to do my very best.

It was interesting to meet Mrs. Betterton. She was a very handsome woman and most deferential. She told us to read for her. I wondered what she thought of Anne, who could scarcely read at all. She said she was quite pleased with me.

She instructed us to say words after her. I enjoyed it, particularly when Jemmy arrived.

He was very handsome and tended to give himself airs. I did not mind that. I liked Jemmy. He was always very friendly toward me. I had heard Sarah Jennings say that he acted as though he were heir to the throne and seemed to forget he was born on the wrong side of the blanket.

I had long ago discovered what that meant and because of it Jemmy could not have what he had set his heart on. Jemmy was a very ostentatious Protestant, though I did not believe he was very religious in truth. He just liked to be present at all the ceremonies of the Church so that he could remind people of this. He was very popular, though there was a great deal of scandal concerning him at this time. It had something to do with a Mrs. Eleanor Needham, daughter of Sir Robert Needham.

When Jemmy arrived he was as blithe as ever. He snapped his fingers at scandal. I suposed he was too accustomed to it to take much notice.

He was a very good dancer and was going to perform with us, but that would not be until the play was over, for that was for ladies only.

It was all very exciting. Even Anne was aroused to enthusiasm and made an effort to learn her lines; she really worked hard under Mrs. Betterton’s tuition. Anne was to take the part of Nymphe in the play — a chaste nymph like myself.

The story of Calisto, the Chaste Nymph, was taken from Ovid’s Metamorphoses and John Crone had been commissioned to write a play from it.

Jemmy was overcome with mirth about something and when I asked him what it was, he said he dare not tell me, but I could see that with a little prompting he would. In the story, Jupiter pursues the Chaste Nymph with the object that she shall be chaste no longer.

At last I prevailed on Jemmy to tell me what amused him.

“The noble Duke will not allow his daughter to be sullied, even by the greatest of the gods,” said Jemmy. “Poor John Crone! He has to make a different ending. Depend upon it, dear cousin, my chaste nymph, you are in danger of losing your virginity, but you will be rescued in time. This is one occasion when wily old Jupiter will not have his way, for Calisto is in truth the Lady Mary ... and the daughter of my Lord Duke must be rescued in time.”

This seemed very funny and everyone laughed mightily.

It was a most enjoyable time and we were all very excited about the play. Sarah Jennings, of course, had a part, and Jemmy told us that Lady Henrietta Wentworth was going to play the part of Jupiter, which gave him great pleasure.

Frances would be present. I should act for her and I must be good.

Sarah Jennings, who was going to play the part of Mercury, had no qualms. She was sure she would give a superb performance. I heard her telling Margaret Blague, who was dressed in a magnificent gown embroidered with brilliants, not to be so nervous. She was not in the least.

Margaret was protesting: “I did not want to do this. I do not want to act. But they told me I must. Oh dear, I am sure I am going to spoil everything.”

Mrs. Betterton said: “This is an attack of nerves which comes to most good actresses. Some say that if one is not a little nervous one will not give a good performance.”

I could not help glancing at Sarah. She never felt nervous, I was sure. Sarah interpreted my glance and merely tossed her head. Rules which might affect others did not touch her; in her opinion she knew better than everyone else about any subject and that included acting; and even in the presence of a highly acclaimed lady of the theater, Sarah would rely on her own judgment.

Henrietta Wentworth and Margaret Blague were talking together. How different they were! They were two of the most beautiful girls at court however. Henrietta Wentworth was rather boldy handsome; she would make an excellent Jupiter. Margaret Blague was shy and retiring; and she was sure she was going to make an inadequate Diana. Moreover, she was very religious and felt there was something not very moral about acting.

Henrietta Wentworth was admiring the beautiful diamond Margaret was wearing.

“It was lent to me by Lady Frances,” Margaret explained. “I do not want to wear it. I hate borrowing things. I am always afraid I will lose them. But Lady Frances was insistent. She said it suited the part and my costume.”

“Why should you lose it?” cried Henrietta. “I love jewelery and that is a very handsome piece.”

The stage was set. Mrs. Betterton hovered about us, giving last-minute instructions.

“Do not forget, Lady Anne, plenty of feeling in your words. And you, Lady Henrietta, remember, Jupiter is a great god, the head of them all. He has come to woo Calisto. And Lady Mary, you must show your determination to resist his advances ... just as I showed you.”

“Yes, Mrs. Betterton. Yes, Mrs. Betterton,” we all assured her we would remember what she had taught us.

The music had started and we were there. It was wonderful. There were one or two little mishaps. Anne forgot her lines on one occasion, but Mrs. Betterton’s voice, hushed though clear, came from behind the scenes. Diana was not where she should have been at a certain point, but that also was put right. The ballet went well. I saw Jemmy dancing with Henrietta Wentworth and the audience seemed to like it, for they applauded with enthusiasm.

The King himself congratulated us all; then he kissed both Anne and me and said he had not known there was such thespian talent in the family, which made everyone laugh and applaud again.

We were all very happy, except poor Margaret Blague, who was in a state of dire dismay, for her fears had been realized and she had indeed lost the diamond which she had been lent by Lady Frances Villiers.

Poor Margaret! She had not wanted to be in the play in the first place. She had had to be persuaded that it was her duty, and now, to have lost a diamond which did not belong to her plunged her into the deepest gloom.

Anne said, in her lighthearted way: “You must not worry, Margaret. It is certain that it will be found. It must have dropped onto the floor. Let there be a search.”

I could see that there would be no comfort for Margaret until the diamond was found and returned to Lady Frances.

Margaret was appalled to discover it was worth eighty pounds.

I felt very sorry for her. Margaret was different from the others. She was more serious; at one time she had been in my mother’s household and my mother had thought very highly of her.

She had said once: “Margaret Blague is a really virtuous girl. She is deeply religious and lives according to her beliefs. One cannot say that of many. Oh yes, they will attend the church services; they assume piety, but when it comes to the virtuous way of life they betray that they are merely making a show. With Margaret her religion goes deep.”

I knew she thought playacting was sinful and I could not agree with her in that. Poor girl. She had been more or less forced into doing what she had not wanted to, and against her judgment to borrow the diamond. It was ironic that this should have happened to her.

A search was made but the diamond was not to be found. It would be easy for someone to pick it up and pocket it. Who would be the wiser?

“Eighty pounds,” mourned Margaret. “I am not rich enough to pay Lady Frances such a sum.”

“She will not ask for it,” I comforted her.

“But I must pay it nonetheless. Otherwise how will she know that I have not stolen it?”

“No one could possibly suspect you of that.”

“There will be some,” insisted Margaret. “And how can I be happy again knowing that I have lost this valuable jewel?”

It was true. If the diamond were not found, Margaret would remember it all her life.

I could not stop thinking of her. The incident had put a blight on what should have been a happy evening.

My father noticed my preoccupation. He had come to us full of enthusiasm.

“Calisto! Nymphe! My clever little girls,” he cried. “You were enchanting. I was so proud of you both. We shall have Davenant wanting you to join his players.”

“It was Mrs. Betterton who helped us,” said Anne.

“Ah, she is a great actress and a charming lady, too.”

“She made us say our lines again and again, didn’t she, Mary?”

“Yes, she did.”

“What ails you, daughter?” asked my father. “Is something wrong? You cannot hide your feelings from me, you know. Come. Tell me.”

“It is poor Margaret Blague.”

“What of her?”

“She has lost Lady Frances’s diamond and is very frightened. She did not want to act in the first place, nor did she want to borrow the diamond.”

My father grimaced. “A little puritan, eh?”

“She is really very good and now so unhappy because she thinks losing the diamond is some judgment on her for playing when she knew she should not do so.”

“These puritans can be something of a trial ... as we found to our cost. Tell her not to worry. Doubtless the jewel will be found. If it is not ... then it is lost.”

“She says she must pay for it and she cannot because she is not rich.”

“And that worries my tenderhearted little daughter?”

“I like her. She is very pretty and she looks unhappy now.”

“And you cannot be happy and enjoy your triumph while poor Margaret grieves.”

He understood, as he always had.

“Well,” he said, “I refuse to have my daughter sad on such an occasion. I tell you what shall be done. I shall provide the eighty pounds, so that Margaret Blague can take it along to Lady Frances and so forget about the matter. How is that?”

I looked at him with adoration. He was indeed the best and kindest man in the world.

“So you are happy now you have this matter settled?” he asked.

“I am happy,” I said, “to have the most wonderful father in the world.”

ANNE HAD BEEN SO EXCITED by the performance that she wanted to do more. She had liked Mrs. Betterton so much that she had wanted to keep her at court. Of course, she was indulged in this matter and there was to be another play with a bigger part for Anne. We were all so pleased to see her enthusiasm. Good-tempered, good-natured as she always was, she was rarely excited about anything, so it was unusual to see her working on her lines with energy and real enjoyment. This was for the play Mithridate, and Anne was to have the part of Semandra.

Mr. Betterton was also at court and he was coaching the young men in their parts.

Anne had discovered my passion for Frances Apsley. She knew about the letters we exchanged and that Frances was Aurelia and I Clorine. She did what was typical of her; she decided she must have a passionate friendship. I had Frances and, as there was no one to compare with my choice in Anne’s opinion, she must have Frances too.

After all, sentimental friendships were the fashion. So many young women indulged in them and they were generally conducted by letters.

This had nothing to do with her allegiance to Sarah Jennings, any more than mine had toward Anne Trelawny. They were our true friends, our everyday friends. This was different. The object of our devotion in this case was an ideal being, a goddess to be worshipped.

I had found the goddess and she must be Anne’s too.

I often wonder now what Frances thought of our outpourings. When I remember some of the impassioned words I wrote I can smile at my innocence. It did not occur to me at the time that others might think it was not exactly a healthy state of affairs.

However, Anne was soon corresponding with Frances in the same manner. Frances humored her, as I expect she did me. We were the daughters of the Duke of York, heir to the throne, and if there was no son, I was second in line to the throne, Anne third. That had to be a consideration.

Not only was Anne writing to Frances — an example of her devotion and her determination to imitate me, for writing was an occupation she had hitherto avoided and I could imagine what those letters were like — but they must have their private names, as Frances and I had. So Frances was Semandra — from the play, of course — and Anne was Ziphares, another character from it.

It may have been this unusual activity on Anne’s part that attracted Lady Frances’s attention, and she may have felt that she should know what was going on. We were, after all, in her charge. She was especially watchful.

It happened that Richard Gibson, the dwarf, whom we often used as a courier, was away. Sarah Jennings, who was fully aware of the passion Anne and I shared for Frances Apsley, and no doubt laughed at it and clearly considered it no impediment to her domination over Anne, agreed to take the letters while Richard Gibson was absent. Thus, I supposed, she could keep a close check on Anne and share her confidences about what she would consider to be a silly and by no means a permanent arrangement.

One day, when I was having my dancing lesson with Mr. Gorey, our dancing master, Anne was in her closet, writing to Frances — never an easy task for Anne — and before she had time to finish her letter she was called to have her dancing lesson.

She did not want to leave the letter unsealed, so she took it with her to the class and, as my lesson had just finished, she gave it to me, whispering that I might be good enough to seal hers with mine and that Sarah had promised to take them both to Frances.

I went back to my closet and there wrote my letter to Frances, but just as I was finishing, Sarah Jennings came in.

“I shall have to go now,” she said. “So I will take the letters.”

“My sister’s is not yet sealed. Will you please seal it for her while I do mine?”

As I gave her the letter, Lady Frances came in and I had a notion that she might have heard some of the conversation.

I felt my face grow scarlet. Suppose she asked to see the letter? I could not bear to think of those cool eyes reading the impassioned words. She would not understand at all and they would seem quite foolish to such a practical person. I had called Frances my husband and I was her adoring wife.

Sarah was calm enough. In any case, she had nothing to fear. She was just standing there with Anne’s letter in her hand.

As Lady Frances came into the closet, I was so embarrassed. I stammered something about my new gown and asked how she liked it. I turned to the cupboard and opened it so that my back was toward her and she could not see my flushed face.

Lady Frances said: “My Lady Mary, what were you doing in your closet before I came in?”

Sarah stood there with an air of nonchalance, Anne’s letter still in her hand.

“I ... had called in Mrs. Jennings to show me a new way of sealing a letter,” I said.

Lady Frances looked at the letter in Sarah’s hand and there was a slight pause before she said: “Mrs. Jennings is very ingenious with such things.”

There was an awkward silence and then she left us.

Sarah shrugged her shoulders. “Let us seal the letters,” she said, “and I will take them to Mrs. Apsley without delay.”

After that I fancied Lady Frances was very watchful and when next I wrote and Richard Gibson was still away and Sarah was unable to deliver the letter, I summoned one of the footmen and asked him to take it, in spite of the fact that Frances had warned me not to send letters unless it was by someone whom I could trust.

I was sure then that Lady Frances was watching us closely, for that letter fell into her hands.

I was horrified when she came to my closet and said that she wanted to talk to me. She was very respectful, as always, but her mouth was set in stern lines and I saw that she was determined to do what she considered her duty.

She said: “You have been corresponding with Mistress Apsley.” She held up the letter which I had given to the footman. She must have ordered him to give it to her.

“You ... have read it?” I gasped.

“Lady Mary, your father has put me in charge of this household. It is therefore my duty to know what goes on in it.”

I was trying to think what I had written in that letter. I was always in a state of high emotion while I wrote them, words flowed out and I was never sure half an hour afterward what I had said except that all the letters contained pledges of my constant love.

Then I remembered that I had mentioned something about the scandal concerning the Duke of Monmouth and Eleanor Needham and that the Duchess of Monmouth had taken the matter mightily to heart.

That had been indiscreet, of course, and I should not have referred to it. Nor should I, if I had thought anyone was going to read it other than Frances. I was rather proud of my eloquence and I remembered the end. “I love you with a love that never was known by man. I have for you more excess of friendship than any woman can for woman and more love than even the most constant husband had for his wife, more than can be expressed by your ever obedient wife and humble servant who wishes to kiss the ground where you walk, to be your dog on a string, your fish in a net, your bird in a cage, your humble trout. Mary Clorine.”

I had been so proud of those words when I wrote them; now I blushed to remember them.

Lady Frances was looking at me very strangely. I noticed an uncertainty in her eyes. I had realized that she was not sure how to act.

She began: “His Grace, your father . . .” Then she shook her head; her lips moved as though she were talking to herself.

“It is a very excessive friendship,” she said at length. “I think it would be better if we did not speak of it. And the Lady Anne ... ?”

“My sister writes to Mistress Apsley because I do,” I said.

“I must ponder this matter,” she said, as though to herself.

“I do not understand. Is it not good to have friends ... to love?”

“Perhaps it would be well if you did not meet for a while.”

“Not meet?”

“And not ... write such letters.”

“I do not understand . . .”

“No,” said Lady Frances briskly. “I am sure you do not.”

“Not to see her . . .” I murmured blankly.

“I think you might meet, say on Sundays. You will be in the company of others then. And perhaps on Holy Days.”

I stared at her in dismay. I had been in the habit of taking any opportunity I could to be with Frances.

I said: “Lady Frances, you have my letter.”

She looked at me with caution in her eyes. I knew that she was eager not to displease me. It was a fact that my stepmother was pregnant, but who could be sure what the result of the pregnancy would be? And if the situation did not change, Lady Frances might be at this moment earning the deep resentment of the future Queen of England.

“We will forget this matter,” she said slowly. “I think, my Lady Mary, it would be well if we were a little discreet.”

She was smiling at me. Gravely I took the letter from her and she left me.

IT WAS A BLEAK JANUARY DAY in the year of 1675. I would soon be thirteen years old. My father had been very disappointed because, instead of the hoped-for boy, Mary Beatrice had produced a girl. He tried not to show it and declared that he was very happy with our little sister.

I found Mary Beatrice in excellent spirits. She confided to me that she wanted the child to be baptized in the Catholic faith and she was afraid there would be some opposition to that.

“Your father desires it, too,” she said. “And I am going to be very bold. I shall command Father Gallis to baptize the baby before anyone else can do anything about it.”

In view of the conflict which was growing over this matter of the Catholic faith, I thought this was a very daring thing to do. I knew that my father was very sad because Anne and I were being brought up as Protestants, and he only accepted this because if he had attempted to stop it we should have been taken away from him altogether and he would probably have been sent away from court.

I was amazed that the usually meek Mary Beatrice could be so bold; but I was learning that people will do a great deal for their faith.

It was no use trying to dissuade her, and Father Gallis baptized little Catherine Laura. The name Catherine was given to the baby in honor of the Queen and she was Laura after Mary Beatrice’s mother.

Mary Beatrice had no qualms about what she had done. I supposed this was due to the fact that, whatever misdemeanor she committed at court was of no importance because she had done right in the sight of Heaven.

However, she did seem a little subdued when she told me, a few days later, that the King had announced his intention of coming to St. James’s to discuss the baptism with her.

I was horrified.

“The King will be angry,” I said. “You have been very bold. It is not that he will care very much. He is careless about such matters. But you have to remember that the people are not very pleased.”

She held her head high, but I could see that she was apprehensive. I begged her to tell me quickly what the King said when he came. I felt she had gone too far, even for his good humor.

She kept her word and I hastened to her. I found her a little baffled.

She said: “I told the King what I had done but it was not as I expected. He did not show anger at all. He just smiled in a rather absent way and talked of other things. I was overjoyed. My baby is a Catholic, even though she was born in this heretic land.”

“Do not be too sure of that,” I said. “There are people around us who could create mischief.”

The next day I was told that the baby was to be baptized in the Chapel Royal, according to the rites of the Church of England, of course, and one of the bishops would perform the ceremony.

I was astounded. Mary Beatrice had said the King had not seemed to hear what she had said.

“He did hear,” I assured her. “He is sweeping it aside, as he does anything that is unpleasant. He understands what you did. Most people would have been furious ... banished you to the Tower. But the King does not act like that, so he brushes it aside as though it has not happened. But he will have his way all the same and Catherine Laura will be baptized in the Church of England.”

“But she is a Catholic!” Mary Beatrice was almost in tears. She was bewildered. She did not understand the ways of our court. The King, so charming ... smiling, showing no signs of anger, had just swept aside her childish action. As far as he was concerned, it had never happened.

Soon after I heard that my sister Anne and I were to stand as sponsors and the Duke of Monmouth was to join us.

When it was over my father came to see me.

“The Duchess told you that there was a previous baptism,” he said.

“Yes,” I replied. “She did.”

He was frowning and staring before him. “The King has spoken to me very seriously,” he went on.

“The King behaved to the Duchess as though it were of no importance.”

“He understood her motive. ‘She is young,’ he said, ‘and quite ignorant of the significance of her action. She is not to be blamed, but watched that she commits no more such follies.’ If this were known, Gallis would be hanged and quartered. As for myself and the Duchess, he warned me that at least we should be sent away from court. No one must know that this ceremony took place. Please, never speak of it.”

I did understand. I was growing up fast. I saw that my father could be in danger.

I threw myself into his arms and clung to him.

“I promise, I promise,” I cried.

THE ORANGE MARRIAGE

Life had changed since we had been launched on the court. We were often in the company of the King. Both Anne and I looked forward to those occasions, for he treated us with great affection and lack of ceremony, as always the kindly uncle. How differently I see such relationships when I look back now!

In those days I thought all the affectionate words and actions meant he really cared for us. He did, of course, in his lighthearted way, but I know now what his main aim was. We were in his care. We were good little Protestants. We were in line to the throne and my uncle wanted the people to know that, although he himself could not provide them with a Protestant heir, he would make sure that, in spite of his brother’s love affair with the Catholic Church, those who followed him to the throne should be of the approved religion.

Although I know now how this matter was always there in our lives, I did not understand then how very important it was and how it would shape my life.

So we were now at court, and I must say we were finding the experience delightful. We were treated with the utmost respect wherever we went. Lady Frances was almost deferential at times. Elizabeth Villiers was wary, and so was Sarah Jennings. She and Anne were inseparable, in spite of Anne’s passion for Frances Apsley. It was Sarah who was Anne’s alter ego.

I continued to write to Frances and to see her when I could on Sundays and Holy Days; and both Anne and I discovered a pastime which we found fascinating. This was cards. How we enjoyed them! The excitement of picking up the cards to see what had been dealt to us, eagerly scanning them, deciding how we should play them — it absorbed us.

In fact, we became so addicted to the cards that there was criticism of us.

Margaret Blague thought it was sinful and, like all good people, did not stop herself from letting us know it.

“What harm does it do anyone?” I asked.

“It could harm the players,” she insisted. “It is gambling and that should not be indulged in — especially on Sundays.”

Margaret was very puritanical. She would have been happier under Oliver Cromwell, I thought. Hadn’t she believed that playacting was sinful?

My tutor, Dr. Lake, brought up the subject one day.

He said: “It has been noticed that you and the Lady Anne are at the card table almost every evening.”

“It is a pastime we enjoy,” I replied. “What harm is there in it? Do you consider it to be a sin?”

“It is not exactly a sin, but I think Your Highness gives offense by indulging in it on the Sabbath. The people would not like it if they heard of it.”

I knew that we had to be constantly careful not to offend “the people,” and I could understand that there might be some of them who would not like us to play cards on Sundays.

“I will speak to my sister,” I said, “and we shall not play cards on Sundays.”

Dr. Lake looked a little placated and I was so relieved that he did not attempt to curtail card-playing during the week, for that was something neither of us could have agreed to.

Something very unfortunate happened at this time and, although it was proved to be just the mischief-making of a man of evil reputation, it was very disturbing while it lasted.

A Frenchman named Luzancy announced that the Duchess of York’s confessor had visited him in his lodgings. This Luzancy had been born a Catholic and was a convert to Protestantism. The Roman Catholic priest, he alleged, had held a knife to his throat and threatened to kill him if he did not return to the Catholic faith.

There was nothing more likely to arouse the concern of the people. They would never forget the fires of Smithfield during the reign of that queen whom they called Bloody Mary. Then Protestant men and women had been burned to death for their religious opinions. They had heard gruesome stories of what had happened under the Spanish Inquisition. Never would they have that sort of thing in England.

We were back on the old theme which seemed to be running through my life, and which was soon to be brought home to me in the most significant manner possible. But I suppose this was the case with many people at that time. It certainly affected my father’s life more than any.

The matter of Luzancy was taken so seriously that it was brought before the House of Commons and Lord William Russell, the ardent Protestant, who hated the French and deplored the licentiousness of the court, took the opportunity to bring in new laws against Catholics, and as a result no English subject might officiate as a papist priest in any chapel whatsoever.

This was a criticism not only of Mary Beatrice but the Queen herself, who had been subjected to suspicion since she came to the country.

Even when witnesses to Luzancy’s criminal career in his native France were produced and he was completely discredited, this law persisted.

I believe that Mary Beatrice did not realize the extent of her unpopularity. She was very young and was beginning to grow fond of her husband, whom she found to be so gentle and kindly; she was very fond of her royal brother-in-law; and she had her baby.

What a tragedy it was that little Catherine Laura should only live ten months!

I talked to Anne Trelawny about it. I said: “It is so strange. The King has several children by women other than his wife, but the Queen cannot have one. And my father ... well, he has only Anne and me, although he has had others . . .”

“And strong ones too,” Anne reminded me.

“Why is it, Anne? Do you think it is a judgment on them?”

I could see that Anne thought this might be so but was afraid to say so.

“Because,” I went on, “they are not faithful to their wives.”

I thought how sad it was, how difficult to understand. The King loved the Queen, but he loved others, too. And I was forced to admit that my father was like his brother in this respect.

I did not want to think of Arabella Churchill and people like that. But they existed and there were several of them.

We tried to comfort poor Mary Beatrice over the loss of little Catherine Laura. It was not easy. I heard it whispered that the little girl’s death was an indication. It was going to be the King’s story all over again. Illegitimate children were easy to come by for the royal brothers. It was only legitimate ones who were denied them.

It was very strange indeed and I was convinced that it was indeed a judgment on their immorality. I wondered why two of the most charming people I had ever met should be afflicted in this way.

There was no long period of mourning for Catherine Laura and it seemed to me that her death was quickly forgotten at court.

Perhaps because my uncle now shared the view that it was very possible that my father, like himself, would never get a legitimate son, he decided that Anne and I should be brought into prominence. We had achieved a little attention with our play and ballet and we went to the Lord Mayor’s banquet and sat with the King and Queen that all might see us.

I was confirmed by Henry Compton, Bishop of London, to make it clear to all that I was not following my father’s religion, and I believe this event was viewed with great satisfaction by the people. They cheered us enthusiastically. They always cheered the King. I had heard it said that, in spite of the immoral life he led, the people loved him more than any king since Edward IV, who was a little like him. Licentious indeed, tall as Charles and very handsome. My uncle could not be called that, but he had that overwhelming charm to make up for it.

I enjoyed being cheered and knowing that the people approved of me.

“There is nothing the people like more than a beautiful young girl,” said my uncle.

And that was very comforting.

So ... life was changing. I loved Frances as dearly as ever. True, we only met on Sundays and Holy Days, and then in the company of others, but my great joy was writing to her and knowing that she was there. I wished sometimes that we could go off together and live quietly in a country cottage, surrounded by a garden full of beautiful flowers. I should want Anne Trelawny, of course, and my sister Anne — and she would not come without Sarah Jennings. And my father and Mary Beatrice must be there ... and one or two more.

I laughed at myself. I was just living in an impossible dream.

Mary Beatrice was considerably comforted because she was pregnant again and in the August of the following year, only ten months after the death of little Catherine Laura, she gave birth to another daughter.

There was the usual disappointment over the sex of the child, but at least she seemed strong and Anne and I were delighted to have a stepsister. She was called Isabella after Mary Beatrice’s great-grandmother.

Life seemed very good at that time and then came the bitter blow.

I was fifteen years of age in April of that year. I was so innocent in many ways. Life was good; I was surrounded by affection and I believed it would go on like that forever.

I knew there were trials, but I did not take them seriously. There was the continual harping on the religious theme. It kept cropping up, but I did not think it was any great concern of mine.

How wrong I was!

I knew there was trouble on the Continent. There was constant talk of wars and treaties. That had nothing to do with me, so I thought. The Dutch were our enemies, then the French were; then we were friends with this one or that. What had that to do with life at St. James’s and Whitehall? A great deal, I was to discover.

And then one day we heard that the Prince of Orange was to pay a visit to the court.

I HAD HEARD THE NAME of this Prince mentioned now and then — and more frequently of late. He was some kinsman of ours. His mother had been the eldest daughter of my grandfather, Charles the Martyr, so he was the nephew of the King and my father — and my cousin.

He had a Dutch father and I had been brought up to hate the Dutch, though I learned later that the people liked them better than they did the French. My father and the King had always preferred the French, but then they were half French themselves.

We had been at war with the Dutch, so therefore the Prince of Orange would have been our enemy — but enemies of yesterday were today’s friends and it appeared that we were making treaties with the Dutch, and it was for this reason that Prince William of Orange was coming to England.

There was a certain amount of gossip about him among the girls of the household. He had visited Whitehall seven years or so before. I had hardly been aware of it, but the older girls like Elizabeth Villiers and Sarah Jennings remembered it very well.

“He caused some interest when he was here last,” commented Elizabeth.

“Notoriety,” added Sarah Jennings. “Such a virtuous young man he was. He was very serious.”

“And very religious,” added Elizabeth.

“Of course,” went on Sarah, “it was his aim to maintain the Protestant faith throughout Europe. He hated the French King because his aim was exactly the opposite. He wanted to crush the Protestants and make the whole continent Catholic. So you see how it was between them.”

“Some would have thought,” put in Anne Trelawny, “that, with all his might, Louis would have triumphed and soon silenced the Dutch.”

“Oh, but the Prince would not give in,” said Sarah. “He was determined and has the reputation of being a clever commander. His small country stood out against the French ... and now here he is, talking peace with England.”

“Which the French won’t like,” said Anne Villiers.

“But the people here will,” added Elizabeth. “They like the Prince ... not for his charm ... he is a little lacking in that ... but because he is such a good religious man with ideas that appeal to the English. But in spite of his solemn ways, he caused a good deal of amusement on his last visit.”

“What did he do?” I asked.

Sarah and Elizabeth exchanged glances and laughed.

“It was really very funny,” said Sarah, “and they shouldn’t have done it. But he was such a virtuous young man that the temptation was too strong. He must have been about twenty then. He did not drink ... only schnapps, a sort of Holland gin; he liked to retire at ten o’clock, so that he could be at work early in the morning. You can imagine what the King and the courtiers thought of that! Virtue is a challenge to them — a fortress to be stormed and overcome. So they decided to have some fun with him.”

“They might have tried to be a little more like him,” I said.

“Oh, Lady Mary!” cried Anne Villiers. “You could surely not expect that!”

“I will tell you what they did,” added Sarah. “They took him to supper at the Duke of Buckingham’s apartments, for they had this plan. They were going to make him very drunk and see what he would do.”

“Surely he would not allow that,” I suggested. “I thought he only drank that mild stuff they have in Holland and very little of that.”

“Ah, but he was not in Holland, was he, Lady Mary?” went on Sarah. “They filled up his glass with something very strong — he did not realize how strong — and even when they refilled his glass he did not realize what they were doing to him until it was too late.”

“And perhaps he enjoyed it when he tried it,” said Elizabeth Villiers. “You have not said that they talked about the charms of the Queen’s maids of honor and how they liked and expected attention from the courtiers and were very free with their favors. The Prince listened. He could never have heard anything like it before and it must have seemed to him that customs were very different in England from those in Holland.”

“So they made him drunk!” I said. “I do not think that was a very kind or clever thing to do.”

“You haven’t heard what happened,” said Sarah. “When he went back to Whitehall, he was so inflamed with the drink and the stories he had heard of willing maids of honor that he tried to get into their apartments. He was so angry when he found them locked against him and was told by the older ladies to go away that he broke a window and tried to climb in. So, there was your virtuous young man. Virtue had been defeated by strong drink and the hope of the pleasure he would get from the ladies.”

“I think it was a very unkind trick to play on a visitor,” I said.

“So did he,” said Elizabeth. “Next morning he was very ashamed and contrite, but at least it shows that underneath this cloak of virtue he is just like most other men.”

“That is not quite true,” protested Anne Trelawny, “because he was sorry for what happened, and it was not his fault really.”

“But,” insisted Elizabeth, “he had always been so disapproving of other people’s weaknesses and it was revealed that when intoxicated he was just like the rest.”

“But he did not ask for the drink in the first place,” said Anne.

Elizabeth shrugged her shoulders. “You are determined to defend him. The King was very much amused and liked him better for ‘his normality’ as they called it.”

“That was a long time ago,” said Anne Trelawny. “He will be on his guard, I dare say.”

“Oh yes,” agreed Sarah. “He will be watchful of what he drinks. I look forward to seeing him.”

“I doubt not you will ere long,” said Elizabeth.

I WAS SURPRISED when my father told me that I was to be presented to the Prince of Orange. I had supposed that I would meet him sometime but it appeared from my father’s manner that there was something special about this meeting. He seemed a little apprehensive.

He said: “It is the King’s wish that you and your cousin should meet and be friends.”

“I hear he is very serious.”

“He is greatly respected throughout Europe,” replied my father.

He himself came to escort me to the Prince. The King was with him and, when my father led me to them, my uncle came forward and, taking both my hands, kissed my cheek.

“This is my dear niece,” he said to the Prince. “Mary, here is my nephew William, the Prince of Orange, a very welcome visitor to our court.”

William of Orange bowed rather stiffly, and I curtsied.

“Now,” said the King, “you have met. I do not think you had the pleasure of meeting my niece when you were last at Whitehall, nephew.” He looked faintly mischievous and I knew he was thinking of the solemn young man trying to break into the quarters of the maids of honor. William’s face was impassive. I guessed that he dismissed that incident as unimportant.

He had penetrating gray eyes which I was sure missed little, thick brown hair, an aquiline nose and thin lips. There was something rather formidable about him, although he was of small stature, very thin and stooped slightly. His skin was mildly pockmarked, but he had such dignity that, in spite of his physical disabilities, one knew at once that he was a man to be reckoned with.

The thought occurred to me as he stood by the King that there could not be two men more unlike each other.

There were very few people present, which surprised me, and I only realized why this was so much later.

The King said: “My dear Mary, why do you not sit down and talk to your cousin? Tell him about our court and I am sure he will tell you about his.”

My father was watching me, half-uneasily, half-proudly. I thought I detected a certain anger in his look, but not against me, nor against the Prince of Orange. He looked frightened, unhappy and frustrated.

It was a strange experience, sitting there with this young man beside me while my father and the King stayed some way apart, talking quietly, so that I could not hear what they said. I wished the Prince would not look at me so intently. He did not seem to take his eyes from me.

I am not sure what we talked of. In fact, all the time I was wondering how long this interview was going to last and when I should be able to escape. He asked me about the household, how I spent my time, about the customs here. I wanted to ask him about his but that seemed out of the question. I was not sure why. I was, after all, an inexperienced girl of fifteen; he was a man of twenty-seven and a ruler of a country, an important ruler, or he would not have been received at Whitehall with such respect.

I was glad when the session was over and I could leave them.

My father took me to the door and kissed me gravely. He still seemed upset.

ON THE AFTERNOON OF THE FOLLOWING DAY my father came to me. He looked very serious and took me into my closet so that we could be entirely alone. I knew now that he was very unhappy.

We sat side by side and he put his arm about me and held me tightly against him before he spoke.

Then he said: “Mary, my dearest daughter, there is something I have to tell you.” He hesitated, as though it hurt him to go on. I was getting alarmed. Something rather terrible must have happened.

“Yes, dearest father,” I said faintly.

“You are growing up, Mary. You are no longer a child and people in our position ... well, sometimes it is necessary for them to do something which might seem rather unpleasant at first ... until . . .”

“Please tell me, father, what this is all about.”

“Well, sometimes we have to do something which we would rather not do. It is our duty, you see. Everybody has to do something ... uncongenial ... at times, and for people in our position . . .”

“Please tell me quickly what I have to do.”

“You will like it ... when you get used to it. It is just that, at first ... well, I could have wished it could have been a little later. You are young yet ... but not too young. My child, you are going to be married.”

“Married!” I cried in horror.

“You are fifteen years old. People such as we are ... well, it has happened to many. Your stepmother . . .”

I felt blank, unable to grasp this stupefying fact. Then I burst out: “Who is it? Whom shall I marry?”

“Oh, it has not been arranged yet,” said my father. “These things ... you know ... certain preparations. Documents have to be drawn up.”

“Please tell me who it is.”

“It is a kinsman of ours. You have already met him and I see that you like each other. It is William, the Prince of Orange.”

The Prince of Orange! That cold little man with the penetrating, critical eyes, who had asked all those questions. Marry him! He was too old. He was quite different from my father and the King and the men that I had seen about my uncle’s court. All the time he had been talking to me he had not smiled once. He came from a far-off country. Holland! The thought struck me with sudden force. I should have to go away with him, that strange cold man, to a strange cold country, far away from my sister, my father, from Frances and Anne Trelawny. I thought of poor Mary Beatrice’s arrival in this country, come to marry an older man. But he had been my kind, good father and I was for William of Orange.

This was too much to be borne. To be married to that strange man — to leave my home! I put out my hands as though to ward off this cruel fate.

“No, no, no!” I cried.

My father put his arms round me and rocked me to and fro as though I were a baby.

“Don’t let them send me away,” I begged.

“I shall be as unhappy as you, my dearest.”

“Then you must stop it!”

He said slowly: “My poor Mary, my poor child. You must understand. You were born into royalty, and we all must needs do what is asked of us. That is our destiny and duty. We have to face it. The people will like this marriage.”

“It is not they who will have to endure it.”

He sighed. “You see, it is your position, my child.”

“You mean the throne . . .”

“Oh, I know your stepmother and I have hopes of a boy, but there have been so many disappointments, and in view of your position, my dearest, the people want a Protestant marriage for you and there could not be a more ardent Protestant than Prince William. He has upheld that faith on the Continent of Europe and he is a very clever man. He is youngish yet, but he will make his mark on the world, never doubt it. He is a great man and you will be proud to be his wife.”

“Father ... dearest Father, I do not like him.”

“Liking comes with marriage.”

“So you want me to do this.”

He shook his head sadly. “I want you to stay with me all my life, but I know that cannot be. Alas, we have our duty. It is the King’s wish.”

“I have always found my uncle very kind. Perhaps . . .”

He shook his head. “Your uncle would be kind, but even he could not release you from this. He wants this marriage. He is anxious to strengthen our alliance with the Dutch and this marriage is one of the terms. It is a great opportunity for William. You will learn to understand these things. If you spoke to your uncle he would show great kindness and commiseration, but that is his way. Beneath the kindness he is a wily ruler and this marriage is necessary to the country. William wants it and we want friendship with William. Therefore the King insists. Let me tell you, I have tried to dissuade him, but it is of no avail.”

“Then there is no way out.”

“I think you will find William a good man. He is dedicated to his country’s welfare and that is a noble thing to be. And, of course, he has a claim to the throne of England — distant it may be, but there. An alliance with you will make that claim stronger. But this is not the time to talk of these things.”

“I want to know everything. I did not think the Prince would want to marry me unless there were ... advantages to him.”

“You must not judge him too harshly for that. It is diplomacy. But he wanted to meet you, to see you for himself before he would enter into the arrangement. He has seen you and likes you well. So that is a good start.”

“I hate it all. How can I leave you?”

“It will be a little time yet, but I wanted you to know. It will give you time to get accustomed to the idea. You will find it is not all bad, and I swear that in time you will look back on your fear and realize how unjustified it was. The Prince is a good man and your uncle thinks it will be a successful marriage.”

“But you do not like it, I see you do not!”

“I wanted you for the Dauphin of France,” he admitted.

“I should have had to go away from home then.”

“I had rather it had been an alliance with France. But this is what the people want.”

“But I am the one who has to marry him! I hate it!”

Then the tears came and I could not stop them. I wanted to plead with him, to beg him to stop this monstrous thing happening to me. But I could not speak. My sobs prevented me.

MY SISTER ANNE WANTED TO KNOW what ailed me.

“I am going to be married,” I said.

She stared at me in dismay.

“I shall have to go away,” I went on piteously.

“You can’t go away! I want you here. You’ve always been here. We belong together. You could not go away from me.”

She was deeply upset, poor Anne. She had drifted so happily through life — as we both had, until now. When she had not wanted to do her lessons, she had merely said they hurt her eyes and no one forced her to. Of course, she could not read very well, but that did not bother her. She must not eat so many sweetmeats, they said, but they just smiled and shook their heads when she slipped the delicious morsels into her mouth.

Now she was genuinely distressed. I must not go. She could not visualize our household without her elder sister whom she rather slavishly copied and who had been there all her life.

She was twelve years old now and she knew this was a serious matter, for suddenly she started to cry and, throwing her arms about me, clung to me as though to defy all those who would attempt to separate us. We wept together; in fact I had scarcely stopped weeping since my father told me the news.

I wrote a letter to Frances, passionately telling her what they were planning for me. All the girls seemed enveloped in gloom. Lady Frances looked anxious. What would happen to the household? There was still Anne, of course. But it would not be the same. It would be of less importance. I was nearer to the throne than Anne. What would happen to them all?

They whispered together. There was pity for me on account of the bridegroom who had been chosen for me.

“The Prince of Orange!” I heard someone murmur. “And the Lady Mary!”

I knew what they meant. They did not admire him. He was quite different from the men whom they considered to be attractive. He lacked graceful manners; he was brusque, he dressed simply; he had none of that charm which the King possessed in abundance and which most of the men about him sought to emulate.

My misery increased as the days passed and preparations marched inexorably onward. In the streets there were bonfires and signs of rejoicing at the prospect of a Protestant marriage — an indication that there could be a Protestant heir. Charles himself remained acceptable, in spite of suspicions that he had a leaning toward the Catholic faith. He was merry, charming, with a cheerful word for everyone. He had come back to them after his exile, the Merry Monarch. They were as anxious that he should not go wandering again as he was himself. They were happy enough in the present. It was the future which troubled them. Therefore my marriage to a stauch Protestant pleased them. It was only those immediately concerned, like my father and myself, who were uneasy.

I went to see Mary Beatrice. She was due to give birth shortly and if she had a son this marriage would be less desirable to many people. My hopes soared at the thought. What if William decided that he did not want to marry me after all!

That was nonsense. It was necessary for the treaty.

Mary Beatrice wept with me.

“My poor, poor Mary. He seems such an ogre, but he might be a good husband. At least he will not have a string of mistresses. There is a great deal to be said for fidelity,” she added wistfully.

“I shall be sent away,” I wailed.

“As I was.”

“I know. You suffered, too, but you came to England, to my father, who is good and kind.”

“William is a good man, they say.”

“And you were beaten when you did not know the verses of the psalm, whereas I have never known anything but love.”

“Oh yes, you have a most affectionate father. He would not let anyone punish either you or Anne, and you were always his favorite. Mary, this hurts him as much as it does you.”

“Oh dearest, dearest stepmother, I have to leave you, too, and Anne.”

She tried to comfort me, but in vain.

“They are saying that if you have a son, the Prince of Orange will not be so eager to marry me,” I said, looking at her pleadingly, as though it were in her power to save me.

“I think he would want to marry you whatever should be. Your father tells me that he liked very much what he found when he met you.”

“I did not realize then that I was being shown for that purpose.”

“He would not have wanted to marry you if he did not like you.”

I was not sure of that and, in any case, I did not like him.

“Think!” I moaned. “I shall have to leave you all.”

“Holland is not far. We shall visit you and you will come to us.”

I flung myself at her and clung. “I don’t want to go. Pray something will happen to stop it.”

There was nothing she could say to comfort me.

ELIZABETH VILLIERS WAS EXCITED.

She said: “I am so pleased because I shall be accompanying you to Holland.”

“You!” I cried.

“Well, you will have your attendants and I shall be one of them. You will have familiar faces around you. My mother is to be in charge of the attendants and my sister Anne will be with us, too. Is that not good news?”

There was only one piece of news which would be good to me at this time — that there would be no marriage. I was not particularly pleased that Elizabeth Villiers was to come with me. I was fond of Lady Frances in a way. She was often stern, but then she had to be responsible for us and I understand now that she was watchful for the advancement of her daughters, which was what one must expect from a mother. I was glad she was coming.

Anne Trelawny came in then and I could see that she had had news which pleased her.

“Your father has said that you and I are such friends that I should be one of those who are to go to Holland with you,” she cried.

We embraced warmly.

“I thought that would cheer you a little,” she said emotionally.

“I am so glad you are coming,” I told her. “It makes me slightly less miserable to think of that. There is only one thing that could make me really happy now.”

“I know,” said Anne, “but I shall do what I can to help and we shall be together.”

So I was cheered a little.

My sister Anne was very mournful indeed. She looked pale and quite unlike herself. Her cheeks had lost that rosy glow which had made her pretty.

“I do not like this, Mary,” she said. “It makes me feel quite ill. I begged our father to stop it.”

“It is not in his hands.”

“To separate us! We have never been separated. And now there is this man, John Churchill. He wants to take Sarah away. I won’t have it.”

“John Churchill,” I repeated, and I immediately thought of Arabella Churchill, with the wonderful legs, and what I had heard of her friendship with our father.

“He is very good-looking, I grant that,” went on Anne. “Sarah is taken with him, though she won’t admit it. He is always hanging around. Arabella Churchill is his sister. John Churchill was a page in our father’s household. You must have seen him. People say that Arabella helped him on. Then he became an ensign in the Foot Guards. He has been abroad already in France and Flanders, even Tangiers. I must say, he is very attractive. Sarah says that if he comes courting her he will have to give up his philandering ways. Did you know, they say our uncle sent him to Tangiers because Barbara Castlemaine liked him too much. And now he is chasing Sarah.”

I had rarely known Anne speak so much. She was not usually given to conversation and liked to sit contentedly listening while others conversed, avoiding all unnecessary effort.

But now she was really moved. I warmed toward her and the tragedy of having to say good-bye seemed greater than ever. How I should miss my dear sister. How could they take me away from everything that had made up my happy life? What a silly question! They could and would do it — by marrying me to the Prince of Orange.

Anne went on: “Of course, John Churchill’s family doesn’t think Sarah is good enough to marry him.”

I could not help saying: “I am sure Sarah does not agree with that.”

“No. She is furious about it. That is why she keeps him uncertain, and he grows more and more eager to marry her every day. But she likes him, I know. That is what worries me. She must not marry him, for if she does she will go away. Suppose they want to send him abroad. I will not lose you and Sarah. Mary, you must not leave me.”

There was nothing we could do but mourn together and my hope of release grew fainter every day.

The marriage now seemed a certainty. There was an occasion when the Council came to congratulate me. My eyes were red with weeping and I must have looked really miserable.

After that there followed more ceremonies ... the Lord Mayor gave a banquet to celebrate the betrothal to which the whole court was invited. The people lined the river bank as our barges sailed along to Westminster Hall and the Prince and I were in the King’s barge with my father. The King had his hand on my shoulder and the Prince was on the other side of me. I did my best not to show the misery I felt.

I was moving fast toward my marriage. I had to accept the fact that nothing could avert it now. I should have to marry this strange, silent man who seemed much older than I. Twelve years is a great deal when one is fifteen. It was only two weeks since I had heard the news which had robbed me of my content. It seemed like two years.

The ceremony was to take place in my bedchamber. An altar had been set up there for the service which would be performed by Bishop Compton, who had taken charge of my education, the Archbishop of Canterbury having been taken ill suddenly.

Early that morning Elizabeth Villiers came to me in some dismay and told me that her mother, Lady Frances, was ill — very ill indeed, and would not be present at the ceremony.

She added: “The Lady Anne is also indisposed.”

As soon as Elizabeth left, I went to Anne’s apartments. I remembered with concern how pale she had been looking of late.

I was horrified, for when I opened her door and was about to enter, Dr. Lake suddenly appeared.

“My lady,” he said, “you cannot enter the Lady Anne’s apartments. Your father has strictly forbidden it.”

“What do you mean, Dr. Lake? Am I not to see my sister?”

“She is ill ... and needs rest.”

I was astounded but Dr. Lake would say no more. So I was to be denied my sister’s company.

I went back to my room, bewildered. I had never been so unhappy in my life.

IT WAS NINE O’CLOCK IN THE EVENING, and the ceremony was about to begin.

The Prince, the King and Queen, my father and his heavily pregnant Duchess were there with the Bishop of London and those officials whose presence was considered necessary. Not a great number for such an occasion, but enough to fill the room.

They had bathed my eyes and done their best to disguise their redness — the outward signs of my grief; they had dressed me as a bride. I was sure there had never been a more unhappy one.

My father took me to the altar which had been set up, and as he did so I turned an imploring look on him. Was it too late?

Of course it was. I saw the despair in his eyes and I knew that if it had been at all possible to save me from this marriage he would have done so.

The King was jovial and smiling. If he knew of my reluctance and terror, he gave no sign. My stepmother’s eyes were full of compassion. I wondered that she was present, for she was very near to the birth of her child.

The King smiled at me affectionately and whispered that I was a beautiful bride and he was envious of the bridegroom, who was looking far from exhilarated by the proceedings. Perhaps he found it disconcerting to be confronted by an obviously reluctant bride.

“Where is Compton?” cried the King. “Hurry, man, lest the Duchess bring us a boy and then the marriage will be disappointed.”

The Prince winced a little at this and there was a faint titter from some members of the company.

My uncle continued to regard his nephew with a touch of cynical amusement, which I had noticed on more than one occasion.

The service had begun. It was the culmination of a nightmare. I was in truth being married to a man I did not know and who, on a very brief acquaintance, frightened me and filled me with dislike.

The Prince was saying that he would endow me with his worldly goods and, symbolically, laid some gold and silver coins on the book as he pronounced those words.

Then the King, still jocular, cried: “Take them, my dear niece. Take them quickly and put them in your pocket without delay, for it is all clear gain.”

I saw the Prince’s lips twitch with annoyance and the service continued.

Then it was over and I was the Princess of Orange.

How did I live through the rest of that night? I do not know. For a long time I tried to shut it out of my mind.

I was only half aware of what was to come. I had heard only whispered comments and had hazarded deductions. I knew such things existed but I had never given a great deal of thought to the subject until the last few days when I knew the ordeal lay just ahead.

I felt more frightened than I ever had in my life.

There was a great deal of chatter and laughter. People came and talked to me, congratulating me. I drank some wine.

“Not too much, my dear,” said the Queen. She pressed my hand. She had come to England to marry a man she had never seen, but she had been older, much older — twenty-two, I had heard it said. Mary Beatrice had been only my age. But the Queen had come to marry the King and Mary Beatrice my father. They had come to our court. I had to go to this strange place with a cold, dour husband.

They prepared me for bed. I wished they would dispense with the old custom. I wished I could run away.

The Queen and Mary Beatrice were there. It was part of the hateful ritual. They undressed me gently.

Mary Beatrice looked so tired. I was sure the child’s birth was imminent. Oh, why had it not come before? Why had it not been a healthy boy? And why had the Prince of Orange not said, as it was a boy, he no longer wanted this marriage! But the child was not born and I was already married to him.

I was told to get into the bed. I lay there, trembling. Then the Prince was beside me.

The King was laughing. He pulled the bedcurtains, shutting us in, and as he did so, he shouted: “Go to work, nephew, and St. George for England!”

I heard the laughter. I was aware of the darkness, and I tried to steel myself for the ordeal to come.

ALL THROUGH MY LIFE I have endeavored to forget those events which disturb me. I have not always succeeded. The night following my wedding was one of those.

I awoke in a daze, hating the daylight, putting my head beneath the bedclothes to shut it out. With immense relief, I found that I was alone in the bed.

It was over — the night of pain, horror, humiliation and horrific awakening. If I had been wiser, as so many of the girls were, it would have been easier. But I had been thrust from innocence into brutal knowledge and my initiator had been a cold, calculating man, impatient with my reluctance, my cries of protest and my endless tears.

I sensed his irritation and that what had to be done was no more agreeable to him than it was to me. What he did was a necessary duty. He despised me and I was in great fear of him.

I kept asking myself, is this how it will be every night? Then I prayed in my foolish childish way that night would never come.

I lay still for a while, bruised, hurting and feeling unclean.

My attendants came in. Elizabeth Villiers and her sister Anne and my dear Anne Trelawny, who looked at me anxiously and compassionately. She put her arms round me and kissed me tenderly.

“I shall be with you in Holland,” she reminded me.

That was like a faint glimmer of pleasure in a dark, dark world.

“You have been crying again, my lady princess,” said Anne Villiers.

Elizabeth looked amused, and I hated her. I wondered if I should ask my father to stop her coming with me. It seemed a trivial matter in the midst of all my misery.

“I will bathe Your Highness’s eyes,” said Elizabeth, practically. “They are rather swollen.”

I was dressed. I did not know whether the Prince would come again. I prayed not. I did not want to see him.

A visitor did arrive. It was William Bentinck, and the sight of the man set me shivering, for I knew he was the most favored of my husband’s attendants and that there was a very close friendship between them. I gathered that there must be something very unusual about this man, for the Prince was not one to show affection for the people around him — and he undoubtedly did show some regard for this man.

Bentinck said: “I come from His Highness the Prince of Orange. He has asked me to bring this to you.”

With that he bowed and put a casket into my hands and, with the air of a man who has completed a mission, he begged leave to retire, bowed deeply and was gone.

I was left holding the casket. Elizabeth was staring at it with curiosity.

“Is Your Highness going to see what it contains?” she asked.

The two Annes showed a curiosity to match Elizabeth’s, yet I stared at the casket with repulsion, as though I expected venomous snakes to emerge, because it came from him, that man who struck fear into me such as I had never known before, who in a few weeks had ruined my happy and peaceful existence.

Trembling, I opened the casket. Therein lay several jewels, among them a pendant of rubies and diamonds on a golden chain.

Elizabeth held her breath in admiration.

“They are beautiful!” cried her sister.

“You must try on the pendant,” said Anne Trelawny.

“It is the custom to send jewels on the morning after the wedding,” said Elizabeth.

I felt the cold jewel on my neck as Anne fastened the chain. I was thinking, I shall never be able to forget. And this is only the beginning.

“Is it not beautiful?” cried Elizabeth. “Think what it costs!” Her eyes squinted. I thought, she is envying me. Oh, if only she were in my place and I in hers!

I said: “Take it off and put it back in the casket.”

They looked surprised, all of them. Even Anne Trelawny did not understand. They were all overwhelmed by the beauty and costliness of the jewels.

I saw him briefly the next day. He hardly looked at me. I think that night of horror had not pleased him either. My hopes rose at the thought that perhaps it would not be repeated.

The day was taken up with receiving deputations and congratulations. It seemed that everyone was pleased about the wedding except my father and stepmother and, of course, the married pair.

That night I lay in my marriage bed and waited. For a long time I lay there, listening for his footsteps. Once I dozed and awoke with a start. It was well into the night before I could believe, with an overwhelming joy, that he was not coming to me.

I WAS AT ST. JAMES’S, our dear home. It was some days since I had seen my sister Anne. She had been too ill to be visited, they said. She must rest. I wanted to talk to her and I was sure, however ill she was, she would want to see me.

My ladies were all talking about the Prince of Orange. I knew they thought he was very strange. They were saying that there was nothing of the ardent lover about him. He did not spend any time alone with me and when it was necessary for us to be together, he hardly looked at me; he never seemed to show the least sign of affection for me.

He was eager for all ceremonies to be over. I expected he was as bored with the continual congratulations as I was, but I felt that if he kept away from me it was the best thing that could be hoped for in a situation which would have been more intolerable if it were the reverse.

Two days after the wedding Mary Beatrice’s baby was born.

My father came to see me and I could see at once that he was very pleased, though he embraced me with an expression of mingled anxiety, commiseration, understanding and self-reproach for what had been done to me, and tenderness. I wanted to tell him of my miseries and let him know that I was aware that what had come about was due to no fault of his.

“My dear,” he said, “I have come to tell you that I have a son.”

My first thought was: how cruel that it should be now instead of a week before when he might not have married me.

“A son,” he repeated. “Yes, a son.”

“And the Duchess?”

“She is well and overjoyed, of course.”

“And the child?”

“He will survive.”

“Dear Father . . .”

“Dearest daughter, if only . . .”

It was no use talking of it, but it was comforting to know that he understood.

“The Prince, your husband, will not be pleased,” he said.

I shook my head. “He should have been born before . . .” I did not finish, and my father took me into his arms and held me against him.

I said I wanted to see the Duchess and he told me she was very tired just now, but soon she would be receiving visitors and I should be the first.

When he had left me, I felt a certain pleasure because my husband would be cheated of his hopes. He had married me because there was a fair chance that one day I should inherit the throne. In spite of his love of his country, which was the most stable Protestant state in Europe, he longed for the crown of England, and to obtain it he was ready to marry the girl whom he despised and now he was saddled with her and his hopes of the crown were fading fast. It was his just desert.

I wanted to see my sister, but they continued to say she must not be disturbed. I could not bear to be parted from her any longer. I decided I would insist on seeing her.

When I went to her apartments, Dr. Lake appeared, as he had before.

I said firmly: “I have come to see my sister.”

“Pardon me, Your Highness, but you cannot do that. The Lady Anne is very ill and it is the Duke’s order that you shall not visit her.”

“Are you saying that my father has given orders that I shall not see her?”

“That is indeed so. Your Highness, I have to tell you that the Lady Anne is suffering from smallpox and your father is anxious that you shall run no risk of being infected.”

“Oh no ... no,” I cried. “And ... er ... Lady Frances?”

“Lady Frances is also suffering from the same, Your Highness.”

I was horrified, but I said: “I want to see my sister.”

“That is not possible,” replied Dr. Lake. “The Duke’s orders were very firm on that point.”

I knew that this was another example of my father’s love and care for me.

He had his son now, his little heir to the throne, but I believed he loved his daughters as he could never love any other of his children. And one was stricken with the dreaded disease which was very often fatal and he was going to lose the other to a man for whom he could not care.

MY MISERY on account of my own desperate situation was overshadowed by my fear for my sister. I shuddered to think of her suffering from that affliction from which few survived, and if they did escape there was often a lifelong reminder in those ugly pockmarks which marred the complexion. The Prince of Orange had such marks on his face.

I had seen very little of him since the wedding night. I fancied he must have felt as ashamed as I did. He was only doing his duty, of course. That was how he would see it. How different he was from the King and his courtiers, who sinned so joyously! There was no joy in my husband.

He came to St. James’s and I was in a panic when Elizabeth Villiers told me he was on his way to see me. She hovered very respectfully in the background. When he entered, she curtsied and lowered her eyes. His gaze lingered on her for a few seconds before he turned to me.

There was no love in his eyes; there was nothing but that coldness. I believed he was already deeply regretting the marriage, the importance of which had been so greatly lessened.

He said: “Prepare to leave for Whitehall at once.”

Leave my sister! I would not do it. I felt stubborn and angry. I loved my sister deeply. I knew I should have to go very soon, leaving all that I loved and cared for, but until that moment I would not leave the place where she was. Suppose she called for me? I had to be there.

I heard myself say, “No!” in a voice which surprised me by its firmness.

He stared at me incredulously. He had told me what I should do and I had refused without preamble. I could see that he was convincing himself that he had not heard right.

He said: “You will leave at once.”

“No,” I repeated. “I shall not leave my sister.”

He looked amazed. I was aware of Elizabeth Villiers, watching me closely. There was silence.

Then Elizabeth said: “Your Highness, I will prepare for our departure.”

I stood very still. I did not care what happened to me. I was not going to leave St. James’s one moment before I had to.

“Do you know that there is smallpox in this place?” he asked.

“Yes,” I answered.

“Your sister and others have fallen victim to this plague. It is folly to stay here one moment longer than need be. So prepare to leave at once.”

I cried passionately: “I do not care about the smallpox.”

I saw a faint color appear under his pale skin. It made the ravages of the disease more noticeable. I did not care what he said. I was still under my father’s care and he would understand. But this man did not know anything about love, of caring for people so much that one must be near them, however great the danger. I could not leave Anne now.

“This is folly,” he said quietly. “You do not know what you say.”

I was determined now to stand out against him. I wondered why he did not tell Elizabeth Villiers to go.

He turned suddenly and strode out of the room. I looked at Elizabeth. I fancied there was a certain amusement in her sly eyes.

She said: “Should Your Highness have been so vehement? After all, there is pox in the place. He is your husband. You have defied him. He will not like that ... and after his disappointment about the newly born baby!”

MY FATHER CAME TO SEE ME that day.

“So,” he said, “you have refused to leave your sister.”

I nodded.

“The Prince is not pleased. In fact, he is determined to leave for Holland at the earliest possible moment.”

I went to him and buried my face against him.

“He is not a happy man at this moment,” I said. “He was hoping the child would be a girl or stillborn. He married me only for the reason that one day I might have inherited the crown. I am glad he has been cheated of that.”

“The treaty was important to him, but he would not sign it until he had seen you and after the marriage. Also, my dear daughter, he liked what he saw or there would have been no marriage.”

“No. He hates me, as I do him.”

“This is just the beginning. He is a fine man. Your uncle has a great respect for him.”

“My uncle always seems to me to be laughing at him.”

“He is amused by his rather abstemious conduct and his stern religious views. But as a man ... as a statesman ... he is reckoned to be one of the best in Europe. You will be proud of him, Mary, one day.”

“I wish he had never come here. I wish we did not have to be friends with the Dutch.”

“But you will like the Dutch. They are good, law-abiding people. They are devoted to their Prince and they will be to their Princess. And you will like them when you see how much they will like you.”

“You have come to comfort me. I suppose it is to prepare me for my departure.”

He was silent, and I knew that I was right.

“There is to be a special ball in two days’ time,” he said. “For the Queen’s birthday. The King thinks the following day would be a good time for you to leave.”

I caught my breath. “So soon?”

“It may be that the weather will prevent it.”

“But it has to come,” I said sadly.

He was silent for a while, then he said: “Lady Frances, I fear, will not be with you.”

“She is very ill, I know.”

“And makes no improvement.”

“I am so anxious about Anne.”

“Anne is young. We can hope. I cannot believe that God will be so cruel as to take both my daughters from me.”

We clung together in silence.

At length he said: “Lady Inchiquin will take the place of Lady Frances. She is a mature, married lady.”

“Another of the Villiers family!”

“They have found favor with the King. He wants you to have people about you who will help you through the first difficult days which always follow starting a new life in a strange country. The two Villiers girls who have been with you here, Elizabeth and Anne, will be there, and also Anne Trelawny. I know she is a favorite of yours. Then there will be Henry Wroth’s girl, Jane, and Lady Betty Selbourne. They are both pleasant creatures. So you will have familiar faces about you.

“This has all happened so quickly,” I said piteously.

“Sometimes it is better that way. Oh, my dearest, how I shall miss you!”

There was nothing we could do but mingle our tears.

I HATED EVERY MOMENT of that ball. It was a glittering occasion to celebrate not only the Queen’s birthday but our marriage.

What mockery! I knew the Queen was not completely happy. She loved the King devotedly and it was not possible to hide from her his many infidelities. So how could she be happy? And as for celebrating our marriage — William was far from pleased with it and, as for myself, it had ruined my life. What an occasion for a ball!

Not once did William speak to me during the evening. He was not the man to grace a ball. Brusque, plainly dressed, what a contrast he made to the King and my father! I thought how well he would have suited Oliver Cromwell; he had no place in our glamorous court where good manners, appearances, wit and grace were so important. He stood out among the rest, dour, ungainly, disapproving, and displaying such an assurance of his wisdom and worthiness that I began to wonder whether there might be some truth in it.

Everyone had noticed his neglect of me. I think the King was amused by it. I could imagine his comment: “My poor nephew. To be disappointed at the post! This little fellow whom the Duchess had produced has a good chance of survival. What a way to treat a God-fearing man! Is there no reward for virtue? What are they doing up there, neglecting their own, for the sake of the sinners?”

Anne Trelawny was very angry. She was worried at the time because of the illness of her father who was at St. James’s. It was not a healthy place to be in and I supposed William was right when he had suggested my leaving. My refusal to do so was another piece of folly in his eyes.

Anne said: “It was cruel the way in which he behaved at the ball. He is nothing but a monster. I am sorry but I cannot help saying it.”

Jane Wroth, whom I liked because she was warmhearted and natural and spoke before she thought of what effect her words might have, said: “That is true. He is nothing but a Dutch monster.”

Sarah Jennings, to whom I should soon say good-bye, because naturally she would be staying with my sister, commented: “He reminds me of Caliban. He looks as though he is plotting something.”

She felt free to speak of him thus, I supposed, because I should soon be gone, and he with me.

I heard them talking about him later. They called him the Dutch monster, Caliban.

And this was my husband.

THE TIME HAD COME. There could be no further delay. My father had given orders at St. James’s. Anne, who was now dangerously ill, was not to be told that I was leaving, for he feared the effect it might have on her in her weak state. As for myself, I was expressly forbidden to go near my sister, for fear of catching the infection, so I must leave without saying good-bye. I wondered what further blows fate could deal me.

I was realizing that I was really fond of Lady Frances and was deeply sorry that she was not accompanying me, that I was a little afraid of Elizabeth Villiers, and did not really care for her sister Anne. I did have Anne Trelawny though, and frivolous little Jane Wroth and lively Betty Selbourne were very pleasant to be with.

I spent the night before I was due to sail writing two letters to my sister Anne. I sent for the Duchess of Monmouth and asked her to give them to my sister as soon as she was well enough to receive them. I wanted her to know that I was thinking of her and how it grieved me to leave her.

William had not approached me since our wedding night, and it was becoming more and more clear to me that the experience had been as unpleasant to him as it had been degrading to me.

I think I began to like him a little better then, although I had not been in the least displeased to hear those whispered comments in which he had been referred to as the Dutch monster and Caliban.

He found me a disappointing wife now that I was further removed from the throne, but I saw that he did not hurt me out of malice. He just acted naturally and we shared our regret for a marriage which need never have taken place.

On that dreaded day I left St. James’s and went to Whitehall to say good-bye to the Queen.

Queen Catherine was a gentle, kindly lady. She had trouble of her own, but still had sympathy to spare for me. She understood my feelings and reminded me of how she had come to England to marry a man she had never seen.

I burst out: “But, Madame, you were coming to England and I am going from it. You came to the King ... and I . . .”

I said no more. She understood. She had come to the most kindly and charming of men and I was going to one completely lacking in these qualities. She had come to what would have been great happiness if it had not been tainted by perpetual jealousy. Poor Queen Catherine. It seemed there could be no perfect happiness.

I left her tearfully, feeling I should never see her again.

At Whitehall stairs the King was with my father and there were crowds on the river bank. William was there with Bentinck beside him, and others of his suite. They were saying that the wind was fair for Holland, and my heart sank, for now there would be no postponement. It could only be a matter of hours.

We sailed down the river to Erith. There we dined and after that there was the last farewell.

The King kissed me tenderly. He said I must come back to Whitehall whenever I wished. There would always be a hearty welcome for me while he was in his court.

I clung to my father. There was no ceremony now. He could not restrain his tears. I believe he had loved me more than any other and this marriage was as much a tragedy for him as it was for me.

And then we sailed down the river toward Sheerness where the Dutch fleet was waiting to take us to Holland. There, what I had prayed for in my childish way happened. The wind had changed and it was decided that we could not sail until it took a more favorable turn.

William looked angry. He was impatient to be gone and this delay was frustrating to him.

A message came from Whitehall. It was from the King. Why did we not return to the court? He could promise that we should pass the time pleasantly enough while waiting for the tiresome wind.

William had no desire to return to the frivolous court. He preferred to remain at Sheerness and we spent a night there and were entertained by Colonel Dorrel, the Governor. William continued to remain aloof from me, a fact which comforted me considerably and made me dislike him a little less, though I was still filled with misery and resentment.

William, I know now, was one of the most astute of men. He firmly believed that one day he would take the crown of England. There had been a prophecy at the time of his birth, of which I will write later. He was a man who would always grasp an opportunity when he saw one, and often turned adversity into advantage. He was frustrated by the delay but decided to make use of it. He was fully aware that he lacked the charm of the King and my father but he had one great asset: his religion, and he knew that the marriage had been popular. If the time should come when I inherited the throne, he wanted the people to respect him.

I think that was why he decided that the Dutch fleet should move from Sheerness to Margate and that we should sail from there. The fleet could move at its convenience according to the wind, while our party could travel by road to Margate by way of Canterbury. Thus we should show ourselves to the people and if the great day came when William should return to the country as its king, he would not be a complete stranger to them.

It was devious thinking, but I was to become used to that, for he was indeed a great ruler and there was room in his life for little else.

So we traveled to Canterbury, and it was clear that the people on the route were pleased to see us. We had the approbation of the all-important people.

Most of the party had stayed with the fleet at Sheerness, and there were only a few of us: Lady Inchiquin, a maid to attend on me, William Bentinck and another Dutchman named Odyke.

What followed was really rather extraordinary and I did not realize at that time that it was part of a plan.

We arrived at an inn where William declared himself to be short of money. This seemed incredible to me, for I knew he had received a part of my dowry which was forty thousand pounds. However, what he did was send Bentinck to the City Corporation to beg a loan, explaining that the Prince found himself without means.

This was, I understood later, meant to arouse the indignation of the people against my father, whom William despised and was beginning to regard as his greatest enemy. My father had tried to stop the marriage; he had not hesitated to show his dislike of it. William wished to be seen as the great Protestant leader who would save England from the Catholic yoke as represented by the Duke of York, the present heir to the throne.

I think this did have the effect William intended, as so many of his actions did.

Throughout the city there was great sympathy for the Prince who had married the Duke’s daughter and been so meanly treated as to be left without money. Doctor Tillotson, the Dean of Canterbury, called on William and begged an audience.

This was immediately granted.

“Your Highness,” said Doctor Tillotson, “this is a state of affairs which is greatly deplored by all the good people of Canterbury. I beg of you to honor the deanery with your presence. It is a scandal that you should be here without means, and I must tell you that it is the custom of people of your rank to stay at the deanery when visiting our city.”

William thanked Doctor Tillotson for his offer of hospitality, but he said he was content to stay at the inn. However, he accepted the offer of a loan and said he would not forget Doctor Tillotson’s goodwill.

There was a great deal of sympathy for William and criticism of my father who was blamed for William’s poverty. This was, of course, what William had hoped for, and he looked more pleased than he had since our marriage.

More messages came from Whitehall inviting us to return and wait there for a suitable time, but William refused, rather ungraciously, and renewed his friendship with Doctor Tillotson who, I learned, had in the past preached vehemently against Catholicism.

During our stay we saw much of him. He was a man of much charm and gentleness. William did not visit me at night; I was still in England and I was faintly comforted.

It was a strange interlude and I had never before stayed in an inn, so it was a great novelty. It was here that I received the distressing news that Lady Frances Villiers had died of the smallpox. I thought then of my arrival at Richmond so long ago; and then of the discovery of Frances’s letters. One remembers such things when one knows one will never see a person again.

I wondered about the Villiers sisters who would receive the news at Margate, where they were waiting with the Dutch fleet.

My fears for my sister Anne increased and I waited for news of her with great trepidation.

Then the wind changed and William wanted no more time to be lost.

I was relieved to be with Anne Trelawny again. The Villiers girls were grief-stricken by the news of their mother’s death. I shared their sorrow but my thoughts were dominated by Anne.

November is not the best of times to make that teacherous crossing and, no sooner had we left Margate, than the wind arose. How it buffeted our poor ship! How cruelly it tore at the sails! I thought that my last moment had come. All the women, except myself, were sick. Perhaps I was too unhappy to let the storm touch me. I just sat in my cabin, not caring much what happened to me. If I were going to die, I should not have to go to Holland to be the wife of William of Orange. There seemed some comfort in that.

The wind had subsided a little as we approached the coast.

We had arrived, battered by the tempestuous journey. We landed at a place called Ter-Heyde and were immediately taken to the Hounslaerdyke Palace. I was glad because I was too exhausted to think of anything beyond rest; and on the first night in my new country, I slept long and deep.