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

A “VERY INCOGNITO” VISIT

I suppose one cannot remain in deepest depression for weeks on end — especially when one is young. I was only fifteen, and young for my years, and the young, I believe, are resilient.

It was a relief to be on dry land after experiencing that turbulent sea and wondering if I would survive, and I had realized that, after all, I wanted to live.

I could not help being impressed by The Hague Palace to which we came after leaving Hounslaerdyke. It was a magnificent spot, grand indeed, with its Gothic halls and the lake, which they called the Vyver, washing the wall on one side.

It was the official residence of the Stadholder, which would account for its formidable formality, and much as I admired it, I was relieved to discover that I was not expected to live there.

There were two residences which were really part of the palace. One of these was the Old Court, which was a Dower Palace, and very pleasant, but the place which I really liked was the House in the Woods, and I was delighted to discover that this would really be my home.

True to its name, it was in a wood, but the house itself was surrounded by beautiful gardens. Two new wings had been built onto the house to accommodate my household.

It was about a mile from The Hague Palace and in the front of it was a long avenue, at the end of which was an impressive statue of the Stadholder William Henry, my husband’s grandfather.

I think I felt a little more hopeful when I entered the House in the Woods for, in spite of its splendor, there was a homeliness about it. The walls of the domed ballroom were covered by paintings and among them was my grandfather, the never-forgotten Charles the Martyr; and I was shown another picture of a member of my family. This was my Aunt Mary, who had married into Holland and become my husband’s mother.

As the weeks passed, I entered into a state of resignation. I soon realized that I should not see a great deal of William. We did not meet even for meals because he usually dined at the Hague Palace with his ministers when my presence would have been undesirable.

There were occasions when he came to supper at the House in the Woods, and those were the times I dreaded, for I knew they meant we were to spend the night together.

I tried to understand his point of view. These occasions were as distasteful to him as they were to me, for I was perpetually on the edge of tears which frequently overflowed; and the manner in which I clenched my teeth in preparation for the ordeal was not conducive to lovemaking.

He was not the sort of man to hide his feelings or to make things easier for me.

“Stop crying,” he would say. “Do you not understand that this is our duty?”

Oh yes, such an attitude must curb the most intense passion, except that of a sadist, of course, and William was certainly not that. He wanted to get the unpleasant business over as speedily as he could and he made no secret of it.

Perhaps I should have been glad of this, but there must have been something perverse in my nature. I did not want him, but with a certain feminine logic, I wanted him to want me.

I knew that I was by no means repulsive. I was rather too plump, but I had been called beautiful. I was young and virginal — indeed too much so, it seemed. I believe my youth irritated him and my dread certainly would.

It was strange that I should feel this faint resentment because the “duty” was as repulsive to him as it was to me. I thought of Mary Beatrice and my father. In fact my father was constantly in my thoughts, and I longed for his presence. Mary Beatrice had been as young as I was and as frightened. It must have happened to her just as it had to me. And then, suddenly, she had ceased to be frightened and instead became jealous of Arabella Churchill and the rest. But she had come to love my father. Should I ever grow to love William? They were as different as two men could be. My father and the King had what was called the Stuart charm. That had completely passed over William without touching him. I must remember that people who paid compliments as charmingly as the King did did not always mean them. William would never say what he did not mean. William would never pretend.

And so the weeks passed. I learned to steel myself for those evenings when William came to supper and I found they were less unpleasant than they had been in the beginning. I knew what to expect and that is better than being taken by surprise. I very much liked the House in the Woods. I could wander out with my attendants and stroll in the woods whenever I had the desire to do so. We danced in the evenings, or played cards, and, apart from the suppers and their aftermath with William, I could be tolerably happy.

Then there was wonderful news from home. Anne had completely recovered and I was so relieved and delighted that nothing could make me miserable then.

I was still writing to my dear Frances Apsley, and still called her “my husband.” I wondered what William would think of those letters. He must never be allowed to see them. But would he be interested? I was beginning to learn that little interested him except the government of the country.

I remember one day when we were sitting with our needlework I heard the story of that strange happening at the time of William’s birth. It must have affected him deeply, and made him sure of the destiny which awaited him.

I had noticed that Elizabeth Villiers liked to talk about William. Sometimes I would find her looking at me slyly, as though she were considering something. I did not understand her and I wished I had asked my father not to let her accompany me. I could tolerate her sister Anne, but there was something about Elizabeth which disturbed me. It always had, but I had been so miserable at the time of the marriage that I had not been able to think of anything else. I should have been wiser. My father would have said immediately that if I did not want her she should not go, for indeed the purpose of these girls, more than anything else, was to be a comfort to me in a strange land. But it was too late to think about that now.

On this occasion, she said: “I heard a strange story the other day. It was about the Prince’s birth. It is really very extraordinary.”

We were all alert, listening.

“It was someone who knew the midwife, a Mrs. Tanner, who told me. Perhaps the Prince has told Your Highness of this?”

She was looking at me with that sly look. She knew that there was very little conversation between the Prince and myself and was hinting that it was very unlikely that he would have told me anything except not to cry, that I must not be foolish, a silly child crying for her father.

“What was it?” I asked.

“Well,” said Elizabeth. “If you have not heard and do not mind my telling . . .”

“Do tell us,” cried Anne Villiers. “I cannot wait to hear.”

“It was a very sad time,” went on Elizabeth. “The Prince’s father had died only eight days before the Prince was born. The court was deep in mourning and the Princess hung her bedchamber with black cloth.”

“Surely she changed it for the birth of her son?” said Anne Trelawny.

“No,” replied Elizabeth. “Not according to Mrs. Tanner, the midwife. Even the cradle was hung with black.”

“What a sad way to bring a child into the world!” commented Jane Wroth.

“What would he know about it?” demanded Elizabeth. “But that is not the point. When he was emerging into the world ... at the very moment ... all the candles went out.”

“Who blew them out?” asked Anne Trelawny. “Or was it just the wind?”

“No one. They went out of their own accord.”

“How difficult for them,” put in Jane Wroth. “A baby about to be born in the dark.”

“But that was so that the circles of light could be seen.” Elizabeth spoke with great intensity and, watching her, I saw the squint was very pronounced. It made her look calculating, wise, witchlike.

She went on in very solemn tones: “And about the baby’s head were three circles of light. Mrs. Tanner saw them clearly.”

“What were they?” I asked.

“Your Highness, they were signs. Mrs. Tanner said they were like three crowns just above the baby’s head.”

“What did it mean?” asked Anne Trelawny.

“They said it meant that the Prince was born to greatness. His father was dead. There was no Stadholder. The fortunes of the country were low. And he had just come into the world. It was a sign, they said, that he would inherit three crowns.”

“What crowns?” I asked.

Elizabeth looked at me steadily and said: “They speak of the three crowns of Britain: the crown of England, Ireland and France.”

Elizabeth lowered those strange eyes. There was an air about her which I did not understand, a pride, a triumph.

She had always baffled me.

IT WAS NOT LONG after my arrival in Holland when I received a request to go to The Hague Palace where my uncle Laurence Hyde, Earl of Clarendon, who was the English ambassador, had something of importance to impart to William and me.

I had long realized that my husband did not regard me as of any importance in state matters, but this was different. It needed my uncle’s ambassador to remind the people here that I was his niece and Princess of Orange.

Wondering what this could mean, I went to the Presence Chamber in the palace where William, with Clarendon, was impatiently awaiting me.

My uncle greeted me with the deference due to my rank as the Prince’s wife, and, having made his point, said that the news was for both of us.

“There is great sadness at Whitehall, Your Highnesses. Charles, Duke of Cambridge, has died.”

Poor Mary Beatrice. Her little son, who had been born two days after my marriage, had been christened Charles and created Duke of Cambridge.

There was silence. My thoughts were with my stepmother. I remembered her joy when she had at last given birth to the longed-for son, and her hopes because it had seemed possible that he would live.

And how short had been his life! This was the child who had soured our marriage and filled William with such bitter disappointment.

I said: “The poor Duchess. How is she?”

My uncle replied: “Very sad, Your Highness, and the Duke with her.”

I looked at William. I guessed what he was feeling and I marvelled at his ability to hide it. I saw him take a deep breath and then said: “We must send our condolences to the Duke and Duchess.”

“I will write to them at once,” I said.

“It will comfort their Graces to hear from you,” said my uncle.

“What was the cause of death?” asked William.

Laurence Hyde was uncertain. “There have been the usual rumors, of course.”

“Rumors?” asked William with more animation than he had shown on hearing the news.

“It is gossip, Your Highness. There was smallpox in Whitehall. The Lady Anne herself ... Praise God she has now recovered ... but there were several deaths. The Lady Frances Villiers . . .”

“Ah yes,” murmured William. “And now the little Duke. But these rumors . . .”

“The nurses, Mrs. Chambers and Mrs. Manning, were blamed by some for not applying a cole leaf to draw out the infection. They protested that they had done their best for him. I am sure they did, poor women. But there will always be rumors.”

“And how is my father?” I asked.

“He is deep in mourning, Your Highness.”

I wished that I were there to comfort him.

When my uncle left and I was alone with William, he said: “That message must be sent to the English court without delay.”

A certain reserve dropped from him. He might have felt it was not necessary to hide his true feelings from me. I saw the slow smile spread across his face — a smile of satisfaction.

I was shocked. I could not stop thinking of the grief my father and stepmother would be suffering at this moment.

Perhaps he noticed this, for he laid a hand on my shoulder.

“You must not grieve,” he said in a more gentle tone than he had ever used to me before. “It may be that they will have more sons.”

But the smile lingered about his lips and I was sure he was convinced they never would. The way was clear. My father would have the throne, but for how long? The English would never accept a Catholic monarch. No wonder he felt benevolent toward me.

That night he came to supper. There was a change in him. He was less impatient, less critical.

He was implying that the marriage had been worthwhile after all.

I THOUGHT A GOOD DEAL about William. In fact, he was not often out of my thoughts. He was a strange man, so aloof that I felt I should never know him. He had betrayed his feelings a little over the death of my little half-brother, but that had not surprised me. Quite clearly he had no affection for me, though he had a deep regard for my position. He thought I was a silly young girl. He had made that perfectly clear, and never more so than during those periods of “duty.”

I sometimes had a conventional idea that, since he was my husband, I should try to love him. I began to make excuses for him. I pictured what his childhood must have been like, and I compared it with my happy one. Sometimes I felt that if I had not had such devoted parents, and particularly a doting father, I might have been able to understand him more readily.

He had been born fatherless and his mother had died when he was young. All through his childhood he had been taught that it was his duty to serve his country and that he must regain the title of Stadholder.

I had learned something of his country’s turbulent history, of the Spanish oppression, of his great ancestor, William the Silent, who had stood out against the evils of the Spanish Inquisition. William the Silent must have been rather like William himself. They were great men; they were serious men — unlike my uncle Charles and the men of Whitehall and St. James’s, whose main interest was the pursuit of pleasure.

I learned about the de Witts who had governed the country until some six years before, when the French King had invaded the country and William had declared he would fight to the last ditch and never give in.

He was a great soldier and a great statesman, and the people of Holland recognized in him another William the Silent. I heard how they had rallied to him, the Stadholder, and had demonstrated against John and Cornelius de Witt, storming their house, dragging them out and subjecting them to violent deaths by tearing them to pieces in the street.

It was horrible, but so much that was horrible happened to people. William had saved his country and was now recognized throughout Europe as one of the most able statesmen — important enough to marry the daughter of James, Duke of York, heiress to England — himself in line to the throne.

The three crowns! I thought: did he believe in the sign at his birth? I imagined he was no visionary, but it is easy to believe in prophecies which promise us great things, and his whole life had been molded to one aim. Ambition. And the crown of England had been promised him at this birth. For that, it was worth marrying a foolish girl for whom he could feel only contempt.

I was beginning to understand William and it helped to change my feelings toward him in some measure. I still dreaded his coming, but I understood. He could not feel warmth for anyone. He had not been brought up to love.

And then I had a surprise.

I had always known that William Bentinck was a greatly respected associate of his, but I had not realized how close.

One day from my window I saw William riding away from the House in the Woods after one of our nights together, which always left me a little shaken, although I had come to accept their inevitability. William Bentinck came riding toward the palace. He had, I guessed, some message for William. He had almost reached him when the horse shied and Bentinck was thrown from the saddle.

I caught my breath in horror, but the horse had stood quite still and Bentinck hastily picked himself up. It was clear that he was unhurt. It was just a slight mishap. The horse must have slipped over a stone and Bentinck had slid quite gently out of the saddle.

It was what happened afterward that amazed me. William had leaped from his horse and ran toward Bentinck. They were smiling at each other and then suddenly, to my astonishment, William took Bentinck into his arms and held him against him for a moment. Then he released him and they laughed together. I could not hear what was said, but I knew that William must be telling him how relieved he was that he was unhurt. I could not believe it. William looked like a different man. He was smiling as I would not have believed he could smile.

Who would have thought he could feel so warmly toward any man?

AFTER THAT I BECAME VERY INTERESTED in William Bentinck and wondered what it was about him which could attract William in such a way.

Bentinck was a year or so older than William — a nobleman who had been a page in William’s household, a position which had brought them into close contact and, as they were more or less of an age, I supposed they would have interests in common, and so this friendship had begun.

He had accompanied William on that visit to England when the latter had distinguished himself by breaking the windows of the maids of honor’s apartments; but, I learned, it was some years later when the friendship became significant.

I was a little hurt when I heard the story from others. William himself talked so rarely to me and never of his past.

It had happened five years after his return from England. The war in France was in progress and William was at The Hague Palace for a short respite, when he caught the smallpox. There was great consternation. This disease had killed both his father and his mother and people wondered if it were going to take him too. And at such a time when Holland needed his undoubtedly clever leadership!

His life was despaired of, for the usual eruptions did not appear and in such cases death seemed certain.

The doctors had a theory that if a young and healthy person who had not had the sickness would sleep in the bed of the sufferer and hold him in his arms throughout the night, these eruptions would be brought out and possibly save the life. Was there a young and healthy man who would risk his own life to save the Prince’s, for it was almost certain that the volunteer would catch the pox?

I could imagine the consternation among those young men about the Prince. It was William Bentinck who offered to make the sacrifice for the sake of his master and Holland.

For sixteen days and nights he shared William’s bed and waited on him by day. The effect was as the doctors had said it would be. The eruptions were drawn forth and William’s life had been saved. Alas, poor Bentinck had caught the disease very badly and come near to death. However, he recovered and ever since there had been a special friendship between him and William.

I liked the story. It proved that William had some warmth in his heart. He was capable of gratitude and Bentinck had risen high since that episode; he was always at William’s side. William consulted him and shared confidences.

As William was capable then of firm friendship, I began to make excuses for him. His mother had died when he was nine years old and he had been devoted to her since his birth; perhaps it was through her that he had conceived that ambition to possess the English crown. She had been English, my father’s sister — and she had put William in charge of Lady Catherine Stanhope, who had gone to Holland with her on her marriage, having previously been her governess. Then, of course, there was Mrs. Tanner’s vision of the three crowns.

I had begun to feel a little happier after that; and then, a wonderful thing happened. I was going to have a child. There was a long time to wait yet, but it had at last come to pass.

I was so proud. I even felt that all I had suffered would be worthwhile. What would it be like to have a child of one’s own? It would be wonderful. Everyone would be pleased, particularly if it were a boy. If it were a girl, that would be a disappointment, but only a minor one, for I was young. I could have sons, for I would have shown that I was not barren.

William was delighted. It was impossible for him to hide his joy. He smiled at me for the first time.

“That is good,” he said. “We will pray for a boy.”

He patted my shoulder. I smiled at him a little shyly and he continued to regard me with approval.

All my ladies were delighted, except Elizabeth Villiers. She congratulated me with the others, of course, but I caught an odd look in her eyes which I did not understand. Anne Trelawny clucked over me as though I were a little chick and she a mother hen.

It was early days yet, for there was a long time to go. I congratulated myself because I should enjoy the waiting period. No more suppers and after. What need of them now? Their express purpose had been achieved.

It was decided that while I was in the early stage of pregnancy it would be a good idea for me to show myself to the people of Holland, and in order to do this I and my ladies should take a journey through the country. The best way of undertaking this was by means of the canals. There I could sail through the land in the utmost comfort.

I looked forward to it with enthusiasm and felt almost happy.

I wrote to my sister Anne, to Mary Beatrice and to Frances Apsley to tell them my news. I had not let Frances know how unhappy I had been; I never allowed myself to criticize William in any way. Now I did not have to pretend so much, for I was no longer miserable.

We had a great deal of fun preparing for our journey. Elizabeth Villiers acted a little strangely. She said she wanted to see me. It was very shortly before we were due to leave.

“I want to ask Your Highness’s permission to remain behind,” she said. “I have a certain weakness of the throat which I know would be aggravated by the damp air and I am afraid I should be ill if I spent much time on the waterways. I have been advised in this.”

I was surprised. I had always thought she was particularly healthy, but I did not protest. I was never fond of her company and felt no great need for it — only a mild pleasure that I should be deprived of it.

That was a very pleasant journey. I was greeted everywhere I went by those kind and homely people. I was impressed by the cleanliness of their dwellings, the manner in which they conveyed their pleasure in seeing me, which seemed very sincere, so that I felt they really were glad to welcome me, for they would not have pretended to be glad if they were not.

There was less ceremony than at home in England. People would come and take my hand; they would bring forward their children for me to admire. I was really happy during those days. There was something peaceful about the flat green land, and when the children brought me flowers which they had picked from the fields, I was reminded that soon I should have a child of my own. Yes, for the first time since coming to Holland, I was truly happy.

The night air was indeed damp and one day, to my dismay, I awoke shivering intermittently. I tried to shake this off, but it persisted. In a day or so I had a fever.

Doctors were called. They said I was suffering from the ague. It was a change of climate, though the air around The Hague Palace was noted for its dampness.

Thus my progress through the country did not end as happily as it had begun. I was taken back to the House in the Woods.

Elizabeth Villiers was there. She looked taken aback when she saw me and, I fancied, disappointed.

“Your Highness is ill?” she said with a pretence of concern.

“It is the dampness of the air, they say,” said Anne Trelawny. “Her Highness is to go immediately to bed.”

Elizabeth continued to look displeased. I did not trust her. She made me feel slightly uneasy.

I began to feel very ill and then ... it started.

The pains were violent. I did not know what was happening to me. I lost consciousness for a while and when I regained it I found several doctors at my bedside.

It was morning — that very sad morning — when they came to tell me I had lost my child.

I had never been so miserable in my life.

William came. He looked very angry. The child of our hopes was not to be.

“What did you do?” he demanded.

“Nothing ... nothing ... it just happened,” I stammered.

He looked at me with scorn. He was so disappointed and angry. Then he left me. It was almost as though he could not trust himself not to do me some harm if he stayed.

I felt a resentment then. I had wanted the child as much as he had. Why did I not tell him that? Why did I allow myself to be treated so? He frightened me. When he was not there I planned what I would say to him, but when he came my courage failed me.

I thought of Mary Beatrice who had only little Isabella left of all her children, and how she had lost the little Prince whose coming had so disappointed William and who, had he lived, would have ruined William’s hopes of the throne, and I thought: am I to be cursed in the same way?

Anne Trelawny tried to persuade me not to despair because it was only the first. That did not help me. I had lost my child. I turned my face to the pillow and wept.

WILLIAM, INSPIRED BY NEW HOPES that there was no impediment to my inheritance, was determined to get his heir, and as soon as my health began to improve his visits continued, and it was not long before I was pregnant again.

One day there was a letter from England. It was addressed to William and it evidently annoyed him to such an extent that he could not help showing the bitterness of his feelings.

It was from my father. The relationship between them had never been cordial. They could not help seeing each other first as Catholic and Protestant. I could sympathize with William in this when I heard how his country had suffered under the Spanish yoke and how the terrible Inquisition had inflicted such extreme torture on the people of Holland. I had heard that some thirty thousand of them had been buried up to their necks and left to die unless they accepted the Catholic faith as the true one. William saw my father as a man who would spread this kind of terror throughout the world.

As for my father, he recalled Cromwell and his Puritans who had murdered his father.

They were born to be enemies. They were so different in every way — my father warm and loving, William cold and austere. How strange that the two most important men in my life should be so different and how sad that they should have been such enemies.

And now here was another cause for enmity.

William said to me coldly: “I have had an accusation from your father that I do not take good care of you.”

“Oh no,” I said.

“But yes. He thinks that it was strange that you should suffer from the ague which you never did under his care. He informs me that the Duchess, his wife, and your sister, the Lady Anne, wish to visit you.”

I could feel nothing but joy. I clasped my hands and could not help exclaiming: “Oh, how happy that will make me.”

“They propose to come, as your father says, incognito. ‘Very incognito’ are his words. They have already sent a certain Robert White on ahead to procure a lodging for them near the palace so that there will be nothing official about the visit.”

“Why do they want to come in this way?”

He looked at me oddly. “They seem to think you are not being well treated here. Perhaps you have given some intimation of this?”

“Why? What do you mean?”

He lifted his shoulders. “The good ladies are to assure themselves — and your father — that you are being treated according to your rank. It would seem they have been led to believe this is not so.”

He was spoiling my pleasure in the anticipation of their arrival.

I said quickly: “You would not . . .”

“Refuse to allow them to come? I could scarcely do that. Rest assured, the lady spies will be well received when they arrive, though they will be ‘very incognito.’ ”

Nothing could really spoil my delight and I joyously awaited their arrival.

AND WHAT A JOY IT WAS TO SEE THEM. There was my dear, dear sister, who had been so ill when I left, now in radiant health.

It was wonderful to see me, she told me.

“When you went away, I wept for days. Sarah thought I should do myself some harm with my sorrow. Dear, dear Mary, and how do you like it here?”

She looked around the chamber. It was attractive, she said, but not like dear St. James’s and Richmond.

She was talking a great deal — for Anne — but this reunion was a very special occasion and even she was moved out of her usual placidity.

Then there was my stepmother. I saw the change in her. Grief had left its mark on her.

I did not mention the recent death of her baby son, but she knew I was thinking of it.

There was so much to talk of. I wanted news of my father.

“He never ceases to talk of you,” Mary Beatrice told me. “He wishes you were back with us and reproaches himself for letting you go.”

“It was no fault of his. He would have kept me in England if he could.”

She nodded. “He could do nothing,” she said. “But he still blames himself. This appears to be a pleasant country. The people are very agreeable.”

“Orange,” said Anne. “It’s a strange name for a country.”

“I call you Lemon ... my dear little Lemon,” said Mary Beatrice. “Orange and Lemon, you see. Do I not, Anne?”

“Yes,” said Anne. “She says, ‘I wonder how little Lemon is today among all the Oranges.’ ”

We were all laughing. There was so much to know. How were all my friends — the Duke of Monmouth, for instance. All missing me, I was told.

I said: “It is wonderful that you have come.”

“Your father was so uneasy about you. He would have liked to come himself but he could hardly have done that. It would have made it too official. But when we heard what was happening here . . .”

“What did you hear?”

Mary Beatrice looked at Anne who said: “People wrote home ... some of the ladies, you know. They wrote that the Prince does not treat you well. Does he not?”

I hesitated — and that was enough.

“Lady Selbourne wrote home and said that you were neglected by the Prince who treated you without respect.”

“The Prince is very busy,” I said quickly. “He is much occupied with affairs of state.”

“He will always be Caliban to me,” said Anne. “That was Sarah’s name for him.”

I said: “Pray, do not let anyone hear you say that.”

“Well,” laughed Anne. “He is rather alarming. My poor Mary, I am sorry for you. I can’t help being glad he is not my husband.”

I looked at her placid face and wondered who would be found for her. Of one thing I was certain: it would not be long before she had a husband. The thought apparently did not occur to her, or if it had, it had not alarmed her. Very little did alarm Anne. She had an unswerving faith in her ability to sail serenely through life.

“I will tell you a secret,” she said, dismissing the unpleasant subject of my marriage. “It is very much a secret at the moment. Only our stepmother knows, is that not so? But I must tell my dear sister, if she promises to say nothing of it to anyone.”

I promised readily.

“It is Sarah,” she said. “What do you think? She has married John Churchill.”

“Well, I knew he was courting her. Why should it be a secret?”

“The Churchills have fine ideas of themselves ever since Arabella started to advance their fortunes.” Anne paused for a moment, faintly embarrassed. Our stepmother knew, of course, of Arabella’s relationship with her husband and how, because of it, her family had received many favors.

“The Churchills think themselves far above the Jennings and that Sarah is not a good enough match.”

“Sarah will soon teach them differently from that!”

“Of course. Sarah is good enough for anyone. But if he had to go away with his regiment and Sarah went with him, what should I do without her?”

“You will have to arrange that she stays behind or let her go,” I said.

Anne smiled complacently, certain of her power to keep Sarah with her.

“It is a secret until the family have been brought round to see good sense. Our stepmother thinks that can be done.”

“I did hear a whisper that John Churchill was a wayward young man,” I said.

“You must mean the Lady Castlemaine scandal. There was something. But so many people have been involved with that woman.”

“I have heard it said that the King sent him to Tangiers to separate them.”

“That was long ago. John is now reformed. He thinks of no one but Sarah. I dare say he will do exactly as Sarah wants.”

“Knowing Sarah, I am sure that is very likely.”

I wondered how long this deep friendship with Sarah could last. Anne herself must marry one day and that was most certainly to be in the near future.

She said: “How did you get on with Dr. Hooper?”

Dr. Hooper was the almoner who had replaced Dr. Lloyd. I frowned. William did not approve of him. Dr. Lloyd had not minded if I attended the Dutch services, but Dr. Hooper had advised me not to. In fact, he was almost as fierce against it as he was against Catholicism. This had given rise to some unpleasantness, for Dr. Hooper was not a man to keep silent about his opinions. There had been one or two far from felicitous encounters between William and Dr. Hooper.

“He is a man of strong opinion,” I said.

“And the Prince did not approve of him?”

“Well, not exactly.”

Mary Beatrice smiled grimly and I said quickly: “You know he is returning to England. He is going to marry.”

“I had heard that.”

“He has promised he will come back again, bringing his wife with him.”

“Does that please you?”

“I like him.”

My stepmother did not answer, but I knew she was thinking that my husband had probably made life very difficult during Dr. Hooper’s stay at The Hague.

He would no doubt make his views at the Dutch court known when he returned to England. He would be quite fearless about that, and with the letters which found their way to England, it would be known that my life in Holland was not as serene as it might have been.

The visit was very brief and I was very sad to say good-bye to them. It had been a mixture of joy and sadness to be with them, for, while it was wonderful to be in their company, memories flooded back of the idyllic life I had led before my marriage. I was beset by such nostalgic longing for the old days that I was not sure whether the visit had been good for me or not.

They had promised to come again.

“The journey is not so far,” Anne had said on parting. “Of course, there is that hateful crossing, but I would face that a thousand times to be with my dear sister.”

And my stepmother agreed with her.

So I was hopeful that there would be another visit before very long.

THE EXILE

Soon after their departure, William paid me one of his rare visits. As I was pregnant, it was not for the usual purpose.

He said: “I have a letter from your father.”

He handed it to me and I read:

We came hither on Wednesday from Newmarket and the same night the Duchess, my wife, arrived home so satisfied with her journey and with you as never I saw anyone; and I must give you a thousand thanks from her and from myself for her kind usage by you. I should say more on the subject, but I am ill at compliments and I know you do not care for them.

There was more of the letter. He did not give me time to read it, however, but snatched it away as I prepared to do so.

“Well,” he said, his lips in a straight line, his eyes cold, “The spies gave a good account of us.”

“They were not spies,” I said with a touch of indignation.

“Were they not? You surprise me. Their grateful thanks are couched in the language of diplomacy. They are adept in that art at your uncle’s court, I believe. Your father is an uneasy man at this time.” He waved the letter at me, and I stretched out to take it, but he held it back. He was not going to share it with me. All he wanted me to see was the good report which had been given of the visit.

“There is trouble in England,” he went on.

“Trouble?” I said quickly. “What trouble?”

“Your father, I fear, is not a wise man. His obsession with a religion which does not please the people will be his undoing.”

“Is anything wrong with my father?”

“Only what he inflicts on himself.”

“Please tell me if you have any news.” I was losing my fear of him in my anxiety for my father, and I felt bold suddenly. If my father was in trouble I must know.

“Is he in danger?” I asked.

William did not speak immediately. A slow smile crossed his face but he seemed as cold as ever.

He tapped the letter.

“There is a plot being talked of in England. A man named Titus Oates has claimed to have discovered it. This is a papist plot to take command of England and bring back that faith.”

“And my father?”

“They will seek to involve him, of course. There is a great excitement in England because of it. All Catholics will be suspect. Your father, your stepmother, the Queen herself. The English will never again have a Catholic on the throne. That is why I say your father is unwise.”

“He is an honest man,” I said. “He does not pretend. He will not lie to the people.”

“Honest ... and so unwise!”

I wanted to read that letter. I wanted to know exactly what had been written. William knew it, but he would not show me.

I understood later, but I could not then.

His hopes were high. The popish plot raised them. Charles, my uncle, could not live forever, and then it would be my father’s turn. And would the people have him? If not, the next in line was myself. I would be the one and William was my consort. Consort? When he had a claim himself ... not as strong as mine, it was true, but a claim. He wanted me to know that, however high my rank, he was my husband and I owed obedience to him.

That letter pleased him indeed. Not because my sister and stepmother had not mentioned his harsh treatment of me, but because of the news about a papist plot.

I CONTINUED TO WORRY about my father. News came from England. We heard of little else but Titus Oates and the popish plot. Everyone was talking about it. I knew that William was in communication with some of the ministers at my uncle’s court. There were several of them who were determined not to tolerate a Catholic king and they turned to William.

I realized that William was aware of the close relationship between myself and my father and he did not want me to be influenced by him.

Although he had a certain contempt for me, and I was sure believed he could subdue me if the need arose, he had to remember that, if my father was removed, he could only secure the throne through me; and I believed on one or two occasions he had seen in me a certain rebellion — a determination to stand up for what I believed to be right, even if it were against his wishes.

He was already conspiring with men in England and must have been anxious to keep me in ignorance of this, for fear I should betray the fact to my father.

Soon after the departure of the visitors I was taken ill again with the disease which had attacked me before. I was suffering alternate fits of shivering and fever and they diagnosed the ague.

I became very ill and during the illness I lost the child I was carrying. It had happened exactly as before.

I was completely desolate, more so than ever. It was a significant repetition. I knew what it meant. The curse of the queens was upon me. I began to believe that I should never have a child who would live.

I knew William was deeply upset. Our efforts were in vain. A child was conceived and that was the end.

He blamed me. Of course. What had I done? I had been careless, stupid. I had let another chance go by.

I was too ill for some time to care much. I thought I was dying and so did some of those about me. I knew this because Anne Trelawny told me afterward.

There was a great deal of gossip among the women about William’s callous behavior. There were occasions when he did come to see me. I supposed diplomacy demanded it. I pretended to be too ill to speak to him.

He stood by my bed, looking at me with obvious exasperation — the wife who could not do what every little serving-maid could with ease — produce a child; and yet I held the promise of a crown in my hands.

He was anxious about me for one reason. I must get well. I must not die, for if I died, I should take William’s hopes with me, for Anne would be next. Idly I wondered how she would have acted if she had been the one chosen for William. I thought of her indifference, her lassitude. She would have ignored him and turned to Sarah Churchill for comfort.

Often now I thought of Frances Apsley. One of my greatest compensations was the letters I wrote and received; and I often thought how pleasant it might have been if we could have lived together.

People noticed the change in me. I was a little aloof with my attendants. I had discovered that I had only to look mildly displeased by their conduct and they became subdued.

Dr. Hooper had come back with his wife. She was a charming woman and I wanted her to know how pleased I was to have her join our circle.

The maids of honor had their own dining quarters. I joined them on occasions. I had expected, of course, to dine with my husband, but he still dined at The Hague Palace and the excuse was that he was busy with his ministers. I knew this was commented on and was one of those facts which gave the impression that I was not treated with the respect due to me.

Dr. Hooper had had his meals with the maids of honor in the past but had declined the invitation for his wife to join them when she arrived. He said that, in view of the “great economy” the Prince of Orange practiced and his dislike of the English, he thought it better for Mrs. Hooper to dine at their lodgings, and, naturally, he would take his meals with her, thus saving the Prince more expenditure.

This was also noted and I had no doubt that the information would reach England.

So William had a reputation for meanness. It was true he paid the chaplains who came over from England very little. Dr. Hooper, being a man of means, supported himself and his wife all the time he was in Holland. The Dutch were so shocked by his extravagent way of life, for their clergy were so poorly paid, that they called him “The Rich Papa.”

This state of affairs had the effect of making Dr. Hooper very independent and he spoke his mind freely in William’s presence and, I think, must have given him some uncomfortable moments. Not that William was the man to allow such trivialities to affect him, but he was concerned that Dr. Hooper might influence me in my religion, for it was a fact that, since his arrival, I had adhered to the rites of the English Church instead of adopting those of the Dutch.

William was heard to say on one occasion that if ever he had a say in the matter (which meant that if ever he were King of England), Dr. Hooper should remain Dr. Hooper throughout his life. He would certainly not get promotion from William.

Dr. Hooper was indifferent to such comments and went on expressing his opinion with the utmost freedom.

He did not stay with us for long, however, and his successor, Dr. Ken, proved to be even more outspoken.

I discovered that something of importance was happening in the quarters of the maids of honor, presided over by Elizabeth Villiers. There was a great deal of entertainment there. This was strange for, as Dr. Hooper had pointed out, William disliked any form of extravagance, and the supper parties which had become a familiar feature of the evenings, must have entailed certain expense.

Then it suddenly dawned on me that there was some purpose in these parties. Some of the maids of honor were attractive and most of them were young; and the most important men at court could at times be seen there.

Among them was William Zulestein, who was a great friend of William’s and was in fact related to him, for Zulestein’s father was the illegitimate son of Henry Frederick, Prince of Orange, my husband’s grandfather, by the daughter of a burgomaster of Emmerich. He had been a faithful friend of William’s father and now there was a close friendship between him and William.

William Bentinck was also a frequent visitor to the suppers, as were others of William’s circle. William himself had been known to be present. Many of the English visitors to The Hague were invited — among them Algernon Sidney and Lords Sunderland and Russell.

On the rare occasions when I was present I noticed that the English visitors were made much of, and the girls were very agreeable to them.

Elizabeth Villiers acted as hostess. When I was there she paid me all the homage due to my rank, but I was constantly aware of her sly smile and watchful eyes; and I could not help feeling that there was something subversive about those supper parties — some purpose behind them.

I watched Elizabeth Villiers in earnest conversation with Algernon Sidney and I wondered what subject they found so enthralling. I did not believe it was lovers’ talk; more than ever, I felt there was indeed something rather sinister behind these gatherings, and that they should be carried on with William’s approval amazed me.

There was born in me then a deep feeling of apprehension. I felt we were moving toward a climax of which others were aware and I was ignorant. I felt a little frustrated and helpless, which was due to the fact that I had a faint glimmer of understanding.

Constantly I thought of my father. I gathered that this plot of which they were all talking was directed not only against the Queen but against him also. He was in danger and I wanted to be with him.

These anxieties had their effect on me. I had another fit of the ague and this time I could not rid myself of it. I had to take to my bed and I was very ill this time. People in my bedchamber whispered together and I believe they thought I had not long to live.

William came to see me. He looked really alarmed. Poor William, I thought with newly acquired cynicism, if I died, what hope would you have of the crown? After my father, Anne; and Anne would marry and very likely have sons. Then the prophecy of the three crowns would not be fulfilled. And when I thought of the way in which he had behaved when I had lost my babies, I wanted him to suffer.

I heard him demanding: “Where is the physician? Why is he not attending the Princess?”

And I thought: he is indeed alarmed.

Anne Trelawny said: “The Prince is sending Dr. Drelincourt to

attend to you. The Prince has more faith in him than in any doctor in the country.”

I said: “He is worried — not for me, but for the crown.”

Anne said nothing, but I knew that she agreed with me.

I was young and did not want to die, even to spite William, and under Dr. Drelincourt I began to improve a little.

He had diagnosed that my listlessness was not helping me and that I must revive my interest in the life around me. He said my ladies should be with me: they should chat and gossip of what was going on at court.

Anne Trelawny was constantly with me, Lady Betty Selbourne too, and Anne Villiers. I was beginning to like her more; she had softened and seemed more interesting. She mentioned William Bentinck frequently. I had noticed that she was with him often at the supper parties and seemed to have a great admiration for him. She told me what a wonderful friendship he had with the Prince. She repeated the story of how he had saved William’s life when he had had smallpox and how the disease had attacked Bentinck himself. He bore the scars of that episode. She said they were like medals for bravery.

One day William came to me.

“You are recovering,” he said.

“I am told so.”

“It is clear that you are. When you are a little better, you shall go to Dieren. The climate is good there and Dr. Drelincourt shall go with you. I wish to see you fully recovered.”

“I know how important that is to you,” I said pointedly.

“But of course,” he replied.

“My sister Anne is fully recovered now,” I went on, marvelling at my audacity, but enjoying it. “She is in perfect health.”

“I gathered so. But she will not be allowed to travel with your father.”

He was looking at me with a certain triumph as though to say, do not try your barbs on me. They are so feeble that they glance off almost unnoticed.

I was very anxious to know what he meant about Anne’s traveling with my father.

He said: “Your father wished to take her with him when he left England, but that was prevented at the last moment. The people would not allow it. They suspected, and with reason, that he would attempt to make a Catholic of her.”

“I do not understand. Where is my father going? Why is he to leave England?”

He smiled almost benignly. “No, of course you do not,” he said, implying that I could not be expected to grasp matters of state. “Your father has left England.”

“Why?”

A look of pleasure briefly fluttered across William’s face.

“Not at his desire. He was asked to leave. You might call it exile.”

I was frightened now and he knew it. More than anything I wanted to see my father and hear from him what had happened. I was getting agitated and, fearing the effect it might have on my health, he said quickly: “Your father is now in Brussels. He has heard of your illness and is coming to visit you.”

I could not help showing my pleasure and relief and he looked at me with that impatience I knew so well.

I closed my eyes. I did not want to ask any more questions. My father was coming to me. I would prefer to hear what had happened from him.

WHAT A JOY IT WAS TO SEE HIM! We embraced and clung together; we could not bear to let each other go.

“I have been so concerned about you,” said my father; and Mary Beatrice stood by, watching with tears in her eyes.

I noticed how they had changed, both of them. My father looked strained and tired. Mary Beatrice had lost the first glow of youth; she was only a few years older than I was, but she looked at least ten.

She had lost her children, as I had, but mine had not been born and hers had lived, if only for a short while; she had come to a new country, as I had, but the people had not welcomed her as the Dutch people had welcomed me. But my father had been a loving husband, although an unfaithful one.

Our positions were not dissimilar and because of this we could understand each other.

My father was bitter and sad.

I said: “I cannot be kept in ignorance any longer. I must know what has happened.”

“Do you learn nothing then?” answered my father. “There are many here who are no friends of mine. Surely they would spread the news.”

“I learn very little and I must know.”

“We have been asked to leave. Even my brother said it was necessary.”

Mary Beatrice went on: “He appeared to be very grieved when we left. Yet it was he who ordered it. I told him so. I could not stop myself. It was all so false. I said to him: ‘What, sir, are you grieved? But it is you who are sending us into exile. Of course we must go. You are the King and have ordained it.’ ”

I thought she would burst into tears and my father put his hand over hers.

“It was no fault of my brother, my dear,” he said. “He had to do it. It was what the people wanted. It is due to that scoundrel Oates.”

“I know,” she said. “I am sorry I spoke thus. He is ever kind. He understands. He showed me by his looks that he did.”

“Exile?” I said. “How can you be exiled?”

“You do not know what has happened in England. This man, Titus Oates ... he is at the root of it all. He has stirred up such trouble that it has brought us to this.”

“I have heard that man’s name mentioned,” I said.

“I should have thought the Prince of Orange would be deeply interested in what is taking place.”

“He does not talk much to me of state affairs.”

My father looked grim. His feelings toward William had not changed and he had hated the match from the beginning. I knew that, whatever they showed on the surface, there was deep animosity between them.

“This man Oates is a scoundrel. That much is obvious, but the people cannot see it — or won’t.”

“They believe because they want to believe,” said Mary Beatrice.

“He has accomplices. William Bedloe and Israel Tonge and others. Oates claims to have been a clergyman — a Catholic at one time. He professes to have joined the Jesuits and it is because of this that he claims to have knowledge of this plot.”

“What is the plot exactly?” I asked.

“To kill the King, set up a Catholic ministry and massacre the English Protestants.”

“And you?” I said.

“The government thought it wise that I should leave the country for a while, and my brother was obliged to agree with them.”

“It will pass,” I said.

“I do not know,” replied my father seriously. “This is no ordinary plot to be proved false — as it undoubtedly is — and forgotten. He is rousing the whole country.”

I began to grasp the situation. The anti-Catholic feeling was great throughout England and, fomented by this outrageous Titus Oates, it was not safe for my father to remain there. I was very anxious.

I learned that this visit to The Hague was, as he had said of that earlier one made by Mary Beatrice and Anne, “very incognito.” The situation was too delicate for it to be a state visit. William was, in a way, involved in English affairs; no one could be unaware of what the refusal of the English to accept a Catholic monarch would mean to him. If my father had a son now he would be taken from him and given a Protestant upbringing, but child rulers usually caused trouble, and at The Hague was one of the most staunch Protestants, married to the present heir to the throne — if my father should be rejected.

WHEN I WAS ALONE with Mary Beatrice I realized how troubled she was.

She told me that she had been happier in her first years in England than ever before and now it had all changed.

“I often think,” she said, “that, had your father been a Protestant, we should still be enjoying that happy life. The people were fond of him once, as they are of the King. They both have what is called the Stuart charm in good measure. The King is clever and determined to keep his crown; but the fact is that your father is too honest to deny his faith and for that we must suffer.”

She told me of how they had had to leave.

“We wanted to bring your sister with us, of course, and she was delighted at the prospect of seeing you, but when it was known that she was coming there was an outcry. The people thought your father might seek to make a Catholic of her, and so she was not allowed to go with us.”

“How I should have loved to see her!”

“She said she must come soon. Perhaps it can be arranged.”

“What troubles there are in life!”

“You too?” she asked.

“I miss my home — you, my father, my sister, my uncle ... the ones I loved.”

“You have your husband.” She looked at me intently, questioningly, and I did not answer.

She went on: “The Prince received us well when we arrived in Holland. He had a guard of honor waiting to greet us. Your father was gratified, but he did explain immediately that this was not a state visit and it would be better for him to remain incognito. We went to Brussels and shall return there when we leave here, for, dear Lemon, we must not stay long — we shall have the house which your uncle had during his exile. I think so much of the early years when we were all together, getting to know each other. How happy it was! Who would have dreamed then that all this would happen?”

Poor Mary Beatrice! My poor father! How different everything might have been!

I asked about Isabella and her face lit up with pleasure. Then it was sad again.

“I wanted to bring her with us. She is such a beautiful child. But it was not permitted. Your father is going to write to the King imploring him to allow Isabella to come to us. Perhaps we can persuade him to allow Anne to accompany her.”

“I thought the people did not want them to go with you.”

“I know, but the King would be happy for them to. He understands. But it will, I suppose, depend on the people. The King will never do anything to offend them.”

“He is wise,” I said.

“Wise and determined never to go wandering again.”

“Yet my father will do what he thinks right, no matter what the consequences.”

“Everything is wrong,” she went on. “Wherever we look, there is trouble ... Monmouth . . .”

“What of Jemmy?” I cried.

“He has grown ambitious. This horrible plot delights him. He mingles with the people. Monmouth, the Protestant. One would think he were heir to the throne. I do believe he sees himself as such. He is the King’s son and he wants everyone to remember it and, above all, he is a Protestant.”

“Jemmy cannot think . . .”

“I tell you, he is an ambitious young man. He wants the people on his side. I believe he thinks that one day the crown could be his.”

“That is impossible.”

I thought of my bright and amusing cousin, whose visits Anne and I had looked forward to — and now he had become my father’s enemy! What a lot of trouble could have been avoided if my father had not flaunted his religion. It was not the first time that I had felt a touch of impatience with him. The King kept his counsel and all went well with him. If only my father could have been as wise.

I felt ashamed of these critical thoughts. It was disloyal. I brushed them aside and talked about Isabella.

Their stay was brief. They had come to see me, my father told me. They had been so alarmed to hear of my illness, but because of the circumstances they could not prolong their stay.

The encounter had been beneficial to me and my health visibly improved. And then they returned to Brussels.

MY FATHER WAS CONTINUALLY IN MY THOUGHTS and I greatly pitied not only him and Mary Beatrice but Queen Catherine as well. It appeared that she was in acute danger, for these villainous men were accusing her of being involved in the plot to murder the King, and therefore of treason, for which the punishment was death. This was sheer nonsense, and I was sure my uncle would protect her from her malicious enemies. But what must the poor woman be suffering now?

The King should never have married a Catholic. My grandfather, Charles the Martyr, had married one, too; the stormy Henrietta Maria had been fiercely religious and was blamed for the troubles of that reign which had ended in such tragedy.

Catholics brought trouble wherever they were and that was at the very heart of the popish plot.

I would always maintain my father’s honesty, but he really was acting in a reckless, foolish manner, and was causing misery to a great many people.

There was a great deal of activity going on at the supper parties. Elizabeth Villiers was still hostess at these affairs and I was astonished that she should be in such prominence even when William was there. But he did not seem to notice her presumption. I had even seen him talking to her when she joined him and some of the English visitors.

As for myself, I was gaining confidence. I had proved to myself that I could stand up to William and I felt better for it.

I had a feeling at those parties which I attended, that they were all very much aware of my presence and that it put a curb upon them. Perhaps that was just a fancy, for how could I know what they were like in my absence? Perhaps I imagined that there was a watchfulness.

On one occasion, soon after my father and Mary Beatrice had left, I noticed a man who stood out among the others because he was so different. He did not look like a man accustomed to court ways. I guessed him to be English and he was deep in conversation with Sidney. Sunderland joined them and they all talked together very earnestly.

I called Betty Selbourne to my side. She seemed to know everyone and was noted for her discretion.

I said to her: “Who is that man talking to Lord Sunderland?”

She paused for a moment and then replied: “I could not remember for the moment, but I do now. I believe him to be a Mr. William Bedloe.”

“Who is he?”

“I do not know, Your Highness. I have not met him. I think he came over with a message for Lord Russell.”

“Bedloe,” I murmured. I thought the name seemed faintly familiar.

“Would Your Highness like him to be presented to you?”

I looked at the man’s mean face and awkward bearing.

“No, Betty,” I said. “I think not.”

It was later, when I lay in bed, sleepless, thinking of my father and poor Queen Catherine, when I remembered where I had heard the name before. “Titus Oates and his friends — Tonge and Bedloe.”

My suspicions were beginning to be formed. William Bedloe was a confederate of Titus Oates.

What were these men who were plotting to ruin the Queen and my father doing here at The Hague? The answer was clear: my father was going to be robbed of his inheritance and William, through me, was going to take the crown of England.

I felt sick with horror. I wanted no part in it. I wanted to break away from it all.

How could my father have plunged us all into this morass of intrigue and misery?

And William? How much was he involved in it?

I HAD BEEN HORRIBLY SHOCKED that a man concerned in the popish plot with Titus Oates should be received at the court of The Hague, and even more so by a discovery I made soon afterward.

I was really fortunate in having in my service that rather feckless pair Betty Selbourne and Jane Wroth, for I learned a great deal from little details which they thoughtlessly let slip from time to time in their everyday tittle-tattle. Anne Trelawny was discreet and always concerned not to alarm me, and I believe she kept from me any news which she thought might do so.

Some reference was made to my father’s visit, and Jane said: “It was the day before his illness.”

“His illness?” I asked. “What was that?”

Betty was there too and she and Jane exchanged glances.

Betty said: “Oh, it was nothing much. It quickly passed. It was a day or so before he left.”

“Why did I know nothing of this? What sort of illness?”

“It was of no importance,” said Betty. “I suppose he did not want to worry Your Highness.”

“If it were of no importance, how could it worry me?”

They were both silent and I went on: “How did you know of it?”

“People were talking about it,” said Jane. “Your Highness knows how people will talk. The Duchess was so anxious.”

I knew there was something mysterious about this illness and, instead of gently urging them to talk and eventually prizing the news from them, I said imperiously: “I want to know the truth. Please tell me immediately.”

I could see the expressions on their faces. There was no help for it. They must tell me.

“Well,” said Betty. “It was just before the Duke and Duchess left. The Duke was troubled in the night with sickness and gripping pains — so they said.”

“Why did I not know of this?”

“We were told not to speak of it. We should not have mentioned it.”

“But I insist on knowing,” I reminded her. “Go on.”

“The Duchess was very worried. Their servants were there. They thought he was . . .”

I found I was clenching my fists. It was hard to control my dismay and alarm.

“What caused it?” I demanded.

Again that exchange of a glance between the two young women.

“It must have been something he had eaten at supper,” said Jane.

“But he was much better in the morning,” added Betty. “And then, of course, he left for Brussels.”

“Why was this kept from me?”

“Your Highness was recovering from your own illness. The Prince had given orders that you were not to be worried. It was just that your father was briefly indisposed.”

“And my father left almost immediately and instructions were given not to tell me.”

“No one was supposed to mention it, for it would seem as though the cooks did not know their business.”

“And you ladies were told not to mention it? By whom?”

“It was Elizabeth. She is the one who says what we must do or not do now.”

I was very disturbed. Had they tried to kill my father? Those men who assembled for the supper parties were his enemies. They wanted to see him removed to make way for William.

And William? I could not believe that such a religious man would contemplate ... murder.

I WAS ASHAMED OF MYSELF for entertaining for a moment such a thought of my husband. William was stern, unbending, overwhelmingly ambitious, but he would never be a party to murder — and the murder of his father-in-law.

I felt I wanted to make up for such an unworthy thought.

My attitude toward my father had changed a little. There were those who called him a fool and my uncle was one of them. I had heard that the King had said of him: “The people will never get rid of me, because if they did they would have to have James. That is something they would not want. I doubt he would last four years on the throne.”

My poor misguided father. Such a good man, he was, apart from that lechery which he shared with his brother; but he could be foolish in the extreme.

It surprised me that I could think this of one whom I had idolized for so long. I began to wonder if I were seeing him through William’s eyes.

I was very eager for news of what was happening in Brussels, and I was overjoyed when I heard that my half-sister, the little Isabella, and my sister Anne were going to Brussels to stay with my father for a while.

This appeared to be a great concession, for previously Anne had not been allowed to go with him for fear he should attempt to make a Catholic of her; and I wondered if the feeling in England was less fanatical than it had been, though I still heard that people were being accused by Titus Oates, arrested, tried for treason and executed. Moreover, my father was still in exile; but the fact that Anne was allowed to visit him in Brussels did seem a good omen.

When they arrived they wanted to come and see me. I was very eager that they should do so, and it was arranged. Once again, it would not be a state visit, for, in view of my father’s position as an exile, that would be undiplomatic. I think William was loath to receive him, wondering what effect this would have when the news reached England that the exiled Duke had been received at The Hague.

My husband was in a delicate position. He was certain now that I would be Queen and he, as my consort, would share the throne. No, not consort. If I were Queen, he would insist on being King. After all, he had a claim in his own right. But he had to remember the importance of my position. He had certainly changed toward me since I had begun to show a little spirit.

So I wanted to see my family and he could not deny me that. Nor did he wish to make his ambitions too plain. He had a difficult path to tread.

So they came and he greeted them with a certain amount of warmth. As for myself, I was overcome with joy. We embraced and clung together, mingling our tears. We Stuarts have a streak of sentiment in our natures.

There was one irritation. Anne had brought Sarah Churchill in her suite and as Sarah had refused to be parted from her husband, Colonel Churchill was of the party.

Anne was growing up. She was nearly as old now as I had been at the time of my marriage. So far there had been no one selected for her and she was blithely unconcerned, and she doted on Sarah; she seemed completely subservient to her. It was, still “Sarah says this . . .” “Sarah does it this way... .” I was tired of Sarah. Anne seemed unable to make a decision without her. But then she had always been too lazy to make decisions.

Sarah was quick to see my irritation with her and she was too autocratic to accept it. I wondered what John Churchill thought of his wife, for I was sure she attempted to control him as she did Anne. I was amazed when I saw them together, for he seemed almost slavishly devoted.

Anne said: “Oh, Sarah is so clever. I am not surprised that he is her devoted slave.”

“Does she seek to make you one?” I asked.

Anne blinked at me with her shortsighted eyes. “How could she? She is my attendant.”

My dear, simple Anne; she had not changed. She was as ready to accept Sarah’s domination as ever and, of course, I noticed, Sarah always couched her orders to Anne in diplomatic terms, for indeed Sarah was at heart a diplomat. But she did not please me.

One day Anne said to me: “Sarah thinks the Prince does not treat you as he should.”

“Sarah does?”

“Yes. She says she would not endure it if she were you.”

“That is very bold of her.”

Anne giggled. “Sarah is always bold. Well, she is Sarah. No one would get the better of Sarah. And she says you are really more important than he is, or would be if . . .”

I said: “Our uncle, the King, will live for a long time yet, and so will our father. My husband is the Stadholder and Prince of Orange, and it is only if our father has no sons that you or I could ever sit on the throne of England.”

“Sarah thinks the people will not have our father, nor perhaps a son of his.”

“If Sarah were as wise as you think she is, she would look to her own business and leave that of her peers to them.”

“Mary,” cried Anne incredulously, “do you not like Sarah?”

“I think Sarah Churchill takes too much on herself. She should remember her place as the wife of a man who has yet to make his way in the King’s army.”

I guessed she would tell Sarah what I had said and Sarah would not like it. I was glad of that.

On another occasion, Anne said: “Sarah thinks Elizabeth Villiers gives herself airs.”

I agreed with her but said nothing, and Anne went on: “Sarah thinks she has a reason for it.”

“What happens in my apartments is no concern of Sarah’s,” I said. “I think it would be a good idea, sister, if you made that clear to her, and if I discovered her making any trouble in the household it might be necessary to send her away.”

Anne looked at me in amazement.

“Send Sarah away! You couldn’t do that!”

“Very easily,” I replied. “This is my household. I do what I will here.”

“Sarah thinks you cannot do anything that the Prince wouldn’t want.”

“Sarah is mistaken. I am the Princess of Orange and our father’s elder daughter. I can do as I will.”

I was proud of myself. I remembered my power and I was going to exert it. I was my father’s eldest daughter and that put me in a very special position. I was going to make sure that people remembered it.

I knew that Anne would have reported this conversation to Sarah Churchill, for I heard of no more comments; but Sarah Churchill and I never liked each other after that.

The visit, like the other, had to be a short one. My poor father could not forget that he was an exile. He was a very sad man. I could understand that. I had hated to leave my country, but at least I had done so in an honored fashion. I had not been forced out.

It was a sad occasion when I said good-bye to my father, my stepmother, my sister Anne and little Isabella. There were tears as we assured each other that we should soon be together again.

THERE WAS TENSION throughout the court at The Hague. Messages were coming from England. King Charles had suffered from a series of fits — one after another. He was no longer young and, in view of the life he had led, it seemed unlikely that he would go on much longer.

There were accounts of the people’s grief, not only in London but throughout the country. None of the blatant peccadilloes could change their affection for him. His many mistresses, his scandalous liaisons, made no difference. They loved the Merry Monarch. There had never been a king so loved since King Edward IV, tall and handsome, had roamed the streets of London, casting a roving eye on the handsome women.

There were more gatherings at the supper parties in the apartments of the maids of honor, and William was often present in the company of those discontents from England; and now none of them could suppress their excitement.

I wondered what my father was feeling, shut off from it all in Brussels. Then news came from that city that he had left in haste for some secret destination, leaving his family behind.

I was filled with anxiety when he arrived in England, for I knew it was because of popular feeling that he had been sent away.

Meanwhile, we were all tense, waiting for developments.

Anticlimax came. The King had recovered. The ague had disappeared and he was his old self. I could imagine his amusement at all the excitement and his sly comments that he had cheated them out of the fun.

He received my father with affection. Charles was truly fond of his family in his lighthearted way: and it was only because of his determination “never to go wandering again” that he had given way to popular demand for his brother’s exile.

Even those who loved my father must agree that it was his own fault. If he had only set aside his scruples, worshipped as he wanted to in secret, none of this would have arisen.

That was a thought which occurred to me again and again. And I must confess it produced a certain impatience with him when I thought of the havoc he was causing.

Well, he was back in England. But would he be allowed to stay?

Everyone at The Hague was watchful and alert. Every messenger who arrived at the palace was immediately taken to William. Everyone was waiting for the outcome.

At length it came. My father was returning to Brussels.

He was going to take his family back to England and would call at The Hague on his way.

In the meantime we heard the news. The people of England would not allow my father to stay there. I wondered what his plans would be and it was with mingled joy and apprehension that I greeted him when he arrived; and as soon as I was alone with him, I demanded to know what had happened.

He told me with great emotion of his reunion with his brother.

“This is no fault of Charles,” he said. “In spite of his ministers ... in spite of the people ... he would not have me go away.”

“Then ... you will stay?”

“He cannot have that either. There is too much pressure. Only those who have been in London can understand the trouble that has come out of this infamous plot. Only they can realize what harm has been done. The people have been roused to fury. They are shouting ‘no popery’ in the streets. They are accepting Titus Oates as though his word is gospel. He has inflamed hatred of Catholics.”

“And you have let them know that you are one of them,” I said with a hint of reproach.

“I am what I am.”

“Tell me what will happen now?”

“I am being sent to Scotland.”

“To Scotland! Exiled to Scotland!”

“No. Not exiled this time. This time I go in honor. I am to be High Commissioner there. So I shall have work to do.”

I could not help feeling relieved.

“Charles thinks the family should stay in London. He says he will care for them. Anne would, of course, be expected to, but Mary Beatrice will insist on accompanying me.”

“Well,” I said. “It is better than exile here.”

He smiled ruefully. “This will be exile in a way ... diplomatic exile. How I wish we could go back to happier days!”

I felt another flicker of impatience. So might we have done, but for your open declaration of your faith, I thought.

Again there was the sadness of departure and I wondered when I would see them again.

I was to remember that parting all through the years to come.

A HASTY MARRIAGE

Dr. Ken, who had taken Dr. Hooper’s place, although slender and of small stature, was a man of great presence and strong character. He made no concession to fashion, wore no wig and his thin hair grew long, falling down on either side of his face. He was somewhat quick of temper, but good-natured, and, like his predecessor, Dr. Hooper, quite fearless, and would state any view that his conscience told him was the right one.

I felt an immediate liking for him, and I think he did for me; so I was pleased that he had come.

He and William did not take to each other. In fact, William disliked him even more than he had Dr. Hooper. I soon saw that he would like to be rid of these priests who came from England and were put in the place of the Dutch clergy of his choosing. I understood why it rankled.

Dr. Ken was quick to see that William was not as respectful toward me as he should have been. He wrote to my uncle, expressing himself “horribly unsatisfied with the Prince’s behavior toward his wife.” He added: “I shall talk to him of this, even at the risk of being kicked out of doors.”

He did. William was annoyed, but he must have realized there was little he could do. The position in England was very delicate and he had to consider the effect of his actions there. He had continually to remember that his claim to the throne came through me and that I should be the one who was welcomed, if that longed-for day came. It might seem a small matter to ask Dr. Ken to leave, but who could say what repercussions it would have?

William could accept the pinpricks of a little man like Dr. Ken for the sake of expediency.

Then something happened which demanded a great deal of courage on my part, and I think perhaps it was a turning point in my relationship with my husband. It could never have happened if William had been at court, but he was often absent and in another part of the country on state business, and this was one of those occasions.

I had noticed for some weeks that something was wrong with Jane Wroth. She was naturally a lively girl, given to frivolity. That was why the change was noticeable.

I sent for her. She came to me, quiet, subdued, and then I noticed the change in her figure.

“Jane,” I said, “you had better tell me what is wrong.”

She cast down her eyes and was silent.

I said: “It is rather noticeable. Is it not time that you were married?”

Poor Jane. She lifted her woebegone eyes to my face.

“I am afraid, Your Highness, it is not possible.”

“Why not? Is he married already?”

She shook her head.

“Then why not?”

“Because, Madam, of who he is.”

“Tell me,” I said.

She was silent and I said in my commanding tones: “Jane, I am asking you to tell me.”

“It is William Zulestein, Your Highness.”

Zulestein! This was William’s kinsman, of whom he thought so highly. And who was Jane Wroth? Of no great family, she had been extremely lucky to get a place at court.

“How could this have happened?” A stupid question. How did such things happen? They happened all the time and often in most unexpected quarters. William would want Zulestein to make a good marriage, one which would be important to the House of Orange, for, illegitimate as he was, he was recognized as being a member of it. Oh, what a fool Jane had been!

“How could you have allowed it?” I cried. “So you were seduced by him. He could not have promised you marriage!”

“Yes,” she insisted, “he did.”

“So he promised. And now?”

“He says the Prince would never allow it. He would ... but for that.”

“Are you sure he promised?”

“Yes, Madam, I am.”

“You should know better than to listen to promises. So ... what will you do now?”

Jane looked at me piteously. She would have no choice. She would be sent home and her family would be filled with anger against her. She had spoilt her chances: with great difficulty a place had been found for her and she had behaved like a fool, allowing herself to be seduced, and was about to bring an unwanted infant into the world to ruin her prospects of a good marriage. Poor Jane! To go home, despised, taunted all her life for this misguided action of her youth.

I liked Jane and I felt very sorry for her.

“Jane,” I said, “I do not know what we can do.”

She began to weep silently. “I shall go away,” she sobbed. “I shall no longer serve Your Highness. I can’t bear it.”

“Have you talked to Zulestein?”

She nodded.

“And he is prepared to desert you. Is that so?”

“He dare not do aught else. He says the Prince has made plans for him.”

“He did not tell you that before?”

“He said he loved me. We would have married ... in spite of everything.”

“Jane,” I said. “Go to your room. I will think what must be done.”

She left me then. I was filled with pity for her and anger against this man who had thoughtlessly taken his pleasure and lied and cheated to get it.

Dr. Ken found me in a reflective mood. He asked if aught ailed me. I could see he was thinking that, as the Prince was absent, it could not be due to an unkind action on his part.

I said: “Dr. Ken, I am deeply disturbed. This is due to one of the maids of honor, Jane Wroth. She is with child and in great distress.”

“The man responsible is at court?”

“Yes.”

“Then he must marry her.”

“There is a little difficulty there. It is William Zulestein.”

“The Prince’s kinsman. That has nothing to do with the matter. He has got the girl with child and he must marry her.”

“The Prince will not allow it.”

“This is a matter of right and wrong and this man’s duty is clear. He has seduced this girl; she is with child and he must marry her.”

“I believe the Prince will not agree to that.”

Dr. Ken’s smooth face was set in firm lines. “Then,” he said, “the Prince must disagree.”

“He will not allow it.”

“He is not here, so he cannot stop it; and when they are married there is nothing the Prince can do about it.”

“Do you mean you would ... ?”

“Marry them? Indeed. Give me your blessing and I will do so.”

“But the Prince . . .”

“Your Highness, you are the Princess of Orange. The woman is in your service. It is a matter for you. It could happen that you will be Queen of England. The Prince would in that case only share with you as far as you would allow. You are inclined to permit this man to dominate you. At the moment you are merely the Princess of Orange and he is the Prince. But you are also heir to England. Do not allow yourself to be set aside. You should be strong. If this man is allowed to leave his promises unfulfilled, if that young woman is to go through life in shame because the man who sinned with her is allowed to shirk his duty, and if we do not do everything within our power to prevent this, we are neglecting our Christian duty. Pray for guidance and I will come to you tomorrow morning and we will make it clear to these erring young people what must be done.”

“But the Prince . . .” I began.

“This is not a matter for him. He is away. It is our duty to act without him.”

“I dare not.”

He smiled at me sadly. “Because he forgets your position; you must not.”

I said I would think of it.

And I did. All through the night I thought of his anger when he knew what we had done, being fully aware that it would have been against his will. Then I considered Jane, sent home in disgrace. It occurred to me that Zulestein might refuse to marry her even if Dr. Ken insisted that he should.

I am ashamed to say that I felt a glimmer of hope at this. It would be a way out of the dilemma. I realized then that I was a coward. I was afraid of William’s wrath. I grappled with myself. I must remember my position. I thought of how his treatment of me had aroused the indignation of Dr. Ken ... and others.

No, I would stand against him. If any other man had seduced a girl, after promising marriage, he would be made to keep his promise. So why not Zulestein?

I believed the man should marry Jane; and so did Dr. Ken.

I had made up my mind.

DR. KEN WAS DELIGHTED when he knew my decision.

“You are doing what is right,” he told me. “God has guided you in this.”

I summoned Zulestein and when he arrived Dr. Ken and I were waiting for him.

He was not a young man, being some five years older than William, but he was very good-looking, with an imposing personality and an air of nobility, which perhaps he stressed somewhat because of his illegitimacy.

I could see that I should need all my newly acquired courage to deal with this man. But beside me stood Dr. Ken, one of the most formidable and eloquent preachers I had ever heard.

I began by telling him that I had seen Jane Wroth and knew of her condition and his part in bringing it about.

He was taken aback and at a loss for words.

Dr. Ken said: “The plain fact is that this young woman is about to bear your child. You promised her marriage and now that promise has been retracted. In view of what has happened, it is necessary for you to marry Jane Wroth without delay.”

Zulestein said: “I would do so if it were possible.”

“You are already married?” asked Dr. Ken.

“No.”

“Then there can be no reason why it is impossible for you to marry Jane Wroth.”

“You know of my connection with the House of Orange.”

“I know that your father was the bastard son of Henry Frederic, Prince of Orange,” said Dr. Ken.

“Then you will understand.”

“I fear I do not. If a man makes a promise of marriage, he must honor it, or in the eyes of God he is a cheat and a liar and there is no place for such in Heaven.”

Zulestein was beginning to realize the difficulty of his position. He turned to me.

“Your Highness will understand. The Prince wishes me to make a state marriage. It is already being discussed.”

I was fortified by the presence of Dr. Ken.

“It would have been before the result of your association with my maid of honor was known,” I said firmly. “This, of course, changed the situation. There is only one action open to you now. I am of the same opinion of Dr. Ken. There must be no further delay.”

“Madame ... Your Highness, the Prince will be most displeased.”

“If the Prince is a man of honor, he should be more displeased by your failure in your duty,” said Dr. Ken.

“This concerns a lady in my household,” I put in, “and therefore it is a matter for me to decide. I cannot believe that a member of the House of Orange could fail in honor. I bid you give serious thought to this matter. Come to me tomorrow and give me your answer, and I pray that it will be the right and honorable one.”

Dr. Ken said: “I will come with you, my son, and we will pray together and ask God to guide your conscience.”

I have said that Dr. Ken was one of the most eloquent preachers I have ever heard, but I do not know exactly what he said to Zulestein. It may be that he convinced him that he would suffer eternal damnation if he did not marry Jane; perhaps Zulestein really loved her. In any case, he agreed to marry Jane and, without losing any time, Dr. Ken made hasty preparations.

It was in my private little chapel that Dr. Ken performed the ceremony and Jane Wroth became the wife of Zulestein.

WHEN WILLIAM RETURNED and discovered what had happened he was astounded and his anger was great. I wondered what he said to Zulestein, who must have given him an account of what happened. When William came to me I saw that he had difficulty in controlling his rage. Inwardly I trembled, but I forced myself not to show my fear.

“Zulestein married to that girl!” cried William. “Who is she? Nothing ... nobody! And he my kinsman! And you gave your consent to the match! Nay, encouraged it. Insisted on it.”

I heard myself say in a defiant voice: “It was a marriage which should have taken place months before.”

“Have you forgotten that he is a member of my family?”

“All the more reason why he should honor his commitments.”

I felt my courage waning and feared that at any moment I might break down and confess I was in the wrong. But something told me that I must be strong. If I allowed myself to be cowed, his contempt for me would be aroused. I had to be strong now. He dared not harm me. I was too important to his schemes.

I lifted my head and said: “I did what Dr. Ken and I believed to be right.”

“That man is at the heart of this. That meddler . . .”

“Dr. Ken is a good man,” I said. “He made Zulestein see where his duty lay.”

“You had the temerity . . .” He paused. I could see the disbelief in his face. He was thinking that I should never have acted so without Dr. Ken to persuade me.

I said coolly: “Jane Wroth is a member of my household. She is therefore my concern. I believe it was my duty to see right done to her.”

This change in my attitude disconcerted him, and he became wary. I knew that, apart from the moral issue, I had done right to stand out against him in this.

Dr. Ken, who must have been listening in the next room, chose that moment to knock on the door and ask leave to enter.

“Yes, come in,” cried William. “I hear you have taken upon yourself to arrange a marriage for my kinsman.”

“A belated but necessary ceremony,” said Dr. Ken.

“You are impudent,” retorted William, and I believed he was venting the rage he felt toward me on Dr. Ken.

“You come here instructing the Princess to disobey my wishes.”

“It was my own decision,” I said, feeling strong with Dr. Ken beside me.

“I have no doubt he advised you.”

“The Princess is capable, and has the right, by reason of her rank, to make her own decisions.”

He was reminding William that he must be careful in his treatment of me, and I saw William’s eyes glint in anger.

“You are an interfering priest,” he said. “Pray in future leave matters which are beyond your understanding to those whom they concern and keep your notions of what is right and wrong for those who wish to hear them. And remember this: I will not have you meddling in the affairs of this country.”

“I have come here to practice my calling,” replied Dr. Ken. “And nothing will prevent my doing that.”

“I shall prevent your arrogant interference in my affairs,” said William.

“Your Highness, I cannot be obstructed in my duties and shall make preparations to return to England without delay. I believe there are some there who will be interested to hear of the harsh treatment which is accorded to the Princess.”

William said: “Leave as soon as you wish. It cannot be too soon in my opinion.”

With that he left us.

I looked at Dr. Ken in dismay.

“You cannot go,” I said.

“I have no alternative.”

I had drawn courage from this man. I needed him to be with me.

“I shall feel so alone without you,” I said.

“There is no reason to. The Prince is an ambitious man. He dare not go too far in his treatment of you. Already I have spoken of it. He knows that and he does not like it. Your Highness must never forget your position. He is aware of it constantly and does not like it. He wants to be in control. Do not forget, my dear Princess, that he can only go so far. You have weapons to fight back. Now, I must go and make my preparations.”

“Please, Dr. Ken. I have need of you. Do reconsider your decision. I know you are right in what you say. You have given me great strength. Pray do not go. I beg of you — stay. Stay a little longer.”

He looked at me tenderly.

“You have heard what was said. You realize my position. I cannot stay unwelcome. I must return to England.”

“If you will only stay a little while . . .”

“It will take me a day or so to prepare.”

“Please, Dr. Ken, you have given me courage. I need you here. Please do not go just yet.”

He said: “I will wait a day or so.”

It seemed to me very important that he should stay.

IT WAS LATER THAT DAY when William came again to me. He was calm and cold, his old self.

He said: “Have you seen Dr. Ken?”

“I have asked him to stay,” I replied, with a note of defiance in my voice.

I was surprised to see that he looked pleased at this.

“What says he?”

“He says he cannot stay.” I held my head high. “I do not wish him to go.”

To my astonishment, William said: “It is better for him to stay the appointed time. We shall only have another such in his place.”

“But you have made it difficult for him to stay. You have as good as told him to go.”

“Only when he announced his intention of doing so. You should persuade him to stay.”

I smiled a little wryly. Of course, he did not want Dr. Ken to go home and tell them how badly the Prince treated me. The people would be angry. Their emotions were quickly aroused. He would give them a picture of the poor Princess — their English Princess — who was treated as of no importance by a Dutchman. And when the time came — if it did come — when he rode through the streets of London with me, they would remember the Dutchman who had been harsh to their Princess.

I saw how his mind was working. He had been so enraged by the Zulestein marriage that he had temporarily — and rarely — lost his calm judgment. He had said that which would have been better unsaid; and now he was anxious to keep Dr. Ken under supervision that he might not go back to England and preach against William of Orange.

I could not help smiling slightly as I turned to him.

“I have tried to persuade him. I think if you want him to stay, you should ask him yourself.”

William seemed taken aback at the prospect.

“You can persuade him,” he said.

“I have tried, but I think you have offended him too strongly and that he will need to be told that his presence is not distasteful to you.”

This was a strange turn of events. I was advising William.

He said: “I might see the man.”

Yes, he was indeed afraid of Dr. Ken’s returning to England and speaking disparagingly of the Prince of Orange.

I SAW DR. KEN A FEW HOURS LATER. He was smiling.

“The Prince has been to see me,” he said. “Yes, he came to me and did not summon me to his presence. A rare condescension. He has been emphatic in his desire that I should stay. He was shocked by the sudden marriage of his kinsman, he explained, for he had had plans for him. But he saw the point and realized that I did only what a priest must do in the circumstances. He said that the Princess had been comforted by my instruction and was extremely upset at the prospect of my departure, and for that reason he hoped I would reconsider my decision.”

“And you have?”

Dr. Ken smiled.

“I have said I will stay for another year, but I did imply that I was not satisfied with his treatment of Your Highness. It may amaze you that he showed no resentment. I thought that he might repeat his desire to be rid of me, but he did not. Instead he said that, if I would stay on a little to please the Princess, I should be very welcome at The Hague.”

So Dr. Ken stayed with us.

I had certainly changed. I had lost some of my meekness. I had confirmed the importance of the English crown and that William must constantly be reminded that the easiest way to it was through me.

REVELRY AT THE HAGUE

I was so glad that Dr. Ken stayed with us. He was a comfort to me and at that time I needed comfort.

Frances Apsley had married Sir Benjamin Bathhurst. I knew that she would marry sooner or later as she was advancing into her twenties. Her letters had changed. She was very happy, she wrote to me, and soon after that she was pregnant. She was still my dearest friend, as she had said she always would be, but I could see there were more important things in her life now — her marriage, and the child she was expecting. I envied her and yet I was glad of her happiness. But it made her remote and I knew that it would not be the same henceforth. Perhaps it never had been what I had imagined, but there had been great happiness in the belief and that had been essential to my comfort.

I longed for a happy marriage, a child of my own. But I was married to William. Could I ever make him love me as Sir Benjamin obviously loved Frances? Was it possible? Should I try?

I have always been fanciful and I began to build up a picture of domestic happiness which was a complete contrast to reality: William discovering how much he loved me — a completely different William from the dour, ambitious man I knew. His true feelings had been hidden beneath that stern facade he showed to the world. I had awakened him to love. My hopes of the crown were of no importance. Oddly enough, I began to believe that it might be true.

Then, even in my realistic moments, I began to feel that there might be just a grain of truth in my dreams, for William and I discovered a shared interest. He was fascinated by buildings and so was I — particularly gardens.

He was in the process of building a palace at Loo and I was surprised when he showed me the plans for it. Perhaps this was due to the criticisms Dr. Ken was still making about his neglect of me — but I did not want to look for that sort of reason.

I was excited. It was to be a wonderful palace.

“The garden will be large,” he said. “You might like to choose some of the flowers and say how you would like them to be laid. You will have your own suite there, of course, and you could make some suggestions about that.”

I threw myself wholeheartedly into the project. We arranged that under the windows there should be a fountain and, as I showed a preference for statues, they should be placed in the garden at spots of my choosing. It was all very interesting and I watched the erection of the palace with great delight. And what made it so pleasant was William’s changed attitude. He was more gracious; he suggested rather than ordered.

Frances wrote of her happiness with Sir Benjamin and the interests they shared, and I wrote back glowing of my life with William.

I loved the palace at Loo. I suppose because I had had a hand in its construction. I set up a a poultry garden where I hoped to breed various specimens of fowl. It was a great pleasure to go among them, feed them and have them fluttering all around me. So I spent a great deal of time at Loo.

Unfortunately, once the palace had been built, I saw less of William. I could not expect him to be at Loo when state affairs demanded his attention at The Hague.

There was news from England. My sister Anne was at the heart of a scandal.

She was sixteen years old now. I had been married before I reached that age. It was different now. The unpopularity of my father had increased since I left. Titus Oates had seen to that. The King was older, and his age and my father’s inability to get a son made it seem more possible that I — and William with me — would one day have the throne. And, of course, Anne would follow me, if I had no children, which seemed likely.

It was hard to contemplate Anne bestirring herself sufficiently to become involved in a scandal. I supposed it just happened round her. She was pretty in her way, in spite of being too fat; her complexion, when I had last seen her, had been very fresh and healthy-looking; and her rather vague look — due to her shortsightedness — could be very appealing to some.

In any case, it seemed that John Sheffield, Earl of Mulgrave, had fallen in love with her. Their romance had been discovered and poor Mulgrave was in disgrace.

He was some years older than she was — about sixteen or seventeen, I heard — but a very handsome man with a great gift for words. I think she must have been charmed by his poetry.

However, when it was discovered that Mulgrave had plans to marry her — and had her agreement to this — there was trouble.

I could imagine Anne’s demeanor. She would smile her ineffectual smile and it would be realized that it was no use remonstrating with her.

It was different with poor Mulgrave. He was reprimanded and sent off to Tangiers. I heard afterward that the ship on which he had sailed leaked, and it was hinted that it was hoped to be rid of him at sea; but I did not believe that. My uncle would never be party to such a plan, but there will always be insinuations against people in high places; and when I discovered that the Earl of Plymouth was among those on board, I knew it was false, for the Earl of Plymouth was an illegitimate son of the King. My uncle loved all his children dearly and would never have allowed any of them to go to sea in a faulty vessel.

Mulgrave himself never brought such an accusation and declared that the unseaworthiness of the ship had not been discovered until they were halfway to Tangiers and that if it had been faulty when it set out it would have been quickly revealed.

Anne’s little flutter with Mulgrave had brought home the desirability of finding a husband for her before she was involved in further indiscretions.

PRINCE GEORGE OF HANOVER ARRIVED in Holland. He was on his way to England and we guessed the reason for this visit. It was to give him an opportunity of meeting Anne.

William was always affected by what was happening at the English court. Sometimes I thought it would have been happier for him if Mrs. Tanner had not seen that vision of the three crowns at his birth. Then perhaps he might not have been so obsessed by the need to get them. But perhaps, being the ambitious man he was, he would have wanted the crowns just the same.

George had a claim to the throne. His father Ernest Augustus had married Sophia, the daughter of Elizabeth, Queen of Bohemia, who was the granddaughter of James I of England. His connection with the Stuarts did not please William. I think William would have been happy if Anne had made her clandestine match with Mulgrave.

I had come out of seclusion at Loo for the visit of George of Hanover. I found him singularly unattractive; he was handsome in a way, but he had no charm or manner; he was simple in his dress and it was obvious that he was going to make no concessions to anyone. He had clearly inherited none of the charm of the Stuart clan. I wondered what Anne would think of him.

He did not stay long with us and after he had gone I waited eagerly for news of what had taken place on his meeting with my sister.

There were various versions, but the main one was that it had been far from successful. Elizabeth Villiers, I imagined, was the chief source of information, for she was in constant communication with her sisters who were at the court of England, and that meant she received the latest news from them. It was usually accurate.

It seemed George and Anne had not taken kindly to each other. Poor Anne! I expect she compared him with Lord Mulgrave, and the contrast must have been great.

How I wished I could have been with her, to have known her true feelings. Anne was not a letter writer; she had always avoided taking up her pen. She was quite different from me in that respect and any communication I had from her was brief. I did hope she was not too unhappy at this time.

I heard that George had been averse to the match after meeting Anne and Anne felt the same about him. So there could have been no regrets when the young man was recalled to Hanover and was almost immediately betrothed to Sophia Dorothea of Celle.

So George’s future was fixed, and I was sure someone would soon be found for Anne.

There was sad news from home. Little Isabella had died. I was desolate. I had grown to love my little half-sister when she had been with us and I guessed the anguish Mary Beatrice would be suffering. It was so cruel that this child — the only one who had managed to survive for a few years — should be taken from her.

My father wrote very sadly to me. I knew that he would be going through a very difficult time. The King was not in the best of health and there was uneasiness everywhere. He hoped that I was happy. Dr. Ken had reported that he was not pleased with the manner in which I was treated at my husband’s court.

I wrote to him and said that I was very well and by no means unhappy. Dr. Ken may have exaggerated. He did not really like being away from his own country and he had had some differences about religion with the Prince.

My father also said that he believed there were rumors circulating about himself, and he hoped nothing would be done to poison my mind against him. He wanted my assurances that the feelings we had had for each other were as they always had been.

I assured him that this was so, although I wondered afterward if this was entirely true. In the days of my childhood I had thought him godlike, perfect in every way; but recently I had felt a little impatient with him. I hated the conflict and it was becoming more and more clear to me that if my father had not flaunted his religion in such a way, many of our troubles need never have occurred.

When Dr. Ken went back to England he was replaced by Dr. Covell. Dr. Covell had traveled a great deal and was very different from Dr. Ken. He was more gentle, more inclined to keep his opinions to himself, but I quickly realized that he had no great fondness for William, and I was not surprised, for he was shocked, as Dr. Ken had been, by the lack of respect accorded me.

There was more news from England regarding Anne. This time her suitor was another George — the Prince of Denmark. By all accounts, he appeared to be a rather pleasant person, unassuming in the extreme, and because he was only the second son of King Frederick of Denmark, he could take up his residence in England and Anne would not be expected to leave her home. I could well imagine that this would make the young man very agreeable to her — and when I heard that Colonel Churchill was a friend of the Prince, who in turn thought highly of the Colonel, I was sure that Sarah would approve of him and that would count very highly with Anne. So I was not surprised when I heard she was satisfied with the match, and I rejoiced in this, for I did not want my sister to suffer as I had.

I was living a very quiet life at this time. Anne Trelawny was a great comfort and I also had my old nurse, Mrs. Langford, with me. Her husband was a clergyman and one of my chaplains. There were the Villiers and Betty Selbourne with Jane Wroth — now Jane Zulestein — and a rather pretty Dutch girl named Trudaine.

Another of the Villiers sisters had arrived in Holland. This was Catherine. She had married a Monsieur Puisars, a Frenchman who had a post at The Hague.

My father was writing frequently to me now and I knew that William was very uneasy about this. He kept a close watch on my actions, and did not care that I should appear often in public. On the rare occasions when I did, I was regarded with great interest by the people and I fancied that they liked me. Their smiles indicated this and, although they are not a people to give vent to emotions, they implied that they approved of me. William noticed this and it seemed to puzzle him and did not, I think, altogether please him. He himself was always greeted with the utmost respect but hardly affection. With me it was the reverse, and this made him rather thoughtful and may have been the reason why he did not want me to appear too often.

He had arranged that, in addition to the maids of honor, who were my friends, there should be several Dutch attendants. They were given orders to attend my needs and make sure I was given the utmost care. When they first appeared, I resented them, for they seemed like jailors, but I soon found that they were pleasant girls and grew quite fond of them.

Now that I had so much leisure, I realized that I had not worked as hard as I might have done at my lessons and my ignorance disturbed me. I discovered a special interest in literature, and as there was little to do but walk in the gardens, do needlework, or, if I were at Loo, amuse myself with the poultry, I became involved with my books. I even painted a little, remembering the instructions of my dwarf, Richard Gibson.

With these occupations the days passed pleasantly. More and more people, though, were asking themselves why I allowed my husband to govern me. It was said: “The Princess of Orange lives like a recluse and this seems to be at the wish of her husband.”

But I was enjoying my books and painting. I suppose I have a peace-loving nature. I had never wanted to stress my rank. I think, more than anything, I wanted to live on happy terms with those about me. I have always thought that displays of anger rarely benefit the people who make them. I think, too, that I had become somewhat fascinated by William. I knew he was not handsome, not quite straight in frame, cold, aloof, without tenderness. Set out like that, it would seem he had all the least likeable traits a man could have. But there was something very strong about William. Ambition, I had seen in men, but not that power which I believe is reckoned to hold a certain attraction for some women. It may be that I am one of them.

So I lived my docile life at the House in the Woods, or at Dieren, which I visited from time to time because it was said to be good for me — and of course at the Palace of Loo. And those about me — some of them English visitors to The Hague, Dr. Covell, Betty Sherbourne, Mrs. Langford and Anne Trelawny, continued to complain that the Prince of Orange behaved very badly toward his wife.

The news from England was awaited eagerly. It seemed clear that a crisis was looming. The Exclusion Bill, which was to prevent my father taking the throne in the event of his brother’s death, had failed to go through once more, simply beause the King had prevented it by dissolving Parliament.

The Duke of Monmouth was very much in evidence — Protestant son of the King, though, unfortunately for him — and for England, some implied — born on the wrong side of the blanket. If only he had been the legitimate son, all this unrest could have been avoided.

But it was not impossible to put this matter right.

I could imagine how the King would watch his son’s antics with that amusement he bestowed on all matters, whether of great importance or none at all, as though to say, it is for you to settle when I am no longer here.

My father had returned from Scotland and the King had received him with great joy. Those ministers who had brought about his exile had been overruled by those who wished for his return; but the fact that the heir to the throne had been sent into exile had created a very uneasy situation.

My father had assumed his old duties. He still had his enemies but they appeared to be less powerful and, although he was not popular, it was said that many preferred to have him brought out of exile and at home, where he could be watched.

Everyone did not agree with that. Perhaps that was why the Rye House Plot occurred.

That there should be a plot to kill the King seemed incredible. He was as popular as ever, and all hoped that he would live for a very long time, for while he was on the throne all was well. But he had prevented the Exclusion Bill becoming law, and now his brother was back in the country, heir to the throne. To some it must seem that the King’s affection for his brother had overcome his good sense; and there were those who were determined that at all costs the Duke of York should not come to the throne. So they planned to kill him, and with him the King. Hence the Rye House Plot.

Fortunately it was ill-conceived and one of the conspirators took fright and confessed that the assassinations were being planned. The King and his brother were to be murdered on their way back from Newmarket, at a house in Hertfordshire which belonged to a maltster and was called Rye House. I was greatly relieved to hear that my father and the King were safe.

This was particularly interesting to many of the people at The Hague because some of the conspirators were well known there. Lord Russell was one; Algernon Sidney another.

By this time I had guessed, of course, that these men had been at The Hague conspiring with William to be ready for the time when my uncle died.

William was aggrieved, if not for Sidney and Russell — who were executed after the trial, which had shown how deeply involved they were — for the failure of the plot which, had it succeeded, would have removed those who stood between me and the crown.

ANNE WAS MARRIED TO GEORGE OF DENMARK. How I wished I could have been present in the Chapel Royal at St. James’s on that day. By all accounts she had quickly forgotten Mulgrave and was perfectly contented with the bridegroom they had given her. How rarely that happened, and how blessed were those to whom it did!

Anne would sail through life as she always had done, apart from that minor upset over Mulgrave which she should have known was doomed from the start.

Sarah Churchill was with her and would remain so. Anne would arrange that and Sarah would agree, because of the advantages her position brought her.

Meanwhile, I must pursue my quiet life, reading, painting, walking, seeing few people but those in my immediate circle.

It was with great sorrow that I heard that the Duke of Monmouth was suspected of having been concerned in the Rye House Plot.

I believed he was genuinely fond of his father; he had always shown a great affection for him. I knew that he and my father were not good friends. I was sure Jemmy thought my father a fool to parade his Catholicism as he did; and, of course, my father was not pleased to see Jemmy appearing in public with the airs and grace of a Prince of Wales, as though the role were his by right.

Now Jemmy was in trouble. He had been in trouble before but the King had always been lenient and again and again he had been forgiven. Jemmy possessed the Stuart charm in great measure and was like his father in many ways — alas, though, he lacked his wisdom.

He could scarcely be forgiven this time. Sidney and Russell had been executed for their part in the plot, so how could Jemmy go free? The King did what he always did in such a situation. He prevaricated. There was no imprisonment for Jemmy, but he was sent into exile. Brussels seemed the natural haven and to that city he came.

William made sure that he was given a welcome when he eventually arrived in Holland, and this was noted and commented on.

I was told that when the King heard of it, he was highly amused and in his dry way commented that he was surprised that the Duke of Monmouth and the Prince of Orange could be such friends when they were both pursuing the same mistress — by which he meant the English crown.

There was uneasiness everywhere. Everyone waited for what would happen next. I wondered how my uncle felt, knowing they were all thinking of his death. I could imagine the regrets he would feel that he would not be there to see the results of their actions.

Algernon Sidney had been replaced as English Envoy by Thomas Chudleigh who was not accepted very graciously by William. Chudleigh had been sent to be watchful, for William’s preference for Sidney and Russell was well known.

Chudleigh joined the set who were complaining about the Prince’s treatment of me, and who were still writing to England about it.

However, the weeks sped by and in fact I was enjoying the occupations which filled my quiet life. I did not want to be drawn into political conflicts, particularly now when there was a growing hostility between my husband and father.

I thought very tenderly of my father every now and then, remembering incidents from my childhood, but my impatience with him for creating this trouble was increasing.

I was reading a great deal about the doctrines of the Church and I was becoming more and more convinced that the break with Rome was a blessing for England, and that a religion which could tolerate an Inquisition with its accompanying cruelties must be avoided at all cost. It was true that there had been persecution by the Protestants, but there had never been such cruelty in England as there was under the reign of Bloody Mary, and it was right that all steps should be taken to make sure that it never happened again. William would prevent it. My father would bring it back.

William came to me one day and said: “The Duke of Monmouth will be coming to The Hague.”

“To The Hague!” I cried in astonishment. Jemmy had been in Holland and William had shown his friendship to him, but to invite him to The Hague — and if he came it must be as an honored guest — was an insult not only to my father but to my uncle, the King. Jemmy was the latter’s son, of course, but he was in exile.

“But . . .” I began.

William waved a hand impatiently. He did not enter into explanations. Suffice it to say that Jemmy was coming at his invitation.

“We must give him a good welcome,” he said.

“I?”

He looked at me coldly, annoyed that I should remind him that I was not usually included on such occasions.

“Naturally, you will help to entertain him,” he said. “So you will be ready to do so.”

He did not linger. He did not want to answer questions. So our brief interview was over.

I was puzzled. The thought entered my mind. Should I allow myself to be treated in this way? To be shut away, almost as though I were under house arrest, and then suddenly to be called out of seclusion at a moment’s notice. I knew why — of course. I was my father’s daughter. And my father and Monmouth were enemies.

I was never forceful enough, but there were times when I wanted to protest. I did not understand my feelings for William. He was usually cool to me, never tender, never loving; and yet I behaved in this submissive way. I was always aware of that power in him, that quality which made me forget he was undersized, not physically strong when compared with most men; but somehow he managed to tower over them mentally. I knew enough of him to be aware that he railed against his weakness, that he was often in pain from his aching joints. He would never admit this, of course, and Nature had endowed him with towering mental powers with which to achieve his great ambitions.

There was another reason why I was eager to comply with his request. I was very fond of Jemmy. Both Anne and I had looked forward to his visits. He used to dance with us and tell us wild exciting stories of his exploits, of his daring and unmatched courage. They were all fabrications, and we knew it — but we loved hearing them all the same.

So to see him again, if only for a brief time, would be exciting. I would try to forget my uneasiness concerning the part he may have played in the Rye House Plot. I would just look forward to being with Cousin Jemmy.

It was some time since I had appeared at court. There had been one occasion when I had done so most reluctantly. It was one I could not easily forget.

Always at St. James’s we had remembered the anniversary of my grandfather’s death, and made it a day of mourning. Anne and I used to stay quietly in our apartments, and there had been special prayers for our grandfather’s soul.

I had always kept up the practice, even since I had come to Holland, and the day had always passed off quietly until the one at the beginning of this year.

I had fasted during that day, wearing a black gown, and was at prayer in my chamber when William came in.

He looked very impatient at the sight of me.

He said: “Enough of this. You are to dine with me tonight.”

I replied: “But I am fasting on this day, which is the anniversary of the murder of my grandfather.”

“Take off that gown,” he said, “and put on the brightest one you have.”

I stared at him incredulously. “I could not do that,” I said.

“Get one of your women to help. You cannot wear that dress of mourning. I wish you to wear your most splendid gown.”

“In England,” I began, “we always . . .”

“You are not in England now.”

“Here, too,” I said.

“I wish you to appear with me. There must be no hint of mourning. You understand?”

“But . . .” I began; and at that moment Betty Selbourne came in with Anne Trelawny. I realized he must have sent for them.

He said to them: “The Princess must be ready in an hour. Bring out the most splendid of her gowns.”

Then he left us.

“But it is the anniversary,” began Betty.

Anne was looking at me questioningly. “What does Your Highness want?” she asked.

I hesitated. Then I said: “Bring out the gown and help me to dress.”

I could see that Anne was angry and Betty was already thinking of what she would write home. People there would soon know that I had been commanded to ignore the day of mourning for my grandfather.

I felt numb as they helped me dress, but I was ready when the Prince arrived to take me to The Hague.

I remember so well sitting there while the dishes were placed before me. I could eat nothing. I was choked with misery ... for my grandfather who had been brutally murdered, and for the fact that I could be so treated. It was, as Dr. Ken had said, as though I were a slave.

At that time I despised myself and I hated William. I saw what was in his mind, of course. He wanted the people to know he would have no looking back, no mourning for an ancestor who, through his folly, had lost a kingdom. William looked forward.

It was a long time before I could forgive him for this.

Perhaps I should have been grateful for the secluded life I was leading. I was becoming educated, seeing beyond the obvious, trying to understand my position. There were little, carefree enjoyments in my life which I had not known since I left England.

It was my custom to retire at a fairly early hour, for I liked to have plenty of time to say my prayers and perhaps read a little from some religious books which Dr. Covell had given me. He was anxious, as Dr. Ken was, that I should not turn to the more puritanical Dutch form, which they were sure William was trying to force on me.

One night when I was reading, Anne Trelawny came into my closet and told me that a messenger had arrived and was asking to see me without delay.

He was brought in.

He said: “The Duke of Monmouth has arrived, Your Highness, and is at the Palace of The Hague. The Prince requests you go there without delay.”

I said: “I will see him in the morning. I am just about to retire.”

“Your Highness, the Prince said that I was not to return without Your Highness. He wishes you to put on suitable garments without delay and come to him at the Palace.”

My thoughts went back to that other occasion when I had had to change from my mourning gown at his command.

Suppose I refused? I could not. I dared not. I wondered what he would do if I did? Would he bring Jemmy here? Would he come himself? I very much wanted to see Jemmy.

Only briefly did I hesitate. Then I told the messenger he should wait below and I should be with him very shortly and we would go to the prince’s apartments.

There I found Jemmy with William. It was wonderful to see my cousin again. I forgot all ceremony and so did he.

We embraced and he hugged me tightly.

“Little cousin,” he said. “What a joy to see you.”

“Jemmy,” I murmured, “dear Jemmy.”

“Let me look at you. Why, you have grown into a beauty. William, you must be proud of her.”

William did not answer and I did not look his way.

“Oh, Jemmy,” I began.

He squeezed my hand. “We’ll have opportunities to talk, I know.”

We dined together. William was very affable. I had rarely seen him in such a mood and I wondered at it, since they both had pretensions to the throne. Jemmy was so good-looking, so charming, he would have a way of beguiling the people and there would be many on his side. He was the Protestant hope — or at least one of them. Could he ever manage to escape his illegitimacy? William and he were rivals.

There must be some devious motive behind William’s affability, but I did not want to think of it at this time. Suffice it that Jemmy was here.

William was determined that he should have lodgings worthy of the Duke of Monmouth during his visit to the court of The Hague and he suggested the Prince Maurice Palace.

Jemmy’s eyes shone. I knew from the past that there was little he enjoyed more than to be treated with the deference due to rank.

“You must let me know what servants you require,” William said, “and I shall see that they are provided.”

This was special treatment. William listened with courteous attention to everything Jemmy said and encouraged him to talk — which was scarcely needed.

The thought came into my mind that Jemmy would need to be very alert if he intended to pit his wits against William’s.

That was a pleasant evening — perhaps I might say the most pleasant I had had since my arrival in Holland. William treated even me with a show of gracious concern. I felt lighthearted. But there was a tinge of sadness. Jemmy’s coming reminded me too poignantly of home.

THE NEXT DAYS were some of the most exciting of my life.

I must be seen everywhere with William and Monmouth. I was treated with courtesy; the people cheered me — in fact, I believe they did so more warmly for me than for William. He would notice this, of course, but he showed no sign of resentment. I thought perhaps the people may have heard whispers of his treatment of me and wanted to tell me that they were sorry for me. I could not help being flattered and pleased.

Jemmy was delighted. He was acclaimed by the people. That was of the utmost importance to him. Poor Jemmy, all through his life he had sought to escape the stigma of illegitimacy.

He quickly became popular, of course, and at every opportunity showed his strong allegiance to Protestantism.

I was glad they liked him. As for myself, I looked forward with great delight to his company. He was always so tender and considerate toward me, and so loving that I could almost fancy he was falling in love with me.

It was a ridiculous thought, but I was starved of affection. I was, after all, young, unworldly, sentimental.

I knew that Jemmy shared with the King and my father the particular Stuart failing. One of their main objects in life was to enjoy the society of attractive women.

Lady Henrietta Wentworth had arrived at The Hague and to everyone’s amazement had been received as though she were the Duchess of Monmouth, even by William. Lady Henrietta was, of course, known to be Jemmy’s mistress of some years’ standing. I guessed that the real Duchess, his wife, had stayed in England. It was not a happy marriage. It had been a great match for him but I supposed that once he was in possession of her titles and fortune he forgot whence they came, as so many do.

It was absurd for me to have fancies about Jemmy, but one can be absurd at times, especially when one has lived the life of a recluse for several years, and then is thrust into a world of fun and gaiety.

Lady Henrietta did not, however, intrude, which meant that Jemmy’s attention was all for me. It was amazing that William, who had ever before been watchful of all those who were allowed to visit me, now seemed to give Jemmy and me absolute freedom.

Jemmy liked to dance and so did I. In fact, in my apartments now and then I danced with my women.

Jemmy said there were several new dances now fashionable at Whitehall and he would teach me some of them. William raised no objection and this gave Jemmy and me a chance of some private conversation.

I learned the dances quickly and we sat and talked.

“We have heard reports of what is happening to you here,” he told me. “Tell me first, are you happy?”

I could talk to Jemmy frankly. I said: “I am getting accustomed to it.”

He grimaced. “My poor little cousin. It was hard in the beginning, I know. You were so frightened. My heart bled for you.”

“Thank you, Jemmy. But it happens to many people. That was what they told me. I hated leaving everyone I loved.”

“And your husband?”

“I did not understand him at first.”

“And you do now?”

“He is a man whom it is not easy to understand.”

“I’d agree with that,” said Jemmy grimly.

“But I am not really unhappy now. I am alone often but I can read ... and think. I can fill my time.”

“It is a strange way to treat a Princess of Orange.”

I was silent for a while and then I said: “And you, Jemmy? It must be sad for you.”

“To be sent away from my country? Yes it is.”

“It is not the first time.”

He laughed. “I am in a delicate position, you might say. Mary, you do not believe I was involved in a plot to kill your father and mine?”

“If you tell me you were not, I will believe you.”

“I would never harm my father. You know I love him well.”

“As we all do.”

“It is difficult. The English ... you know ... they will never have a Catholic king on the throne.”

“If the rightful heir is a Catholic, they must.”

“One does not say ‘must’ to the people, and particularly the people of England.”

“Then what?”

He shrugged his shoulders and was silent.

“And Jemmy,” I said, “what of you?”

He said: “I am the King’s son. None can doubt. The King himself never has.”

“But your mother was not married to the King.”

“There are some who say there was a marriage.”

“That cannot be true, can it, Jemmy? The King has always denied it.”

Jemmy’s face hardened. “If there were proof,” he said.

“How could there be?”

His hand closed over mine. “In life, dear Mary, one should never shut one’s eyes to any possibility.”

“Jemmy, if it were so . . .”

“Ah,” said Jemmy, “if it were! Now I am going to show you another dance. This was very popular in Whitehall before I left.”

“Oh, Jemmy, how I wish all this trouble would be over. I hope the King goes on and on. Then it can stay as it is.”

“Yes,” said Jemmy. “Long life to him! But it has to come, you know.”

He stood up and held out his hands to me. I rose and he led me onto the floor, instructing me in the new dance from Whitehall.

THERE WAS TROUBLE WITH CHUDLEIGH, the English Envoy, with whom William had not been on very good terms since his arrival.

Because of William’s past friendship with Sidney and Russell, who had both been proved to be traitors, it was inevitable that Chudleigh should be highly suspicious of William, and as he was not the most tactful of men, he had made this clear.

He was shocked — and I supposed many people were amazed by this — that William should at this time pay such attention to the Duke of Monmouth. The King had been surprised and made his wry comments, but the extraordinary thing was that the Duke should have been made such an honored guest. Moreover, the Princess of Orange, who had previously spent much of her time in seclusion and was the daughter of one of the intended victims of the Rye House Plot, was giving him the most flattering attention.

I could understand how strange this must appear. I should have liked to have explained that it was my husband who had decreed, or more or less commanded, that I should help to entertain Monmouth and I was merely obeying him. I did not believe Monmouth had seriously meant to kill my father or uncle. He was reckless and could be caught up in people’s plots without having any real part in them. I was just excited to be with someone who made me feel merry and able to enjoy life.

There was much that would be difficult for people to understand; and I did not entirely understand it myself.

Eager to perform his new duties with efficiency, horrified that William should be honoring an exile from England, Chudleigh took action.

He gave instructions to the English soldiers under Dutch command that they were not to salute the Duke of Monmouth.

When William heard of this he was furious. He sent for Chudleigh. Several people heard what took place and it was talked of freely, so I was able to hear about it.

William demanded of Chudleigh how he could have the temerity to give orders to the Dutch army.

Sure of himself, Chudleigh retorted: “The Duke of Monmouth, Your Highness, is an exile from England on account of his complicity in a plot to take the lives of the King and the Duke of York. It is a matter of great astonishment to His Majesty’s Government, which I serve, that he should be so honored. I consider it my duty to prevent the Duke’s receiving the homage which appears to be given to him, for he is a traitor to my country, which is also his.”

William replied: “I would have you know that while you are in this country, you must obey its laws.”

“I must remind Your Highness,” retorted Chudleigh, “that I am not one of your subjects. I am here to serve my country and that is something I shall always do.”

William was carrying a cane, which he often did. I believed it was because he sometimes felt a weakness and a need to lean on something. He lifted his cane. It came within a few inches of Chudleigh’s face and it was clear that it was his intention to strike him. I imagined the awestruck silence and what the effect would have been if William had carried out such an action.

William apparently restrained himself in time, remembering the courtesy due to the Envoy of a friendly country.

Chudleigh said coolly: “If I have Your Highness’s permission to retire, I will do so.”

And the scene was over.

William must have been fuming with rage.

Chudleigh would certainly report what had happened and I knew that there would be surprise that I could be on such friendly terms with a man who had been sent into exile because he was suspected of being involved in a plot to murder my father.

THERE WAS A LETTER FROM MY FATHER. He was hurt and angered by the treatment of the Duke of Monmouth at the court of The Hague, and by the fact that I had not only partaken in it but with such enthusiasm. He was surprised that I could do so. The Duke of Monmouth was in exile, being suspected of planning to murder the King and himself. It seemed that the Prince of Orange, a kinsman of theirs, was acting as enemy rather than friend.

He went on to say that he knew I did not meddle in these affairs, but I should talk to the Prince and tell him what an effect this was having.

I smiled at this, imagining myself explaining to William. My father clearly did not understand the state of affairs here.

He went on: “Let the Prince flatter himself as he pleases, the Duke of Monmouth will do his best to have a push with him for the crown, if he, the Duke of Monmouth, outlives the King and me.”

I put down the letter. Did he really think that Monmouth or William would wait for his death? My poor, ineffectual father! How could he so deceive himself?

How little he knew of what was going on around me!

THE MERRY LIFE CONTINUED. There was a ball in honor of Monmouth. This was extraordinary, for William hated balls. To him they were foolish frivolity and a waste of time. But he appeared at this one — though he did not stay for long. He actually danced with me once — something I would have found hard to believe could ever happen.

I think he was anxious to show himself closely allied to the Protestant cause, and since Monmouth was an avowed one, he wanted everyone to know that he was anxious to see a Protestant ruler on the throne of England, and even if the people chose the bastard Monmouth, he would accept him because of his religion.

So, there was William dancing — a little inelegantly it was true — but still dancing!

As for myself, I wanted to dance all the time. It reminded me of home and what evenings used to be like there. It was no wonder that Monmouth’s stay in Holland was like a dream to me for ever after.

Of course, it was Jemmy who made it so. He was so full of energy and fun. We used to walk in the gardens together. William was aware of this and made no protest, although previously I had never been able to see people without his approval. It was such a change and I was like a bird which has been caged too long and has just regained its freedom.

We laughed a great deal. There was always laughter where Jemmy was. We talked of the past. We promised that there should be more such visits. We must repeat these happy days.

The weather grew very cold. We were, after all, in the midst of winter. There was ice on the ponds.

“We must skate,” said Monmouth.

I had never skated before, I told him.

“Then I shall have to teach you how to skate. It is too good an opportunity to miss. It is so cold that the ice will be really hard and you need have no fear, for my arms will be ready to catch you. You will be perfectly safe with me.”

What fun it was as we slid along, with the skates buckled to my shoes and my petticoats caught up at the knees.

“One foot, then the other,” chanted Jemmy. And we laughed and laughed. I lost my balance and was caught in Jemmy’s arms.

We were watched by the people who joined in our mirth. I think they were all pleased to see me enjoying life. It was long since I had been so carefree and happy; and I did not have to feel guilty, for I had William’s consent to abandon myself to the fun of the moment.

There was one unpleasant incident, however.

It was carnival time, I heard. I did not know there were such festivities in Holland. I supposed that it would have taken place and I heard nothing about it but for Jemmy’s presence.

I believe that on every lake and pond in Holland people in fancy dress and masked took their sledges onto the ice.

William had said that he and I must ride together. Jemmy was, of course, very much in evidence with us.

It was so unusual to see William taking part in such frivolity, but he drove the sledge and with me beside him we skirted over the ice.

The pond was fairly crowded and as we swept along, right in our path, a sledge was coming toward us. In this, masked but obviously himself, was the Envoy Chudleigh. He came along directly before us and, as he must have been aware of our identity, we expected him to draw to one side to allow us to pass. Chudleigh, however, did no such thing, and we were obliged to draw to one side to let him go by.

I saw William’s lips tighten, and I heard him whisper under his breath: “I shall endure no more of this insolence. I shall have him recalled.”

His anger had not abated when we returned and he immediately sent a letter to England and asked that Chudleigh should return to England.

Chudleigh was not a man meekly to take blame for what he considered to have been correct behavior. He wrote to England. I heard afterward that he had explained how he had acted as only a man of breeding could act on such an occasion. He had had the right of way and, presuming the Prince and Princess of Orange did not wish to be recognized, as they were masked, he had not done so. He added that, at the court of The Hague, special privileges were given to those English who were ready to work against their own country and continual complaints were made against those who were loyal to it.

In spite of his protests, Chudleigh was recalled to London and soon after that Bevil Skelton came out as an envoy. I think that, in due course, William certainly wished the change had not taken place and it would have been more convenient for him had he retained Chudleigh.

I SHALL NEVER FORGET that February day when the news came to The Hague. Jemmy and I, enjoying the days, had no idea that it was all going to end so soon and in such a way.

I had so enjoyed this pleasant interlude and had refused to remind myself that it could not go on forever; but I had not expected there would be such an abrupt ending.

There came a message from William. I was to go to him at once for he had news which he wished to impart. In accordance with my usual custom, I obeyed immediately, and as soon as I stood before him I knew by the pulse I saw beating in his forehead and his suppressed excitement that the news for which he had been waiting had come at last.

He said: “King Charles is dead. He died a few days ago. It has taken some time for the news to reach us. He suffered a seizure on the first of the month and it was thought that he might recover, but this is indeed the end.”

I felt stunned. We had been waiting for it, but when it came it was a tremendous shock. I should never see again that kind uncle who had always had a smile for me, and I was overcome with sorrow, for with my grief came the realization that now the real trouble must start. My father, William, Jemmy; this meant so much to them all and they were all seeking the same goal.

I wanted nothing so much then as to be alone.

William sounded grim. He said: “Well, there is a new king of England now. They have accepted your father as James II.”

I could see his lips were twitching. He had never believed it could be so. They had forgotten James was a Catholic, and because he was next in line they had taken him as their king. It had been a simple passing of the crown from one king to another.

But all I could think of was that kind uncle who was dead and gone forever.

I SAT ALONE in my bedchamber. I had not prepared for bed. I knew I should not sleep. My thoughts were at Whitehall, and how I wished I were there.

What would happen now? I asked myself. My father was King. I felt we were on the edge of great events and I was filled with fear.

There was a light tap on my door and Anne Trelawny came in. She said: “The Duke of Monmouth is here. He says he must speak with you.”

“So late . . .” I said in alarm.

“He says it will not wait.”

I went through into an ante chamber and there was Jemmy, dressed for a journey, looking distraught and very sad.

He took my hands and, drawing me to him, kissed me.

“Mary, my dear, dear Mary, I am leaving.”

“Not tonight?”

He nodded. “I have been with William for the last hour or so. He says I must go. I cannot stay here. It was different when my father was there. He loved me, Mary, and I cannot tell you how much I loved him. And now he is gone ... and there is no one . . .”

“What are you going to do, Jemmy? Where are you going?”

“Away from here. William has given me money. He says he cannot offend the new King by harboring me here.”

“It is all so sad,” I said.

“Your father is the King now, Mary. I know that he loves you well. If you could plead with him to let me return ... write to him ... tell him I am innocent . . .”

“I will see what I can do. It is not quite the same between us as it used to be. There are differences in religion. That seems to sow so much discord. Jemmy, what is going to happen to you?”

“I do not know. I cannot say. If my father had only lived. While he was there I always knew I had a friend.”

“I am your friend, Jemmy.”

“I know it. I know it well. That is why I ask you this. When the time comes ... you will plead for me?”

I nodded.

“Not yet. It is too soon. He will have other matters with which to concern himself. But you will do this for me?”

“I will,” I said. “I will. But Jemmy, you cannot go tonight.”

“I must. William has said I must. But I had to say good-bye to you. I shall let you know what is happening to me, and you will do that for me ... plead with your father to allow me to come home.”

“I will do that, Jemmy.”

“Dear Mary, dear little cousin.”

“God bless you, Jemmy. I shall pray for you.”

We embraced and he was gone.

THERE WERE LETTERS FROM MY FATHER — one was for me, telling me of his accession and the last hours of the late King. He had been with him at the end. My father then went on to express his undying affection for me. It was a most tender and moving letter. William received a formal announcement of the accession.

William read the letter which my father had written to me and kept it. I was amazed when he read it to the Assembly, as though it had been addressed to him.

He was evidently accepting the accession of my father, now that it had happened, without opposition and intended it to be thought that it had never occurred to him that it would be otherwise.

Strangely enough, he showed me the letter he wrote in return. He must have realized that during those weeks when I emerged from my solitude and mingled with the members of the court and Jemmy, I had learned something of his hopes and schemes.

It seemed now as if he wished me to believe that he rejoiced in my father’s accession.

He assured my father that Monmouth had come to the court as a suppliant and because he was the son of the late King Charles and he knew of the King’s affection for the young man, he had offered him common hospitality and had now sent him away. He went on to say that nothing could change his affection for my father and he would be the most unhappy man in the world if the King could not be persuaded of it. He would be, to his last breath, King James’s friend with zeal and fidelity.

I was amazed that he could write in such language, which was most unusual to a man of his nature, particularly when I knew his true sentiments toward my father. But William was a man who, when he saw a goal ahead, would let nothing stand in his way of attaining it. I wondered what my father’s reaction would be to such a letter. Perhaps I should know one day.

In the meantime I was overcome by a great melancholy. I could not stop thinking of my uncle and how different it would now be at Whitehall. I was anxious, too, about my father. He had been accepted as King, but what was to come?

Then I was wondering what was happening to Jemmy — and missing him very much.

THERE WAS A FEELING OF ANTICLIMAX at The Hague. William was certainly bewildered by what happened, for he had obviously believed my father would never have been accepted. But there he was, secure — so it seemed — and there was no one to raise a voice against him. He was crowned on St. George’s Day by the primate; there were a few ministerial changes but nothing to betray the King’s preference for Catholics.

However, on Easter Sunday, he did attend the Catholic service, and I could not help feeling that the calm would not last.

Jemmy was constantly in my thoughts. I knew that he was wandering around the Continent, unable to return home, an exile. William would not longer receive him at The Hague as, since my father had been accepted by the people, his great aim was to assure him of his loyalty to him. So poor Jemmy could hope for little hospitality in Holland. How different he must be finding life from the way it was during those happy days we spent together.

I wrote to my father, as I had promised Jemmy I would, asking him to consider removing the ban of exile. I said I was sure that Monmouth had played no part in the Rye House Plot and he was very unhappy and longed for permission to return home. I reminded my father that he himself knew what it meant to be an outcast from his own country.

My father replied that it would not be fitting for Monmouth to return to England at this time. Later he would consider it.

I could see that he did not trust Jemmy, and however much I pleaded for him, he was not going to give that permission which the poor young man craved.

After leaving The Hague, Jemmy had gone to the Spanish-governed Netherlands in search of sanctuary, but not for long. It was soon made clear to him that he was not welcome.

I could imagine how he would feel, how he would make plans to get home. I hoped he would not do anything rash. Knowing him so well, I feared he was capable of it.

And how right I was proved to be!

When I heard that he was plotting to make war on my father and to claim the throne, I was desperately unhappy. If only I could have talked to him, I might have succeeded in turning him from this reckless folly, I told myself. But he would never have listened to me. He had his dreams of grandeur and he made himself believe in their glorious fruition. I pictured the excitement in his beautiful eyes as he made his plans.

It is well known what happened to those wild dreams. They had little hope of becoming realities. I pictured his exerting that Stuart charm to beguile men to his side. For he did. He made them forget that his was a hopeless cause.

When I heard that he had landed in the West Country, I trembled for him. My father would know him for the thoughtless boy he was. He must not judge him too harshly, but he would, for Jemmy wanted to take my father’s crown from his head and put it on his own. He was declaring that he was the heir to the throne; he was his father’s son and a staunch Protestant; the marriage of his father to Lucy Walter would be proved. Did the English want their country to be the pawn of Catholics?

It was frustrating waiting for news. Messengers were coming back and forth and William was tense, waiting. The outcome of Monmouth’s rebellion could be of the utmost importance to him. There did at one point seem to be a chance of its succeeding. Monmouth’s great asset was his religion.

Anne Trelawny came to me. She was always quick to pick up the news.

She said: “The Duke of Monmouth has been proclaimed King in Taunton marketplace.”

“Can he really succeed against my father?” I asked.

She shook her head dubiously. “I should have said no, but this . . .”

Later I heard that Jemmy had put a price on my father’s head.

“James is a traitor,” he had declared, “and the Parliament is a traitorous convention.”

This was too much. I knew in my heart that he could not succeed. And if he did, what of my father? But he could not. The army was against him, and what were a few thousand country yokels against trained soldiers?

I could imagine the euphoria. In the West Country, they were calling him King Monmouth. But when he marched on Bath, no doubt expecting the same acclaim he had received in Taunton, Bath stood against him, and it must have been at that stage when he began to lose heart.

As far as I could, I followed his progress. I knew when he began to fear defeat and then recognized it as a certainty. I suffered with him. I knew him so well.

Poor, poor Jemmy, with his grandiose dreams which had no roots in reality.

And then had come the battle of Sedgemoor and the defeat of his followers, when Jemmy escaped disguising himself as a farm worker. I could smile wryly at such a disguise. He would never play the part; his constant awareness of his own royal birth would always shine through.

Inevitably there followed his capture and his journey to the Tower.

There was only one end for him. He knew it and his courage deserted him. He was very frightened.

I wrote to my father and begged him to be lenient with Jemmy. He was reckless, I agreed, but he was our kinsman. His father had loved him dearly. He had forgiven him again and again. This was just a reckless gesture doomed to failure; Jemmy would have learned his lesson.

My father’s reply was that Monmouth was a fool. He would never learn his lessons; he was not to be trusted, and fools could be dangerous. He was a coward; he had pleaded for his life; he, who had stressed his loyalty to the Protestant cause when he was recruiting men from the West Country — and many of them had followed him because of this — now he was vowing he would become a Catholic if his life was spared.

There was no hope. They led him out to the scaffold.

The stories I heard of his end were harrowing. Jemmy’s courage had returned when he faced the inevitable. He made a declaration that he was a member of the Church of England, but refused to condemn his rebellion. He held his head high as he mounted the block.

Jack Ketch, the executioner, struck five blows with his axe and still the head was not severed, and he had to cut it off with his knife.

And so died the Duke of Monmouth.

He haunted my dreams. I had loved Jemmy. I kept going over in my mind the wonderful days which we had spent together. I kept imagining him on the scaffold, desperation in his eyes. How different from that young man who had taught me to dance and skate on ice! I pictured Jack Ketch as he wielded the axe and Jemmy’s head bowed and bloody on the block. And I felt a sorrow which was replaced by a burning anger. He was too young to die, too handsome, too charming. And I could not bear that I should never see him again.

He had been reckless, foolish; he had believed that he could succeed. He had longed for that crown which could not by right be his. He had yearned for it as a child does for some bauble; and for a brief spell he had thought he held it in his grasp. King Monmouth! The king of those good simple people who had laid down their scythes and pitchforks to follow him to disaster and death.

Now he was dead and my father had allowed this terrible thing to happen. He had refused mercy. Jemmy, that poor frightened boy, had pleaded with him, and he had turned away; and so Jemmy, my dear cousin, Jemmy whom I loved, had suffered cruel death on the scaffold.

In those moments of grief the thought came to me that I could never forget ... and perhaps never forgive ... my father for the death of Jemmy.

I kept telling myself that he had acted as most would say wisely. But if he had never openly practiced his religion, if he had taken the same action as his brother, the King, this would never have happened, for my uncle Charles had been a Catholic and some said that Catholic rites had been practiced at his death. But Charles had been wise, my father foolish. I had loved Jemmy and my father had killed him. I would never forget and I could not find it in my heart to forgive him.

THE MISTRESS

Bevil Skelton, the new English Envoy to Holland, was not on very good terms with William. They had distrusted each other from the day of Skelton’s arrival and the reports Skelton sent home were very critical of William’s behavior.

I did not know at this time that my father, who had been against my marriage with William from the moment it had been proposed, was making plans to dissolve it and to arrange a new marriage for me.

William’s treatment of me had caused a good deal of anger in England. And it would not be difficult to find a reason for dissolving the marriage.

This would be the last thing William wanted. I had great value in his eyes, though that would seem hard to believe to anyone who did not know the reason and witnessed his treatment of me.

I had, it was true, written to my father telling him that I was not unhappy. I had found much to interest me in life — above all I had had time to study books on religion.

My father knew what books they would be and that did not please him. I dare say he still saw me as a little girl whom he had cherished all those years ago, and he would believe that, if I could be removed from William, my views could be changed.

I learned later that my father had a plan which was to involve Skelton and my chaplain Dr. Covell. Anne Trelawny and my old nurse Mrs. Langford were to be included because I would listen more to them than to anyone else. I was to be weaned from any allegiance I might feel for William.

When a husband is unfaithful to his wife, it is true that usually others are aware of this before that wife, although she is the one most concerned.

William was so serious, so lacking in frivolity of any sort, that I should never have thought he could be involved in an intrigue with any woman.

When Anne and Mrs. Langford were with me one day, I saw them exchange glances, as though there was some secret between them. It was as though they were waiting for a cue to begin something.

Then Mrs. Langford said: “Your Highness, this is difficult to say and I hope you will not be angry, but . . .”

She hesitated and looked helplessly at Anne, who said: “Her Highness should know. There are many who do. It is not fair that she should be kept in the dark.”

“Please tell me what you are trying to say,” I said.

Still they hesitated. Mrs. Langford nodded to Anne who said: “The Prince has a mistress. It has been going on for some time.” I stared at her unbelievingly.

“It is so,” she said. “It has been kept from you, but Dr. Covell and Mr. Skelton ... they all believe that you should remain in ignorance no longer.”

“This is nonsense . . .” I began.

Anne shook her head and went on: “It has been going on for a long time. It is not right that you should not know. Have you not noticed how insolent the woman is?”

“You mean . . .”

“Elizabeth Villiers, yes.”

“But she ... she squints!”

Anne smiled wryly and shrugged her shoulders. “She is clever ... full of tricks. It started almost as soon as you came here.

“I do not believe it.”

They exchanged helpless glances.

“He visits her almost every night,” said Mrs. Langford.

“No!”

“Well,” said Anne. “We have done our duty. If Your Highness will not believe us . . .”

“Not of William ... no.”

“It happens to most men.”

“He is different.”

Anne shook her head. “We thought you should know. We have done our part. If Your Highness will not believe us there is nothing else to be said.”

“Well,” added Mrs. Langford, “it should not be so difficult to prove it.”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“If you hid yourself on the stairs to her apartments you might see him going to her bedchamber.”

Anne added: “If you missed him one night, you would see him the next. He is a frequent visitor.”

“You mean ... spy on him?”

Anne shrugged her shoulders. “It depends on how important you think this is.”

“You never liked William,” I accused her.

“I am not alone in that. There are many of us who do not like the manner in which he treats you.”

I said: “Leave me. I should like to be alone.”

They immediately obeyed.

I was bewildered. I could not believe this, and yet there was a certain inevitability about it.

Elizabeth Villiers! She was not the most beautiful of women — even setting aside that squint. She had a strong personality; she was not a woman who would be passed by in a crowd. She had dignity. I was trying to think what he could find attractive in her.

But he had no time for women. He did his “duty” with me now and then but that was for a purpose.

Then suddenly I felt an overwhelming jealousy. He did not want me, yet I was reckoned to be beautiful. I know all princesses are said to be, but I was. True, I was inclined to plumpness, but that was not unattractive. Yet he clearly had little time for me and was going to Elizabeth Villiers. I could not believe it.

Then I remembered the tales I had heard of his youth when, under the influence of drink, he had broken the windows of the maids of honor’s apartments in an attempt to reach them. He must have masculine needs, the same as any man, but they could not be satisfied by me so he turned to Elizabeth Villiers.

No! No! No! I said. But a voice within me was jeering at me. Why not? I thought of the position she had made for herself at court. She had become a sort of governess to the maids of honor. People took orders from her. When her sister Anne had married William Bentinck, William had made no protest. I remembered the trouble over Jane Wroth and Zulestein. Of course, the Villiers were a noble family, but Bentinck ... well, he was William’s great friend and the marriage had strengthened the tie between Elizabeth and William.

Desperately I was trying to disbelieve, but as the minutes went by the story seemed more plausible.

Anne came to me again.

She said: “Forgive me. I should not have told you.”

“If it is true, I should know.”

“But it has wounded you deeply. It is the last thing I should wish.”

“I know that, Anne,” I said. “You have always been my dear friend. I trust you always will be and it is better for me to know the truth.”

She took my hand and kissed it.

“He is with her most nights,” she said. “If you watched, you could see him and prove it. Yes, it is better to know the truth, however painful. I have pondered for a long time. But Dr. Covell thinks you should be aware of what is known throughout the court.”

“Dr. Covell!”

“He is very angry with the manner in which you have been treated. He has written to your father.”

“My father knows ... about this?”

She was silent.

“Anne,” I said, “does my father know about William and Elizabeth Villiers?”

“Yes,” she replied.

“I can’t believe it. It is lies which have been said about the Prince to harm him in my father’s eyes.”

“You could see for yourself . . .”

I was decided now. I knew I was going to spy on my husband.

WE WERE IN OUR HIDING PLACE. It was a large cupboard on the stairs leading to the chamber which had been assigned to Elizabeth Villiers. It was separate from the quarters of the other ladies. The reason for that was now obvious.

Anne was not sure what time he would come, but she was certain that he would — if not this night, the following one, for he was a very frequent visitor.

I hated what I was doing. It seemed a mean and underhand act. But I had to know and the only alternative was to ask him. I could not bring myself to do that.

Suddenly Anne caught my hand and I listened. There was the unmistakable sound of footsteps on the stairs — quiet and stealthy. They were close now and when they passed Anne opened the door quietly and very slightly. I saw the back of William as he mounted the stairs, I saw him reach the door of Elizabeth Villiers’ bedchamber. He went in.

Anne turned to me in triumph.

“You have proof now,” she said.

I did not speak until I had reached my bedchamber. Then I said: “So it is true.”

“I am so sorry,” said Anne. She put her arm round me. “It is better not to be in ignorance,” she added soothingly.

“And people know,” I said. “Dr. Covell, Mr. Skelton ... and my father.”

“And many more,” said Anne.

“What shall I do?”

“Your father will advise you.”

“No. I could not speak of this to him. Perhaps when the Prince knows that I have discovered it ... he will cease to see her.

Anne looked at me disbelievingly.

“I must think about it,” I said.

“Do not brood on it. It happened. Few men are faithful.”

“Leave me now, Anne,” I said. “I will send for you when I need you.”

When she had gone, disbelief descended on me once again. It was not true. Other men were unfaithful. Not William. It was not that I thought he would have any scruples in the matter, but that he would not attach any importance to love, to the charm of women, to physical experiences. And certainly not if it meant creeping up back stairs by night. I knew of the exploits of the late King and my father and most of the courtiers of Whitehall, but I had thought William was apart from all that. And now I had discovered that he was, after all, like the rest. I had formed my opinion of him because I did not attract him — and therefore I had imagined that no one else could.

I spent a sleepless night. I thought of them all, discussing my affairs, pitying me, courting Elizabeth Villiers, which I now realized they had done.

How had she attracted him with her lack of feminine grace, with her squinting eyes?

I remembered those supper parties in the maids of honor’s apartments. I believed she was his spy as well as his mistress. She would be working for him, extracting opinions from the discontented English at The Hague, passing on information. Those parties had been arranged for that purpose.

I felt sick with the horror of it all.

It was not until the afternoon of the next day that I saw William. He came along to my apartments and when I saw him I was so overcome with anger and emotion that I could not consider my words with care and they came rushing forth unchecked.

I said: “I know now that you have mistress. I am shocked and amazed. You ... who have pretended to be so virtuous ... when all the time you are creeping up the back stairs to Elizabeth Villiers’s apartments. Pray do not attempt to deny it. I have watched you. I have seen you.”

He held up a hand to stop my outburst, but his expression had changed, his lips had tightened and an unusual color had risen to his face.

“What are you saying?” he demanded.

“I should have thought it was clear. You have a mistress. She is Elizabeth Villiers. It is not recent. It has been going on for a long time. That is the reason why she gives herself airs. Anyone would think she were my mistress as well as yours.”

“You are hysterical,” he said.

“And you are unfaithful. You have posed as a man of great virtue ... and delicacy ... without human weaknesses . . .”

“I have posed as no one that I am not,” he said. “If you have built up an image of me, that is your doing in your lack of reasoning and your inexperience of the world.”

“Do you deny this?” I asked angrily.

“No,” he replied.

“So you admit that she is your mistress?”

“These matters are not important to people in our position.”

“They are important to me.”

“Pray be reasonable.”

“And say that I do not care if you creep up to the bedchamber of my women at night?”

“Who told you of this?”

“Does that matter? I know.”

“Skelton is behind this. I shall find out. I will not have spies in my court.”

“My friends know of this and they do not like the way I am treated.”

“You are my wife,” he said.

“And you are in love with Elizabeth Villiers.”

He made an impatient gesture. “I am surprised,” he said, “that, brought up in what is reckoned to be the most licentious court in Europe, you should make an issue of such a matter.”

“This concerned myself ... my husband . . .” I began, and felt the tears in my eyes.

He saw them and came to me and laid a hand on my shoulders. He smiled. “Mary,” he said, “you are a child in many ways. When I saw you I determined to marry you.”

“Because of what I could bring you. I know that.”

“Listen to me. How do I know what you will bring me?”

“The vision of the three crowns. They will come through me.”

“I would not marry a wife I did not like and when I saw you, I said, this is the wife for me. Come, understand. I am not like the men you knew at your uncle’s court.”

“It would seem you are more like them than I realized.”

“This is nothing. These things happen now and then — and far less at The Hague than in most courts. The matter is of no importance. Just an everyday happening ... nothing more.”

“Then you will not see her again? You will send her back to England?”

He frowned. Then he laughed lightly. “Oh, you will see it is not important. One must not make an issue of these things. People get wrong impressions. We must think of our position.”

Desperately I wanted to be soothed. He was more gentle than he had ever been. I was filled with a desire to oust Elizabeth Villiers from his affections, and I was already beginning to let myself believe that this affair was nothing. It had been exaggerated. It was a passing fancy. Men did have such things. I must try to be more worldly. I was enjoying his efforts to placate me.

I said: “My father knows . . .”

I saw his face change. “Who told you that?”

I hesitated, not wanting to implicate Anne Trelawny.

I said: “I heard it. He is not pleased about it.”

William was thoughtful. Then he put his arm about me.

“I am sorry that I have seen so little of you of late,” he said.

“You have been seeing Elizabeth Villiers, of course.”

“I have seen very little of anyone save my ministers. But we might go to Dieren for a few days.”

I thought: he cares enough to try to make excuses, and I felt a certain satisfaction.

He kissed me gently. “Don’t forget,” he said. “It was you whom I married. It is you I love.”

This was startling. I had not heard him speak of love before. He was trying to take my mind from Elizabeth Villiers, I knew. Hence his expression of something near tenderness. I understood it was due to expediency, but I felt a little mollified.

I CONTINUED TO BE DISTURBED. William’s show of affection had had an effect on me. I found myself going over what he actually said to me. That he had been very uneasy about my discovery, I knew. But the fact that he took the trouble to reassure me lifted my spirits. There had been times when I thought I hated him, but I was not sure. My hatred had been fierce but it was due to the fact that he ignored me. I wanted him to notice me. I wanted to be important to him for myself, not just for the crown I might bring him.

It suddenly occurred to me two days later that, since they had told me of William’s infidelity, I had not seen either Anne Trelawny or Mrs. Langford. I sent for Anne. She did not come. It was Anne Villiers — Anne Bentinck now — who came in her place.

“Mistress Trelawny is not here, Your Highness,” she said.

“Where is she?” I asked.

“She ... has left.”

“Left? Left for where?”

“For England. Mrs. Langford was with her. Dr. Covell has also gone.”

“I do not understand,” I said. “How could they have left for England without my knowing?”

“They were sent, Your Highness.”

Anne Bentinck looked upset. She had never been so hard as her sister and had softened since her marriage.

“Sent? I do not understand.”

“Your Highness, the Prince gave orders that they were to leave without delay. They left last night.”

“You mean ... they were sent away?”

“Yes, Your Highness. They were ordered to leave.”

“Without telling me? They are my attendants!”

“It was on the Prince’s orders.”

“Why? Why?”

I knew, of course. It was Anne and Mrs. Langford who had told me that it was Elizabeth Villiers who was the Prince’s mistress. And Dr. Covell had been receiving letters from England about the matter. So they had been dismissed. William had done this.

Anne tried to comfort me.

I said piteously. “Anne Trelawny is my greatest friend. She has been with me since we were children.”

“I know. But she has offended the Prince. He would say that if they were working against him they were working against his country.”

I said: “He knew it was Anne who told me ... what he did not wish me to know.”

She nodded. News spread quickly at court. I could imagine the talk. The Princess has discovered that the Prince spends his nights with Elizabeth Villiers.

I wished they had never told me. It would have been better for me to remain in ignorance than lose those I loved best.

I WAS AMAZED. Now that I had discovered that William had a mistress and he knew that I was aware of it, I had expected him to give her up. He had said that he loved me; from the moment he had seen me he had determined to marry me, that he would not have done so, even for a crown, if he had not liked me. Naturally I had thought he was asking me to forgive him and forget this infidelity with Elizabeth Villiers, that he had been momentarily tempted and the affair had become more or less a habit which he would now discard.

It was nothing of the sort. He continued to see her; and the position had not changed at all. All that had come out of this was that I had lost my friends — even my dearest Anne who had been with me for so long that she was a part of my life.

I was hurt and bewildered and a sudden wild plan came to me. I acted on the spur of the moment. I am sure if I had given the matter more thought I should never have had the courage to act as I did.

I had seen little of William for the past few days. He had said he was engaged on state matters, but I happened to know he was seeing Elizabeth Villiers. I felt bitterly humiliated.

I had been a fool to be so easily placated and to believe all he told me. I was very angry and when I did not see him my courage always rose. It was when he was present that I was overawed.

He was going to be absent for a few days, away from The Hague, and while he was away he was going to do a little hunting.

When I ascertained that Elizabeth would not be with him, the idea occurred to me.

I did not think it out very clearly. There was no one I could trust now to help me carry it through. If Anne or Mrs. Langford had been with me, it would have been different; I could rely on no one else as I could those two.

William had sent my friends away. There had been no opportunity for me to question his decision. It was done before I was aware that it had happened. Well, I was going to do the same to him. I had been robbed of my greatest friend and I was going to rob him of his.

I sent for Elizabeth Villiers. She had to obey, of course. She was my maid of honor, even if she were also my husband’s mistress.

I was not alone when I called her to me. I was not going to give her a chance to talk insolently of her relationship with William which I felt she might have done if there were no witnesses.

When she arrived, I said: “I have an important duty for you, Elizabeth, and I know you will carry it out with your usual efficiency. That is why I have chosen you to do it. There is a letter which my father must have in his hands with all speed, and I want you to deliver it for me.”

She looked at me in astonishment.

I felt strong and brave, my father’s daughter, heiress to the throne of England. If ever I attained that crown, I should be very important — more so than William. The Villiers family had always been aware of whom they must please and surely I was one.

I expected William had told Elizabeth that I now knew of their relationship; she might think therefore that this was some sort of revenge on my part. However, she could not disobey me and she could not reach William to get him to release her from this task I was giving her.

She smiled at me but I knew she did not feel in the least like smiling.

I knew her devious mind was trying to find some way of evading what I was suggesting, but I was not going to let her do that.

I said: “I shall send an escort with you to put you onto a packet boat and conduct you to Whitehall. There you will deliver the letter into my father’s hands. You must go direct to him. Be prepared to leave tomorrow morning.”

I doubt whether she had ever seen me so regal as when I reminded myself of my position I could be; it was only William who overawed me and the thought of him out of reach gave me the courage I needed.

She said tersely: “I shall be ready to leave tomorrow morning.”

I was amazed how easy it was and I blamed myself for being so docile in the past. I only had to remind them by my manner who I was and they showed their deference.

I laughed triumphantly, though I did have a tremor or two when I thought of William’s return and his finding that I had dismissed his lover. But for the moment I was safe.

Before the night was out I wrote a letter to my father in which I told him I was sending William’s mistress to him with a letter. There was nothing of importance in the letter. I should seal it so that it could not be tampered with. When she arrived I wanted him to keep her there. I told him that William knew I was aware of his liaison with her and I had decided to stop it as he refused to give her up.

I sent off the letter by a messenger I could trust, impressing on him its urgency and that there must be no delay in delivering it to my father’s hands and his alone.

The next morning Elizabeth left.

It was only then that I realized the enormity of what I had done, and I waited in trepidation for William’s return.

HE WAS AWAY FOR A FEW DAYS ONLY. I saw him the day after and, to my amazement, there was no difference in his attitude toward me.

I waited. He would soon discover what had happened, for there would be several who knew that I had sent Elizabeth on an errand to England. I was very nervous, wondering how I could ever have acted so daringly.

A week passed without there being any mention of her. Could it be that he had not yet discovered her absence? In that case, the relationship between them could not have been so strong. Perhaps I had been over-rash, jumped to conclusions.

Another week had gone by and still nothing was said of her departure. None of my ladies mentioned it. Of course, they knew I had sent Elizabeth out of the country. They would understand and they usually knew as much about my affairs as I did myself.

One day Jane Zulestein came to me in a state of some excitement.

She said: “Your Highness, I saw Elizabeth Villiers today.”

“You saw her?” I cried. “Where?”

“In the palace. She was walking quickly. She had a scarf about her head so that it was not easy to see her face, and she was walking with her head down and hurriedly. She was going into the Bentincks’ apartments.”

“You must have been mistaken,” I said.

“No, Your Highness, I was certain of it.”

I was shaken. Bentinck’s apartments, I thought. They were next to William’s and, of course, Elizabeth’s sister Anne was Bentinck’s wife. If it were possible that Elizabeth was in Holland, that was one place where she might go.

My father would surely have taken heed of my letter. He was angry about William’s treatment of me and, in any case, he would do everything to help me.

For a few days I assured myself that Jane had been mistaken. She must have seen someone who looked like Elizabeth going into the Bentinck apartments.

When a letter from my father arrived, I understood what had happened.

He had been awaiting the arrival of Elizabeth. I could rest assured that, had she come, she would not have been allowed to return. The truth was that she had not come. He had had inquiries made and it transpired that, when she reached Harwich, and as she was stepping off the packet boat with her escort, she stopped and said she had left something behind and must go back to get it. The escort offered to go and retrieve the object but she assured him she must do this herself. She left him and that was the last he saw of her.

Further inquiries had been made and it was discovered that she must have slipped ashore unseen and caught another packet boat back to Holland.

It explained so much. I had been foolish to think I could outwit such a woman.

One of the Villiers sisters had recently married a Monsieur Puisars, son of the Marquis de Thouars, and they were living at The Hague. Elizabeth had stayed with them and from time to time she made visits to the palace to see William.

How clever they were! How devious! And how they must be laughing at my feeble attempts to frustrate them.

What was so strange about the matter was that William never mentioned it to me; and his attitude toward me had changed not at all.

WILLIAM AND MARY

About this time there came to Holland a man who was to have a great influence on me. I had reached a point in my life when I was very uncertain. I longed for a perfect marriage. I admired William in many ways but I had been bitterly hurt by his ill-treatment of me. I did not altogether understand my feelings for him; they were mixed and muddled. For so long in my life I had made an idol of my father. And now that image was crumbling. I was blaming him for the friction between my native and my adopted countries. I was lost in a wilderness. I needed guidance and Gilbert Burnet came along to give it.

Burnet was a brilliant man — a master of Greek and Latin, and a student of civil and feudal law. His father had determined he should have a career in the Church and he went through a course of divinity.

He had had an adventurous life before he came to us and his wide experiences had taught him tolerance.

He was a most unusual man, particularly considering his calling. He was tall, his eyes were brown, his brows thick and almost black; and he was a merry man in spite of his serious dedication.

He was even welcomed by William, because he did not approve of the way life was moving in England, and he regarded William and me as the next monarchs.

My father, he believed, was walking straight into a disaster of his own making; and he thought William and I should be ready when the time came for us to take over. He thought this could not be far off. This man helped to draw William and me together, and he made me understand William more than I ever had before. And I think he had the same effect on William in regard to me.

Gilbert Burnet had the gift of speaking of serious matters in a jocular way, yet in a manner not lessening their importance.

To my amazement, through my conversations with him, I discovered that I had quite an understanding of theology, for during my time of seclusion, I had read a great deal. Now I could discourse with knowledge and perception on these matters, and this impressed Gilbert. He imparted this to William and I detected a new respect toward me from my husband — almost imperceptible but still there.

My father, of course, was not very pleased that Gilbert Burnet should be at The Hague, and there ensued a long correspondence between us about this.

My father was more eager than ever that I should become a member of the Catholic Church. It seemed almost certain now that I should inherit the throne and he could not bear to think of his successor undoing all that he had done to promote Catholicism in England.

His folly alarmed and exasperated me. I loved him as I ever had and always would, but he seemed to me, in the light of all I was learning from Gilbert Burnet, to be acting like a wayward child.

My letters to him began to surprise me. I had for so long thought of myself as a poor scholar. I had seemed less so when compared with my sister Anne, of course, but even so I had never been erudite. Now I was amazed by the ease with which I could express my feelings in those long letters to my father who, although he did not agree with my views, complimented me on my erudition.

I talked a great deal to Gilbert Burnet. During this time I was missing Anne Trelawny very much. I had been accustomed to talk over my feelings with her, and there was no one else in whom I could confide as I had in Anne. With Gilbert Burnet it was different. Of course, we did not talk gossip as Anne and I had frequently done and it is surprising what can be learned from gossip; but I did find my discussions with Gilbert illuminating and a solace.

He made me understand that the break with Rome which had been the great event of the last century had come about through a king’s carnal desires, but it had brought great good to the nation. England must never return to the domination of Rome; and it was clear that it was along that path that my father was trying to lead the country.

Reading between the lines of my father’s letters, I could see how wild his dreams were. He did not work toward his goal as William did — quietly, deviously, keeping his secrets; he did not plan with his mind but with his heart. He was fervently religious. I thought of my great grandfather, King Henri IV of France, the Huguenot, who changed his religion for the sake of peace. He must have been rather like my Uncle Charles in more ways than one. “Paris is worth a mass,” he said, and for that the people accepted him and his great reign began.

My father was a good man, an honest man; and why should I criticize him for that? I had loved him so dearly, but I could not help deploring what he was doing to his country. Then I would see Jemmy’s head ... that beautiful head which I had loved — bowed and bloody on the block; I could see my cousin as he pleaded with my father who had turned aside and left him to his fate.

My emotions were in turmoil.

It need not have been so, I kept saying to myself. What is a principle compared with the lives of people? I had read of the Spanish Inquisition and the torture and cruelty inflicted in the name of religion. Should we have that in England? No, never!

Gilbert advocated tolerance. He was right.

Meanwhile my father planned for me to be divorced from William that I might marry a Catholic husband. Then he planned that I should come to England and with my Catholic husband reign in that Catholic land which he had created. That should never be.

One day Gilbert came to me in some alarm.

“There is a plot to kidnap the Prince and take him to France,” he said. “Let us ask him to come to your apartments without delay. It will be quieter there. I want none to overhear this.”

William came. He greeted me with that mild show of affection which he had displayed since the coming of Gilbert, for whom he had a friendly word.

“Gilbert has disturbing news,” I told him.

William raised his eyebrows and turned to Gilbert.

“Your Highness,” said Gilbert, “is in the habit of riding on the sands at Scheveling for a little exercise in the evening.”

“That is so,” agreed William.

“You must not do it tomorrow.”

“I have arranged to do so. It is a favorite exercise.”

“Tomorrow your enemies plan to surround you. They will have a boat waiting to take you to France.”

William shrugged his shoulders. “I shall not allow them to do that.”

“You will be ill protected and they will be in force. Once they have you out of the country, they will not allow you to come back.”

“This is ridiculous,” said William. “Of course I shall not allow them to take me. I have work to do.”

“And Your Highness must be on hand to do it.”

I put my hand on William’s arm. “I want you to take the guards with you tomorrow,” I said.

He gave me a wry look. He could see the real concern in my face and I think he may have been touched, though he did not show that he was. Was he wondering why I should care what became of him after the way in which he had treated me? Many people would. I saw the corners of his lips turn up slightly.

“I think it is unnecessary,” he said.

“You must take the guards with you,” I entreated. “Please do.”

The expression on his face did not change as he turned to Gilbert and said: “Since my wife wishes it . . .”

Gilbert Burnet smiled and the outcome was that when William went riding on the Scheveling sands he took a bodyguard with him. It was fortunate that he did, for an ambush was lying in wait for him and made off with all speed when it was realized that the plan must have been discovered since he was accompanied by his guards.

Burnet’s warning had been timely and so had my request that William should take the guard.

This incident was an indication of my changing relationship with my husband. It also showed how far my father was prepared to go in order to get rid of William and replace him with a husband for me of his choosing.

The plan in itself made me angry. I did not wish to be buffeted from one marriage to another, to suit my father’s obsession. I was turning away from him and I could not explain how I felt about William, for I was not sure.

I LEARNED MORE ABOUT WHAT WAS HAPPENING in England and I could see that day by day my father was plunging deeper into disaster. He was determined to make England Catholic and the people were equally determined that he should not. Why could he not see what was happening? It appeared that he was adopting his father’s belief in the Divine Right of Kings. Had he forgotten that that had led to his father’s death?

Sir Jonathan Trelawny — a kinsman of Anne’s — was in conflict with him over the Declaration of Indulgence and was sent to the Tower. Seven bishops were on trial for seditious libel. In the Duchy of Cornwall they were singing:

And shall they scorn Tre Pol and Pen

And shall Trelawny die

Then twenty thousand Cornishmen

Will know the reason why.

These were pointers showing what was to come. Why could my father not see it? I believed he could and refused to. He was meant to be a martyr.

I was beginning to know him from this distance as I never had when I was near him. It was like looking at a painting. One must stand back to see the details clearly. Now, in place of that god-like creature was a weak man who must fall and take others with him because he would cling to a principle which had no roots in possibility.

He continued to write long letters to me, extolling the virtues of the Catholic faith. He was fanatically eager to carry me along with him.

He knew there was a Jesuit priest at The Hague — a certain Father Morgan — and he thought it would be edifying for me to meet him. He would be able to explain a great deal to me, said my father.

I saw immediately how dangerous this could be. If I were to invite the Jesuit to come to me, it would be commented on. I knew how such news traveled. It would be assumed that I was leaning toward my father’s faith.

Did he know this? Perhaps. He would do anything to make a Catholic of me and free me from my marriage so that I might make an alliance with a man of his choosing — an ardent Catholic, of course.

I felt angry with him. I had been forced into marriage in the first place, though I could not blame my father for that. I would make my own decision about my religion. I did not want to be freed from my marriage, though a few years earlier I might have welcomed it. But not now.

My father must know that if I were to see Father Morgan, it would be tantamount to a declaration that I was seriously considering the Catholic faith.

“I certainly would not see him,” I wrote.

I had an opportunity of speaking to William about it.

I saw the approval in his face and I felt a certain pleasure because I had won it.

“You are right,” he said. “You must not see this man.”

“Assuredly I will not,” I told him. “I hope there will be no rumors of a possible meeting. I thought I might write to someone of authority in England in case there have been rumors that this meeting might take place. Perhaps a bishop or archbishop to state my adherence to the Church of England.”

“Pray do that,” said William. “It is right that you should.”

Excited by his approbation, I wrote a letter to William Sancroft, the Archbishop of Canterbury, in which I set down my feelings, saying that although I had not had the advantage of meeting him, I wished to make it known to him that I took more interest in what concerned the Church of England than myself, and that it was one of the greatest satisfactions I could have to hear that all the clergy showed themselves to be firm in their religion which made me confident that God would preserve the Church since He had provided it with such able men.

In view of the conflict which had existed between my father and the Church of England, this was clearly saying on whose side I stood; and in view of my position as heir to the throne, it was of great significance.

When I showed the letter to William his smile was so warm that I fancied he looked at me with love. All it meant, of course, was that he no longer feared my defection to my father. I had now placed myself firmly beside William.

ONE DAY WHEN GILBERT BURNET WAS TALKING TO ME, he said suddenly: “It is not natural in a man to be subservient to his wife.”

I agreed. “It is clear from the scriptures that a woman should obey her husband,” I said.

“That is so,” went on Gilbert. Then he paused for a while before he went on: “It would seem from events in England that the day of reckoning is not far off.”

“What do you think is going to happen?” I asked.

“I think they will not have King James much longer.”

“They must not harm him,” I said. “Perhaps he will go into a monastery.” I paused, thinking of his mistresses. How could he live in a monastery? Where would he go? Exile in France? Wandering from place to place, as he had done in his youth, to the end of his days? As long as they did not harm him ... I thought. To lose his kingdom will be grief enough.

I was melancholy thinking of his fate. Then Gilbert roused me from my gloom.

“There is much dissatisfaction,” he said. “It has to be. He must be aware of that. Everywhere it is felt that he cannot go on.”

I shivered. Gilbert looked at me intently.

“I trust Your Highness is prepared.”

“There has been so much said of it,” I replied. “So many implications, I could not be unaware of the possibility of its happening.”

“If the King were deposed, Your Highness would be Queen of England — the Prince your consort.”

Now I saw where he was leading and I said: “The Prince would be beside me. We should stand together.”

“Not equally, Your Highness, unless you made it so.”

I was silent and he went on: “I wonder whether the Prince could take such a minor position. He is a man of action — a ruler.”

“He has a claim to the throne,” I said.

“There are others before him.”

“Anne,” I said. “Her children.”

“It would be in Your Highness’s hands. If you were to declare the Prince King ... it would have to come from you ... your consent could elevate him from consort to King. As King he would rule beside you. And as you say, he has some right, but you would be the undoubted Queen by reason of inheritance. You would have to give your word that the Prince should be King and you the Queen, to rule together. Would you be prepared to do this?”

I felt a glow of pleasure. I said: “I would not want to rule without him. I should need him. He is my husband. I should be Queen but of a certainty William should be King.”

I could see how pleased Gilbert was and it occurred to me that he had wanted to say this for some time and was relieved that he had achieved the result he wanted. I guessed, too, that William had prompted him to discover my feelings in the matter.

I guessed that Burnet went straight to William and gave him my answer, for William changed toward me from then.

He was more affable; he talked to me of state matters and even showed some affection.

I was delighted and happier than I had been since the days of Jemmy’s visit. I understand now that what had been between us was my greater claim to the throne. Now we were equal and, because he was a man, he believed he had the ascendancy over me.

Strangely enough, I did not resent this; I was so happy because of the change in our relationship.

I HEARD FREQUENTLY FROM MY SISTER at this time. She seemed to be quite contented in her marriage and completely recovered from the loss of Lord Mulgrave. George of Denmark appeared to be a very amiable person; and she had Sarah Churchill, whom she had refused to relinquish, still with her.

Unfortunately Anne had taken a great dislike to our stepmother, which surprised me. The Mary Beatrice I had known had been such a pleasant person, very eager to be on good terms with the family she had inherited. Before I left England I had seen how fond she had grown of our father. She had realized she must accept his infidelities — and did we not all come to that state in time — and she took him for the good-hearted man he was.

What came between Mary Beatrice and Anne I could only guess was this matter of religion — as I feared had been the case with myself and my father.

Mary Beatrice was pregnant. This could be very significant, for if the baby were a boy he would be heir to the throne. I should be displaced, and it seemed certain that an attempt would be made to bring the boy up as a Catholic. It all came back to this perpetual factor.

But Anne was quite fierce in her denunciation. She had always loved gossip and to surround herself in her rather lethargic way with intrigue.

She wrote that “Mrs. Mansell” had gone to Bath and come back looking considerably larger. Mrs. Mansell was the name she had given to the Queen and our father was Mr. Mansell. She had a passion for giving people names. I imagined she felt it gave an anonymity to the information she was about to impart.

I knew and I supposed others did, that she had given names to herself and Sarah Churchill: Mrs. Morely was herself; Mrs. Freeman, Sarah Churchill; and although these two saw each other very frequently indeed, Anne still wrote notes to her dear Mrs. Freeman at every opportunity.

However, I was now told that “Mrs. Mansell” was making a great show of her pregnancy and that she looked very well indeed, although, in the past during such periods, she had looked decidedly wan.

Anne was implying, of course, that our stepmother was not really pregnant, but pretending to be so in order that in due course a baby might appear who was not in fact “a little Mansell” after all.

I think she was enjoying this and I was amazed when I remembered how my father had doted on her — almost as much as he had on me — and he had always tried to make us happy, as best he could, for I must not forget that our marriages were quite out of his hands.

We were, of course, all waiting for the birth of this all-important child, and Anne was not the only one who was suspicious.

Meanwhile Mary Beatrice grew larger.

“She is very big,” wrote Anne. “She looks well and I do think the grossesse of Mansell’s wife is a little suspicious.”

She wrote that they had quarreled recently and “Mansell’s wife,” in a fit of temper, had thrown a glove into Anne’s face. Anne implied that the poor creature must be very anxious and she was wondering how they were going to produce this suppositious child. Anne would make sure that she was present at the birth, to see for herself.

I was sorry for Mary Beatrice. I could imagine how unhappy she must be. She would be worried about my father. Perhaps she could see more clearly where he was going than he could himself.

Again and again I tried to make excuses for him, but I could not get out of my mind those images of Jemmy pleading with him, of Jemmy on the block while they hacked so cruelly at his handsome head. But I still loved my father.

Then the day came and the news was out. The child was a boy. This could change everything. There was an heir to the throne. I had lost my place as successor. What of William? Was he regretting his marriage now?

The child’s birth was indeed significant. It was the climax. It was that factor which made the people decide that my father must go.

The rumors were rife. Anne had not been at the birth after all. In spite of Mary Beatrice’s grossesse, the baby had arrived a month before he was due.

Anne was at Bath taking the waters. Our father had persuaded her to go at that time, although the doctors had not advised it. It seemed that every action of my father and stepmother aroused suspicion. Anne implied that my father had urged her to go because he did not want her to be present at the birth.

Anne wrote; “Mrs. Mansell was brought to bed and in a short time a very pleasant-looking child was brought out of the bed and shown to the people.”

There was an absurd story in circulation about a baby’s being brought into the bed in a warming pan to replace the one which my stepmother had born — or it might be that she had had no child at all, and had feigned pregnancy and waited for the healthy baby to be brought in by way of the warming pan. It was a wildly unlikely story and the fact was that the people did not want to believe that the child was the King’s.

They had made up their minds that my father must go.

ANNE’S LETTERS CONTINUED TO ARRIVE. They chiefly concerned the baby.

“My dear sister cannot imagine the concern and vexation I have been in that I should have been so unfortunate as to be out of town when the Queen was brought to bed, for I shall never have the satisfaction of knowing whether the child be true or false. It may be our brother, but God knows . . .”

I reread the letter. Could she really believe our father would be guilty of such fraud? I could not, yet I wanted to. I was ashamed, but I wanted it to be right for William — and myself — to have the crown William looked upon as his and had done so all his life because of the midwife’s vision. As for myself, I wanted it for him, for if he did not get it his marriage to me would be a perpetual disappointment to him. There was another reason: I was now fully convinced that Catholicism must never come to England. There was only one way to prevent it and that was to take the crown from my father.

Anne had turned against him, for the same reason I imagined. Why did she dislike our stepmother so? I wanted to believe this story of the warming pan although I knew it must be false.

Anne could never have written so many letters before. I wondered if Sarah Churchill encouraged her to write. I believe that Sarah’s husband — who was becoming a power in the army — was William’s friend. And Anne continued to write of her doubts about the baby.

“After all, it is possible that it may be her child,” she wrote, “but where one believes it, a thousand do not. For my part, I shall ever be one of the unbelievers.”

And later she wrote with a certain triumph: “The Prince of Wales has been ill these three or four days and has been so bad that many people say it will not be long before he is an angel in heaven.”

I could not stop thinking of my father and stepmother and wondering how much they were aware of what was going on.

More and more people were coming from England to the court of The Hague. They were the miscontents who were waiting for the day when William would sail across the sea to take the crown.

The little Prince did not die. He recovered and there was a great deal of activity; more arrivals, secret discussions and throughout Holland men were busy in the camps and dockyards. It was obvious that great events were about to take place.

I heard then from my father. I think he found it hard to believe that I could ever be with those who worked against him.

He wrote: “All the discourse here is about the preparations which are being made in Holland and what the fleet which is coming out from there plans to do. Time will show. I cannot believe that you are acquainted with the resolution the Prince of Orange has taken and which alarms people here very much. I heard that you have been in Dieran and that the Prince has sent for you to tell you no doubt of his coming invasion of this country. I hope it will have been a surprise to you, being sure it is not in your nature to approve of such an unjust undertaking.”

I could scarcely bear to read that letter. I kept seeing us together all those years ago. A little child of three or four years, waiting for his coming, being picked up in his arms and set on his shoulder, while he talked to his captains, rather naively asking for compliments to be paid to his wonderful daughter. That was the father I had loved so much. And now here he was ... surrounded by his enemies.

There were more visitors from England, eager to take part in William’s expedition. They brought messages urging him to act. William was believing that, instead of a defending army, he would find a welcome.

The fleet was being made ready. Just off the coast were fifty men-of-war and several hundred transports. The climax was coming nearer and nearer and I could see there was no escape from it. I had hoped that there would be some compromise. Perhaps my father would give up his faith. No, that would never happen. Perhaps he would abdicate. That would be the wise thing to do.

I could not bear to contemplate his being at war with William.

He wrote to me, reproaching me for not writing to him.

“I can only believe you must be embarrassed to write to me now that the unjust design of the Prince of Orange’s invading me is so public. Although I know you are a good wife, and ought to be so, for the same reason I must believe that you will be still as good a daughter to a father who has always loved you tenderly, and who has never done the least thing to make you doubt it. I shall say no more and believe you very uneasy for the concern you must have for a husband and father.”

I wept over the letter. I have always kept it. I was to read it often in the years to come.

And now the time was near. William was with me the night before he was due to sail. Ever since I had told Gilbert Burnet that if I were Queen of England William should be King and there would be no question of his remaining a mere consort, his manner had changed toward me. He talked with me more seriously; he even discussed plans with me on one occasion. I did not ask about Elizabeth Villiers. I was afraid to do so because I knew he was still her lover. She no longer lived in her sister’s house but had returned to court and no reference was ever made to the undelivered letter and the manner in which she had returned to Holland, but I had caught her watching me on one or two occasions, a little superciliously, as though to say: do not try your childish tricks on me again, Madam. Rest assured that I shall find a way to outwit you.

In my heart I knew she would, and I was glad the matter was ignored; but I was deeply jealous of her. If she had been beautiful, I could have understood it, but she was a mystery to me — as William was.

It did occur to me that I might have said, give up Elizabeth Villiers and I will make you King of England. Continue with her and remain my consort.

I wondered what his response would have been. I could imagine his cold eyes assessing me, but I could not bargain in such a way.

I had to give freely and for that he was undoubtedly grateful. It had brought him closer to me than any bargaining would have done.

He was really affectionate that night before he embarked for England. We supped together and retired early. He was to leave next day for the Palace of Hounslaerdyke and then go on to Brill where he would embark.

He spoke to me very gravely and with more feeling than he had ever shown before.

He said: “I hope that there will be little opposition when I land. I have been sent invitations to come from all sides. It is clear that the people of England have decided they will not continue with the King. He has shown his intentions too clearly. But, of course, there will be some who stand beside him.”

“You mean there will be fighting.”

“It is possible. It may be God’s will. How can one be sure? And if I should not return, it will be imperative that you marry again.”

“You will succeed,” I said hastily. “I am sure of it. Have you forgotten Mrs. Tanner’s vision?”

“I firmly believe that what she saw was heaven-sent. All through my life I have believed that. It has been long in coming, but now it is at hand. I shall come through. I shall be triumphant. But this is in the hands of God and his ways are mysterious. I said if I should not return it is your duty to marry without delay. You know full well that your father will do all in his power to marry you to a papist. That would be disastrous. You must marry a Protestant.”

I turned away. It distressed me that he could discuss my marriage to someone else so dispassionately.

He went on talking of what my duties would be in that calm way of his until I could endure no more.

I said: “You must succeed. I will not think otherwise. I do not want to marry anyone else. You are my husband. It is destined that you and I shall rule together.”

To my surprise he softened. I think he was a little surprised that I could be so genuinely devoted to him. Indeed, I was myself surprised, but when I contemplated the danger which he was about to face, and the possibility of his never coming back, and the insistence that there would be on my marrying again, I realized the extent to which I was bound to him.

I knew that I wanted to be with him, that my place was beside him.

While William was gratified by my devotion, he could not have forgotten my moments of rebellion. He would remember the grief of the child bride who had begged to be released from her marriage, the woman who had dared to send Elizabeth Villiers to England with a letter for the King. Then he would also remember that unconditionally I had agreed that he should be King of England and not merely my consort. This would indeed seem a triumph — almost as great as victory over the King.

Indeed, he was grateful and never before had he been so like a lover as he was that night.

The next day we left together, for I insisted on accompanying him to watch him embark.

I HAD BIDDEN HIM FAREWELL and watched him as he went aboard. I felt a terrible sense of foreboding and could not stop thinking of my father. I tried to convince myself that William would return. I was determined to believe Mrs. Tanner’s prophecy. The three crowns must be William’s. But what of my father, my poor ineffectual father? I remembered hearing that my uncle Charles had once said to him: “James will not last more than three years after I have gone. The people will never get rid of me, for if they did, it would mean having James — and so I am safe.”

Another prophecy!

“Oh, God,” I prayed, “spare him. Let him go away quietly. Let him live in peace with his faith.”

William and my father. The triumph of one would be the humiliation and defeat of the other. And I must watch this happen to the two men who had been the most important in my life.

William embarked at Brill on the twenty-ninth day of October — not the best time of the year to cross the treacherous Channel. It was the season of gales and it was not surprising that as the fleet moved away from the coast it was caught up in one.

The wind increased. I was panic-stricken. I kept thinking of William’s words. Had he a premonition? Then I heard that several of the ships had been damaged and the remains of the fleet was returning to port.

We heard news from England. The Dutch fleet had been destroyed. And where was William?

It transpired that these reports had been grossly exaggerated and I was overjoyed to receive a letter from William. He had been forced to return to Holland and had landed at Helvoetsluys. He said that he would leave again as soon as possible. The damage to the ships had not been as great as had at first been feared and they could be speedily repaired. He would see me before he sailed again.

Meanwhile my anxiety had affected me deeply and I had become quite ill. I could not sleep and was feverish. I hastily summoned a doctor who bled me.

They thought the relief of knowing that William was safe, and that I should see him soon, would help my recovery and I determined to be well enough to make the journey to Brill.

I arrived there on the tenth of November. The weather was dark and gloomy. William was ready to leave Helvoetsluys where he was to embark.

I heard that the road was bad and the weather uncertain, so I waited at Brill, fearing he might not be able to reach me.

With what joy I beheld him! He said his stay would be brief, but he had promised me that he would come to me before he sailed and he was determined to do so.

I embraced him, weeping, and for once he did not seem impatient. He talked of the coming invasion.

“I do not know what my reception will be,” he said. “They have now had time to prepare themselves. They will rejoice over our disaster in the storm. They have circulated rumors that our fleet has been destroyed. But by God’s will we shall soon have a different tale to tell.”

How quickly those two hours we spent together passed. Afterward I tried to remember every word we had said, every look which had passed between us.

It was natural that William’s mind should be on the great project which lay ahead and I was grateful that he had kept his promise to come back and see me.

Later that day I set out for The Hague, and in spite of the weather the people came out to cheer me as I rode along.

There I spent the next days waiting for news. When it came I could scarcely believe it to be true.

William had arrived safely and landed at Torbay. It was the fifth of November, an important anniversary — that of our wedding. I wondered if William remembered, but I expected his mind would be too engrossed in other matters. There was another anniversary to be remembered on that day. At home we had always celebrated the discovery of the Gunpowder Plot. Significant dates, and this would be another.

There were none to prevent William’s landing. He was welcomed by the Courtneys, one of the most important families in Devon, and given lodgings at their mansion.

Nothing happened for a few days and I was afraid that we might have been lulled into a sense of security and that the English army might suddenly appear.

It was never quite clear to me what happened at that time. Everything was so uncertain. There were many who deserted my father. He had been a great commander when he was young. He might have been so again. But I could imagine how disheartened he must have been, how saddened by the defection of those whom he thought were his friends.

I believe what would have hurt him most was Anne’s siding with his enemies. It hurt me, though I had done the same. But I was married to William. Need Anne have been so cruel?

Churchill deserted and came to join William and Anne left London with Sarah Churchill.

So his two daughters, whom he had loved dearly, had deserted him when he most needed their support.

HOW MUCH MORE DISTURBING IT IS to be away from the scene of action, desperately wondering what is happening, than to be in the midst of it. The imaginary disasters are often more alarming than the actuality. Reports were coming from England. The Dutch fleet had been wrecked, the Dutch army defeated, the Prince of Orange was a prisoner in the Tower. The Dutch had been victorious. The Prince had slain the King. Which was true? I asked myself. How could I know?

The strain was almost unbearable.

Constantly I thought of my father. What was he doing? How was he feeling? And William? What if those two came face to face?

When I prayed for William’s success, I could see my father’s reproachful eyes.

“Please God,” I prayed, “watch over him. Let him get quietly away where he can be safe and devote himself to his faith.”

At this time Anne Bentinck became very ill. She had been ailing for some time but now her malady had taken a turn for the worse.

Much as I distrusted the Villiers family, I had formed a friendship with Anne. I knew that she was her sister’s confidante and that, since she had married Bentinck, she had enjoyed a closer relationship with William. That was inevitable, for William had used Bentinck’s apartments as though they were his own and Bentinck was more often with William than with his own family. I liked Anne and although I could not altogether trust a Villiers I did respect her, and was very sorry to see her so ill.

When I went to see her I was horrified by the change in her.

The doctors had visited her, she told me.

“They will soon make you well,” I said.

Anne shook her head slowly. “No, Your Highness, I think this is the end.”

I was astounded. Anne was young. She had her life before her. The Bentinck marriage had been a happy one. It shocked me to hear her talk of dying.

“You are feeling sad. This is a sad time for all of us.”

“It is indeed. I wonder what is happening. I wish we could have some news.”

“You shall hear it as soon as it comes,” I promised her, and she thanked me.

I stayed with her for a while. To be with people gave me a respite from my continual imaginings of what was happening. I said I would call on her again and I added prayers for her recovery to those I said every day.

There was still no news. I heard that Anne’s condition had worsened and went again to see her.

She looked pleased and grateful for my coming.

“It will not be long now,” she said, and I had to put my ear close to her lips to hear her.

“My lady ... we ... we have not always been to you as we should. You have been a good mistress to us. My sister and I . . .”

“Do not fret,” I said. “The doctors will be here soon. They will do something.”

She shook her head. “No ... Forgive . . .”

“There is nothing for which I have to forgive you,” I said.

“Yes,” she answered. “My husband is with the Prince ... always with the Prince . . .”

“It was a great friendship between them. Your husband would have given his life for him. The Prince never forgets that.”

She smiled. “The Prince must be served.”

“There is great friendship between them.”

“The Prince demands much from those who love him. My husband ... he is like a slave to his master. He has little time for aught else. He is only allowed his freedom when the Prince is otherwise engaged. He is always expected to be there ... on the spot. It is the way of the Prince.”

This long speech seemed to have exhausted her and she was silent for a while.

Then she went on: “My lady ... my children ... when I am gone ... you will look to them.”

I said I would.

“They are young yet. If you could . . .”

“I will see that all is well,” I assured her. “You should not worry. Your husband will care for them. He is a good man. Anne, you were lucky . . .”

She nodded, smiling.

“Your promise,” she said. “Your forgiveness . . .”

“I give my promise,” I told her, “and forgive whatever there is to forgive.”

She smiled and her lips moved, but I could hear nothing.

I stayed with her, thinking of the day I had left England, a poor frightened child, in the company of the Villiers whom I did not much like.

There was not much time left for Anne. I was at her bedside with Lady Inchiquin and Madame Puisars and Elizabeth Villiers when she passed away.

We sat on either side of the bed, my husband’s mistress and I. Elizabeth was deeply affected by Anne’s death. They had been closer than any of the others and I was sure that they had shared confidences about Elizabeth’s relationship with William.

Was that what Anne had meant when she had asked for forgiveness? Death is a very solemn state. I could not feel the same anger in the presence of my rival on this occasion as I should on any other. She was suffering the loss of her beloved sister and I could only feel sorrow for her.

IT WAS STILL DIFFICULT TO GET NEWS. So far I understood that there had been no fighting and I was thankful for that; but I could not understand why this should be, grateful as I was for it.

My father’s first thoughts had been for his family. Mary Beatrice and the baby had been sent away to safety. I heard they were in France. Anne was still in hiding with Sarah Churchill.

Thoughts of my father filled my mind but all the time I reminded myself that he had brought this on himself and but for him it need never have happened.

If my uncle Charles could see what was happening he would smile that sardonic smile of his and say “I was right. It happened as I said it would. Poor foolish sentimental James. This is no way to rule a country, brother.”

It was heartbreaking. Sometimes I thought it was more than I could bear.

Before December was out I heard that my father was in France. Deserted by his friends, his army depleted, there had been no alternative. But for one thing I was thankful. There had been little loss of life and scarcely any bloodshed.

And then ... William was at St. James’s. It seemed that the enterprise, so long talked of, planned with such care, undertaken with such trepidation, was over and more successful than we had hoped in our most optimistic dreams.

Dispatches came from William. They were not brought to me and I was bitterly hurt. There was no word to me personally from William. No tender display of affection. After our last meeting, I had told myself, there was a change in our relationship.

I understood later that he could not suppress his resentment of me. Although he had changed since Gilbert Burnet had told him that I would not stand in the way of his becoming king, now that he was in England, he heard the views of some of the ministers there and the question was raised again. I was the heiress to the throne, they pointed out, and because he was my husband, he was not king in his own right. So, the old resentment was back. William could not endure taking second place to a woman. That which he craved beyond all things, he was told, belonged to his wife and his power depended on her good will. So he sent official documents to Holland and no communication to me.

To understand is to forgive, they say. If one has tender feelings toward another, one makes excuses. I wished I had understood then. I need not have felt so wounded, but I told myself that what I had thought of as William’s tenderness for me was transient. He had been carried along by the poignancy of the occasion and the possibility that that meeting might be our last on earth.

I heard how William had made his entry into London and thousands had come out to see him. I could visualize their disappointment. I remembered when he had come to London on a previous occasion and how somber he had seemed beside the King and his friends. William would have no smiles for the people. He did not look like a king. The people were silent. There were no cheers for the dour-looking Dutchman. What had he to recommend him, except that he was a Protestant and the husband of their new Queen Mary? Where was Queen Mary? She should be the one who was riding the streets.

Bentinck, mourning the death of his wife, but first of all slave to William, tried, so I heard, to remonstrate with William, to which William had replied that it had been hinted to him that he was but the consort of Queen Mary and he was not the sort of man to play gentleman usher to his wife.

These little scraps of information came to me gradually and I knew that this was what had affected William’s conduct toward me more than anything else.

William Herbert, Duke of Powis, held a meeting of ministers in his bedroom because he was suffering from the gout and unable to leave his bed. Bentinck had been allowed to join them on behalf of his master, and reported what had happened.

Bentinck put forward the view which he had been sent there to state, that the best plan would be for the Prince to be crowned King and myself take the rank, not of Queen Regent, but Queen Consort.

At that, Herbert, infuriated by the suggestion, forgetting his gout, leaped out of bed, seized his sword which he kept close by and, brandishing it, cried that if the Prince of Orange treated his wife so, he would never draw a sword for him again. After that display, he sank back on his bed in acute pain.

Bentinck said that when the Prince heard this he was overcome with melancholy.

He had turned to Bentinck and said: “You see how the people think? I am tired of these English. I shall go back to Holland and leave their crown to whoever can catch it.”

After that William scarcely emerged from St. James’s Palace. Ministers called on him constantly; he listened to what they said but rarely made any comment.

It was not surprising that they wondered what kind of a man they had brought to England.

And as he had intended, when he considered the time was ripe, and they were growing uneasy, he asked the Marquis of Halifax and the Earls of Shrewsbury and Danby, whom he believed to be his friends, to come to him, and he explained the reasons for his serious deliberations.

“The English plan to set Queen Mary on the throne and wish me to reign by her courtesy. I must make it clear to you that no man could esteem a woman more than I esteem my wife, but I am so made that I could not hold power by apron strings.”

The three men looked at him in consternation. Then Danby said he understood his dilemma but, in view of the fact that Queen Mary was the rightful Queen, they could see nothing else that was acceptable.

William then told them that Dr. Burnet had discussed the matter with me and would be prepared to tell them what had taken place at that interview.

As a result of this, Dr. Burnet was sent for and he gave an account of our talk together when I had most emphatically said that I believed a wife should be obedient to her husband and would be ready to resign sovereignty to William.

Lord Danby’s reply was that it would be necessary to have my confirmation of this and no steps could be taken until this was in the hands of Parliament.

As a result I received a communication from Lord Danby stating the case with a request that I should let him know my decision with as little delay as possible.

I immediately wrote back that, as the Prince’s wife, I was never meant to be other than in subjection to him and I should feel no gratitude to anyone who would seek to set up an interest dividing me from my husband.

That satisfied them.

The Lords and Commons were assembled and it was agreed that the Prince of Orange should be offered the three crowns of England, Ireland and France. Scotland, of course, was a separate kingdom and the title of France was a relic from the past. However, the three crowns were William’s now. I was to be offered a joint sovereignty and royal acts would be signed in both our names, but the executive power was William’s. Any children we should have would be heirs to the throne and if we failed to have them the succession would go to the Princess Anne and her children.

William had achieved what he had always wanted.

While this was happening Christmas had come and passed and we were nearly at the end of January. Then news came from William. I was to leave Holland and come back to England. We were to be crowned King and Queen and the reign of William and Mary was about to begin.