The Three Crowns

AT THE ORANGE COURT

It was several months since Mary had left England; and the new life was strange no longer; there were even occasions when she ceased to mourn for England for a week at a time. Her sister had recovered and wrote now and then; regularly, loving letters came from Frances which brought her image clearly to Mary’s mind, and Frances provided her greatest comfort.

She was changing; perhaps she was growing away from childhood. She did not understand her feelings for the reserved man who was her husband. One thing she had learned: he expected complete obedience and if he did not receive this he could make her wish that she had not defied him. He never harmed her physically; what she found so difficult to endure was his coldness, the manner in which, by a short sentence, or a disdainful look, he could convey utter contempt.

Should she care? Strangely enough she did. She tried not to think of him but he had a way of forcing himself into her thoughts. He was, after all, her husband; and she was at heart a romantic, longing for an ideal relationship; she wished that their marriage could have been an example to all young people, and would have been prepared to give the obedience he demanded for a little tenderness, a little outward display of affection which would have soothed her. Perhaps, she told herself, I grew up among those who showed their feelings too readily. When her father, her uncle, Jemmy, Frances, and Anne loved they made no secret of the fact; they considered it no shame to care deeply for another person. But could William ever care deeply for another person?

Lovemaking was almost like a state duty. It was desirable to have an heir; and that was the sole purpose of their embrace. It was true in a way and William was too honest to make any pretense. All the same, it would have been comforting and very pleasant if at times he could have behaved a little like a lover.

He often disapproved of her actions and when he did so never failed to point out her folly. She must cease to be such a child, he told her; she must learn better sense. These scoldings invariably produced the tears which irritated him but which she could not restrain. She cried too easily, just as she laughed too easily—or had in the old days.

A certain wistfulness was becoming apparent in her attitude toward William. She wanted him so much to be a beloved husband.

She understood that he had little time to be, because he was such an indefatigable worker. She noticed that while many people in Holland respected him, there were one or two, whose duty it was to live close to him, who loved him. There was no mistaking Bentinck’s feelings, which were something near idolatry. A man who could inspire such devotion, Mary assured herself, must be worthy of it. If only he would be kinder to her! If only he did not always seem so contemptuous!

She saw very little of him during the day; they sometimes supped together, but he never discussed state matters with her, and when she timidly attempted to, he dismissed her questions with exasperation.

There were times when she wrote vehemently to Frances—“her dearest best beloved husband”—and told her how she longed to see her, how she would never forget their love and hoped Frances would not do the same. Sometimes she would weep because of the sadness of her thoughts; then she would try to curb her tears, remembering how he despised them.

There was enough to occupy her days; she wrote numerous letters, for she had always felt happy with a pen in her hand; she sewed, a talent at which she excelled and her needlework was very much admired by the Dutch; she had her collection of china and her plants; William was interested in plants too; he had helped to plan some of the palace gardens; she showed great interest in them but as yet he had received her congratulations coolly.

She had begun to realize that life was never completely wretched, just as she supposed it was never completely happy. From the day of her arrival she had sensed the approval of her husband’s subjects. She was so much more friendly than William, and the people liked it, while at the same time she had a natural dignity and air of royalty which appealed to them. She walked beside her husband with a meekness which was apparent; and she was attractive; her dark hair and eyes being unusual in this land of the flaxen-haired; she danced exquisitely and played delightfully on the harpsichord, viol, and lute. The people clearly believed that their Prince had made a worthy match; and since she was the heiress to the English throne—for the little boy who had “disappointed the marriage” had died shortly after his birth—she was very welcome in Holland.

Mary sensed this and it helped her to settle down more happily.

The cleanliness of her new country delighted her, for after the shabbiness of St. James’s and Whitehall the palaces were magnificent. There were three at The Hague. The Hague itself, the Old Court, and the Palace in the Wood. It was at this last that Mary had taken up residence and to her surprise she quickly grew to love the place which was situated about a mile from The Hague in one of the most beautiful settings Mary had ever seen, surrounded by oak trees and magnificent gardens.

To compare these palaces with those at home surprised her, because her husband’s were so much more modern than those of her uncle. The murals were exquisite and the domed ceiling of the ballroom with its Vandycks was fascinating. In all the palaces there were pictures and some of these represented Mary’s intimate relations. Her aunt, William’s mother, was there; and there was one which delighted her of her martyred ancestor Charles I portrayed trampling on anarchy. There were portraits naturally of William the Silent, the Dutch hero; and when Mary heard stories of his greatness she thought he was very like her husband who bore the same name and could, as reasonably, have been given the title of Silent.

Her husband was a man of ideals. That she must accept. When she listened to stories of William the Silent she began to picture her husband as the hero of them. This pleased her; and she found that William was often in her thoughts—not so much the brusque indifferent husband of reality, but the hero, the idealist, who, because he was so concerned with righting the wrongs of his country, had little time to become a romantic lover.

The little group sat over their needlework, and they were all occupied with their own thoughts.

Mary was thinking of home and wondering what her sister was doing. Talking, she guessed, with Sarah Jennings. Perhaps writing to Frances, her dear Semandra. Mary was momentarily jealous. Lucky Anne to be so near the loved one.

She glanced away from her needlework, for her eyes often tired her and although she loved to do fine work she did feel the need to rest continually.

Elizabeth Villiers was smiling at the pattern of her tapestry as though she found it slightly amusing. She had changed since she had come to Holland. The death of her mother has made her more gentle, thought Mary.

Then there was Elizabeth’s sister Anne, who had always been gentle—so different from Elizabeth—meek and kind. There was Jane Wroth and dear Anne Trelawny. Were they dreaming of home as they worked?

She would have been surprised if she could have read their thoughts, for Mary was inclined to endow others with her own innocence.

Anne Villiers was thinking of William Bentinck, who had begun to show that he was interested in her. She had been interested in him from the moment she had first seen him. Anne Trelawny was telling herself that the Princess was being badly treated by her boor of a husband. Caliban! Anne secretly called him, a name given him by Sarah Jennings before they left England. Anne loved Mary dearly; every time she saw the tears start to her eyes she felt furiously angry; and it occurred to her that someone ought to tell them at home how badly her husband behaved toward her.

Jane Wroth was dreaming of her lover William Henry Zuylestein who but a few weeks before had succeeded in seducing her. He had promised to marry her and she was wondering whether he would, because it was doubtful if here in Holland they would consider the daughter of Sir Henry Wroth, an English country gentleman, worthy to marry into the Dutch royal family—for Zuylestein was royal, although on the wrong side of the blanket, and the prince accepted him as his cousin and was in fact quite fond of him; he had loved the young man’s father who had been an illegitimate son of his grandfather’s, and his guardian until the de Wittes, disliking his influence on the Prince, had removed him in favor of their man. The elder Zuylestein had been suspected of being deeply involved in the murder of the de Witte brothers and when he had been almost hacked to pieces in battle many thought this was in retribution.

But he was dead and his son was a kinsman of the Prince—and the lover of Jane Wroth.

Jane could not think of the future beyond this night. They had an assignation. He was so dashing, handsome, and so persuasive that it was impossible to say no. How different from the Prince. Poor Princess of Orange, with a husband who was scarcely a man! She would have no conception of the ecstasy enjoyed by her maid of honor.

There was another in that little circle who was thinking of the Prince of Orange. Elizabeth Villiers felt certain of eventual victory, and it might be tonight. Perhaps tomorrow. The circumstances would have to be exactly right; but it was coming nearer. He was pretending that this was not so, which was natural enough, but she would know how to act when the moment came.

She was a sensual woman; and oddly enough his very coldness appealed to her. She would destroy that coldness which should be reserved for others, never for her. It would be a constant battle and that was what she wanted; she did not ask for an easy victory. After all, she had been patient enough.

Not yet to bed after all these months! she thought ruefully. And the first time we met … before the marriage … I knew it would come.

She had believed she had been foolish in alienating Mary when, in the days of her adolescence, she had been unable to curb her sharp tongue and had been so envious of the Princess. The King and the Duke had doted on her so and she was a silly little thing with her constant tears, her sentimental ideas, and her pretended relationship with Frances Apsley. Dear husband indeed! Her real husband’s infidelity would be her just deserts. In any case she would never know how to manage William. She, Elizabeth Villiers, would know perfectly, and she would do so for as long as it interested her. Which might be for a very long time, because not only was he ruler of this little country but one day he could become King of England, for if Mary ever inherited the throne, it was certain that William would still be her master—and the one who ruled the sovereign was the true ruler.

Her unusual eyes with the slight cast in them were enigmatic, which was as she intended them to be. No one was going to guess what thoughts were going on in her mind.

Mary said suddenly: “My eyes are tired with this close work. Let us put it away and sing for a while. I have a fancy for the lute.”

“Your Highness sings so sweetly to the lute,” said Elizabeth Villiers gently.

How she has changed! thought Mary. She is growing older and wiser. I believe she begins to be a little fond of me; perhaps we all grow closer together when we are far from home.

Elizabeth brought the lute and watched Mary while she played and sang so prettily, and they all joined in the choruses.

It could well be tonight, thought Elizabeth. It must be tonight.

William was deeply concerned by matters of state and his personal life.

How could he trust his English allies? Charles was the most slippery friend with whom he had ever had to deal. How could he be sure what his uncle was planning with the French while he feigned friendship with Holland? And the Duke of York hated him. The fact that he was now his father-in-law had not altered that; it might even have increased his hatred. William knew that there were people at the Court of The Hague who made it their business to inform James that his daughter was not treated with the respect due to her. Her chaplains, Dr. Lloyd and Dr. Hooper, were not to be trusted. They suspected that he was trying to make a Calvinist of her. They were wrong. He was far more tolerant in his outlook than they were; he had always hated the thought of religious persecution; it was strong in one who was a true son of a land which had suffered more from bigotry than any other. William the Silent had fought against the Spanish Inquisition, its intolerance and religious persecution, and stern Calvinist that he was, William would like to see tolerance in Holland.

Yet those two prelates reported ill of him, although Mary would not say a word against him he was sure. She was reckoned to be beautiful and he supposed she was. She had never aroused great passion in him, but then he was not a passionate man; he did not believe that any woman was going to play a very important part in his life. To plan a battle was to him the most exciting adventure; the seduction of any female a mild diversion.

Was this entirely true? He thought of the woman who was never far from his thoughts. She was unlike all other women he had ever known; those extraordinary eyes with the cast were fascinating; she was clever, he knew, and she read his thoughts. He pictured himself making love to her—not with any heat of passion, but as he thought of it—efficiently. His body had not been fashioned to make of him a great lover. He was no Charles or James of England, and well aware of the differences between himself and such men. All the better, he had told himself; he would never be diverted from important state matters through his desire for a woman.

Yet, secretly, he longed to be an ideal of manhood; and it was no use pretending the physical side of such an idea did not exist. The perfect man must be virile. What ideas were these! He was a man with a mission, the leader of a small country which could at any moment be in acute danger from her enemies. It was absurd to allow the thought of a woman to occupy his mind for a moment.

He had a wife who was a beautiful young girl, but he could never forget those eternal tears. He believed he would always dislike women who cried. She had been happy before she had known she was to marry him. What a different creature she had been! He had been quite excited at the prospect of marrying her; and then they had presented to him that red-eyed, sullen child. He could never forgive those who insulted him and Mary had insulted him in a manner he would never forget. He thought fleetingly of Elizabeth Charlotte, the companion of his childhood, whom many had thought enchanting. She was married now to Philippe, brother of Louis XIV. He had once thought she might be his bride, but he had no regrets there. She would have been impossible to subdue.

His thoughts went back to the fiasco of the wedding night: Mary’s shuddering body; her repulsion. These could not inspire desire in a man who was never passionate. Because she had insulted him he took pleasure in humiliating her; even if he tried he could never show any warmth toward her. Yet now she was changing; she was ready to be friendly. Friendly indeed! He did not want her friendship.

And there was one thing which he longed for and yet dreaded. He had married her for the sake of the three crowns: England, Scotland, and Ireland. Those he was sure were the crowns Mrs. Tanner had seen about his head when he was born. And if Charles and James were dead and there was no male heir, it would be Mary who was acclaimed as Queen of England. And William? Her consort! He would never accept that. She should never be Queen to his consort. He wanted to talk to her, to make her sign a document in which she resigned all her rights to him. But that would not be possible. There would be the English to stand in the way of it. They had not liked him, many of them; and they did like Mary. Of course they liked her; she was meek, she did as she was told.

“By my ancestors,” he swore, “she shall do as she is told … as I tell her.”

As he went toward his own apartments, he had an idea that he would meet Elizabeth on the way. She would have arranged the encounter for she was eager to become his mistress. He had read that in those amazing eyes; and he was eager too … in his mild way. He liked her eagerness; she was clever; she hid her feelings from others while she showed them to him. He was convinced that she was no ordinary woman.

When he saw her he paused and said it had been a pleasant day.

She curtsied charmingly, he thought, and there was a faint flush in her cheeks. He suddenly wanted to touch those cheeks and he put out a thin white finger and did so.

She caught his hand and kissed it. He had never felt so excited by a woman.

She had thrown herself against him and lifted her eyes to his face.

“Let me not wait longer, my lord.”

The choice of words exhilarated him. She was in deep need of him, and she was merely putting in words what she had told him in looks and gestures before.

His heart was beating a little faster. This was how he felt when he achieved a victory on the battlefield—a great man, a man whom the world looked up to and forgot his lack of inches.

He put out a hand and touched her. She put her lips on his and he was caught for a moment in her passion.

“I beg of you … tonight … my lord.”

He said in a cool voice. “I will see that I am alone at … midnight.”

She gave a little sigh which in itself made him feel like a conqueror.

That night Elizabeth Villiers became the mistress of the Prince of Orange. He was astonished and greatly bewildered. He knew that he had missed something in his life before, without being aware of it. He wondered how he was going to do without Elizabeth Villiers.

Elizabeth did not wonder, for she was determined that he never should.

Mary was pregnant. At first she told no one because she wanted to be absolutely sure; she imagined William’s pleasure which would be restrained but nonetheless deep for all that; she could also imagine his contempt if she had made a mistake.

How wonderful to have a child of her own! It was difficult, keeping the secret; she wished her sister Anne were here so that they could whisper together about this enchanting prospect. Anne would immediately want to have a child. Had she not always wanted to imitate her sister?

If Frances were here, how she would enjoy confiding in her! But Frances was her “dear husband” and how incongruous it was to have to tell one’s husband that one was about to have another man’s child!

Frances, of course, must be the first one to know. It was long since she had written to her dearest one, but before she had believed herself to be pregnant she had suffered from the ague which had attacked her since her stay in Holland. Anne Trelawny said that the climate did not suit her; and Anne was very grave when she said this, meaning more by the climate than the weather.

Dear Anne, she loved Mary so much that she was ready to be angry with anyone who did not share her tender devotion. It was useless to explain to her that William was a man whose mind was occupied with noble ideals so that the follies of his wife seemed trivial and at times he showed his contempt for them. There! She was doing what she did so often. Making excuses for William’s neglect and even cruelty to her.

It is because I am beginning to understand him, she told herself.

All the same, what fun it would have been if Frances were in truth her husband and they were to have this child. How different indeed! Gentle, loving Frances instead of harsh, stern William. Was it because women were able to give more to love; men such as her husband had their careers to occupy the greater part of their minds; their loves were diversions. Even her Uncle Charles—reckoned to be one of the greatest lovers of his day—was never entirely involved with a woman.

The cottage in the wood; the little piece of land to be cultivated; the dogs they might have had. The world would have passed them by and she would have cared for the comforts of her dear husband who would have been capable of giving her all the love and protection she needed in another little house in the wood.

But that was not the way of the world. The love of two women was frowned on, because it was unproductive. Poor Lady Frances Villiers had deplored the writing of those passionate letters. Yet it seemed to Mary that there could be a closer bond between two of the same sex. Herself and Frances, William and Bentinck. In Frances’s company she was happier and more relaxed than she could ever be in any man’s; and William, she was sure, had more respect for Bentinck than any other person.

But the first one to know that she believed she was to have a child must be her beloved Frances, so she went to her closet and taking up her quill began to write. She wanted Frances to know that she was the first to hear the news and that she had not even told her stepmother who had begged her “dear Lemon” to give her such news as soon as she believed it possible.

“I would hardly give myself leave to think on it and nobody leave to speak of it so much as to myself. I have not yet given the Duchess word though she has always charged me to do it. But seeing it is to my husband I may, though have reason to fear because the sea parts us and you may believe it is a bastard …”

She paused and smiled thinking of Frances reading that.

“… If you have any care for your wife’s reputation you ought to keep this secret since if it should be known you might get a pair of horns …”

Those ever ready tears came into her eyes. It was a game of make-believe. William would call it the utmost folly. Was it?

Was she growing older? Was she beginning to stretch out for reality and was there a desire to escape from fantasy? How could she and Frances ever share a cottage in a wood? How could they live in comfort and peace? What child’s letters were these she was writing, what silly pretense! She would have been happiest living with Frances; but she was William’s wife; she was pregnant by him. That was the reality of life and she should accept it. One must stop craving for that old relationship; she must accept the reality and banish the shadow. But how could she when he was so cool, so disdainful and for her there must always be the ideal.

Perhaps when she held his child in her arms it would be different. Perhaps she would grow up then. As yet she wanted the comfort Frances could give her. She could not release her hold on one dream until she could take hold of another.

She took up her pen and wrote:

“Dearest Aurelia, you may be very well assured though I have played the whore a little, I love you of all things in the world. And though I have spoken to you in jest, for God’s sake don’t tell it because I would not have it known yet since it cannot be above six or seven weeks at most, and when you hear of it by other people never say that I said anything of it to you.”

She laid down her pen.

She pictured Frances reading the letter. It would make her smile; perhaps it would make her long for the companionship of her little “wife.”

It may be, thought Mary, that I shall never see her again.

When William heard of the pregnancy he was more pleased with Mary than he had been since the wedding; his smile was restrained but nevertheless it betrayed his pleasure.

“I trust,” he said, “that you will take every precaution for the sake of the child. I insist that you do. There must be no more dancing …” His lip curled distastefully. “No more games of hide-and-seek in the woods. It may well be that now you are to become a mother—and a mother of my heir—you will agree that it is beneath your dignity as Princess of Orange to indulge in such pastimes.”

Mary replied: “I wish you could have seen my father—who was a great Admiral—sitting on the floor playing ‘I love my love with an A’.”

“I consider myself fortunate to have been spared such a sight.”

Mary flushed and wished she had not spoken. He looked at her coldly and she was terrified that the tears would come to her eyes. The fact was that because she so fiercely tried to suppress them they came even more readily.

With others she could be the dignified Princess; with him she was the foolish child who wept when scolded or disappointed or afraid.

When the child is born, she promised herself, it will be different.

She wanted it to be different. She longed for him to smile at her, just once, in approval.

Mary was sitting with her women, painting a miniature while the others took it in turns to read aloud to her.

She was happier than she had been since she had heard she was to marry. When she had taken her exercise in the gardens that morning William had joined her; he had walked beside her, and her ladies had fallen into step behind them. He had said very little but then, of course, he never did; but he had looked at her not unkindly, a little anxiously, watching she guessed for some outward sign of pregnancy.

She had laughed aloud. “Oh, William, it is not noticeable yet.”

His mouth had tightened. He was shocked by open reference to a delicate matter. She knew he was asking himself what he could expect of one who had been brought up so close to the licentious English Court.

“I trust you are taking good care.”

“The greatest,” she answered fervently.

He glanced sideways at her and there was something in the look which pleased her. She knew that she was beautiful; her dark hair was abundant and she wore it after the fashion which was prevalent at Versailles—drawn away from her face with a thick dark curl hanging over her shoulder. It suited her; and her almond-shaped eyes were softer because they were myopic; her shortsightedness gave her a look of helplessness which was appealingly feminine. She was growing plump and her white shoulders were rounded. She had changed a good deal from the young girl he had brought to Holland.

But she seemed to displease him and she wondered why. She did not know that he could never forget her rejection of him in the beginning, that he was constantly wondering what would happen if she attained the throne, and whether she and the English would refuse to let him take precedence. That was very important to him. There was one other matter which disturbed him. As a husband he was deceiving her. He had taken a mistress from among her very maids of honor, and this troubled his Calvinistic soul; but he could not give up Elizabeth Villiers. He had believed it would be a brief affair—to be quickly forgotten; but this was not so. Elizabeth was no ordinary woman; she fascinated him completely. He talked to her of his ambitions and she listened; not only did she listen but she talked intelligently. She made it her affair to study that which was important to him. She was edging her way into his life so that he felt as strongly for her as he did for Bentinck. For the friend who had saved his life he had a passionate devotion; the strength of his feelings for the young man had on occasions alarmed him; that was another blessing Elizabeth had brought to him. She had shown him that while he was not a man who greatly needed women, he was a normal man.

He could not do without Elizabeth and every time he saw his wife he wished fervently that Elizabeth Villiers had been the heiress of England and the sentimental over-emotional young girl her maid of honor.

But now that his wife had conceived he need not often share her bed; and since she was clearly trying to please him he was disliking her less.

Once she had given him a son—a William of Orange like himself—there would be a bond between them and he would forgive her her childishness.

Yet his conscience disturbed him and for that reason he felt more critical of her; he was constantly looking for reasons why he should have taken a mistress. He had to justify himself not only to those who might guess his secret, but to himself.

But that morning in the gardens they had seemed to come a little closer.

She asked him to show her the part he had planned and he did so with a mild pleasure. She was ecstatic in her praise—too fulsome. He waved it aside and she said pleadingly: “William, after the child is born, may I plan a garden?”

“I see no harm in it,” was his gruff reply; but he was rather pleased to show her the crystal rose he had planted himself; and then he took her to the music tree.

The ladies exchanged glances.

“Caliban is a little more gracious today,” whispered Anne Trelawny.

“Caliban could never be gracious,” replied Lady Betty Selbourne. “He could only be a little less harsh.”

“My darling Princess. How does she endure it!” sighed Anne.

Elizabeth was aware of them and she was a little uneasy. When she became a mother Mary would inevitably become more adult; she was beautiful, something which Elizabeth never could be. But she was a little fool—an over-emotional, sentimental little fool, and Elizabeth Villiers assured herself she need never worry unduly about her.

Both Mary and Elizabeth were thinking of that morning in the gardens and neither were listening to the book.

Mary put a hand to her forehead and said suddenly: “This puts too big a tax on my eyes. Have done. I will walk in the gardens for a while.”

Anne Trelawny shut the book; Lady Betty took the miniature from her mistress and laid it on a table; and the Princess went to the window to look out on the garden, so green and promising on that bright April day.

But as she stood at the window she gave a sudden cry and doubled up with pain.

Anne Trelawny was at her side at once. “My lady …”

“I know not what is happening to me …” said Mary piteously, and she would have fallen to the floor had not Anne caught her.

She lay in bed, pale and exhausted. Throughout the Palace they were saying that she might die.

She had lost the child but she did not know this yet. No one could account for the tragedy, except that some perversity of fate often decreed it to be difficult for royal people who needed heirs to get them.

Her ladies waited on her, each wondering what the future held. Elizabeth Villiers could not stay in Holland if her mistress died. But could she? Was her position strong enough? She did not believe the Prince would lightly give her up. Jane Wroth was wondering what she would do if parted from Zuylestein; Anne Villiers was thinking of William Bentinck.

Only Anne Trelawny was wholeheartedly concerned with her mistress.

It is his fault, Anne told herself. He has never treated her well. He has neglected her and been cruel to her.

She went to Dr. Hooper, the Princess’s chaplain, and together they discussed the Prince’s cruel treatment of the Princess.

“It is his harshness which has made her ill,” insisted Anne. “Every day he makes her cry over something.”

“It is no way to treat a Stuart Princess,” agreed Dr. Hooper. “I doubt her father would allow this to go unremarked, if he knew.”

When Mary recovered a little the Prince came to see her. She looked at him apologetically from her pillows. His expression was cold and it was clear that he blamed her.

She had behaved with some lack of propriety; she had not taken enough care of this precious infant.

When he had gone Mary wept silently into her pillows.

William showed the letter he had received to Bentinck; and there was a cold anger in his eyes.

Bentinck read: “I was very sorry to find by the letters of this day from Holland that my daughter has miscarried; pray let her be carefuller of herself another time; I will write to her to the same purpose.”

Bentinck looked up at his friend. “His Grace of York?”

“Suggesting that I do not take care of his precious daughter. He is insolent. He never liked me. He was always against the marriage. A foolish man.”

“I am in agreement,” added Bentinck.

William’s eyes narrowed. “He grows more and more unpopular in England as he reveals himself as a papist.”

“The people of England will never accept a Catholic monarch.”

“Never,” said William. “Bentinck, what do you think will happen when Charles dies?”

“If the people of England will not accept James …”

“A papist! They won’t have a papist!”

“He is the rightful heir … the next in succession. The people of England want no papist … at least the majority do not … but they have a great feeling for law and order.”

William nodded. “Ah, well, we shall see. But in the meantime I do not care to receive instructions from my fool of a father-in-law.”

“Your Highness should ignore him. There is no need to do aught else.”

William nodded. He slipped his arm through that of Bentinck and gave one of his rare smiles. Bentinck was a comfort to him, a friend on whom he could rely completely.

Bentinck and Elizabeth, they were his real friends. And although neither of them spoke of this—it being too dangerous a subject—yet each was thinking that one day William would be the ruler not only of Holland, but of England too.

Mary recovered slowly from her illness; but no sooner had she returned to her normal life than she became pregnant again. This delighted her. She was determined this time to show the Prince that she could give him his heir. She was very careful; she never danced, although she loved dancing; she did not ride; she sat with her women and all her conversation was of the child.

Her father wrote warningly from England.

He hoped that she would go her full time. She must be careful of herself; he had heard that she stood too long which was bad for a young woman in her condition. He would have her remember it.

She smiled, recalling those days when she had sat on his knee and he had delighted in her. He had been a good father to her, never showing her the least unkindness. He had never been stern or harsh.…

She flushed. She was thinking hard thoughts of her husband, which was wrong.

William came to her apartment—a thing he rarely did since her pregnancy. She often reminded herself that he believed the sexual act should be performed for one reason only—the procreation of children.

He is right, she thought; he was often right. It was because he lived by a righteous code that others believed him to be harsh; and if he was harsh with others he was also harsh with himself.

“I have news from your father,” he said.

“Oh!” she clasped her hands together delightedly. He wished that she did not betray her feelings so readily—joy or sorrow, it was always the same.

“I have a notion he thinks we ill-treat you here.”

“Oh … no. I have said nothing.”

He raised his eyebrows. “Nor could you in truth.”

“No … no. Assuredly I could not.”

He was eyeing her sternly.

“He is sending over two people to … inspect us, I believe.”

“To … inspect us.”

“Pray do not repeat everything I say. It is both foolish and monotonous.”

“I … I’m sorry, William.”

“And try not to stammer when you speak to me.”

“N … no, William.”

His cold eyes took pleasure in her embarrassment. At least she was in awe of him.

Now he was going to watch the transports of joy.

“You have not asked who these … spies are to be.”

“Oh, not spies, William. How could they be!”

He said: “Your sister and your stepmother are coming to Holland incognito … very incognito, as your father says.”

It came as he expected. The flush to the cheeks, the tears to the eyes. She was half laughing, half crying. When would she grow up?

“Oh, William … I’m so happy.”

“You had better prepare to receive them,” he said.

There was Anne, plump and pink; there was Mary Beatrice, dark and lovely. Mary could not take her eyes from them. She could only embrace first one then the other and kiss them and cry and laugh over them.

“My dear, dear Lemon,” said Mary Beatrice. “You must control yourself or the Orange will be displeased with us for over-exciting you.”

“How can I help being over-excited when you are here … my precious ones, my darlings. Besides, William has gone away.”

“Does he often go away?” asked Anne.

“State affairs occupy him all the time,” explained Mary.

“He should have been here.” There was a hint of criticism in Anne’s voice.

“Do not forget we came very incognito,” her stepmother reminded her.

They were lodged near the Palace in the Wood and would only stay for a few days.

“You see, it is not a state visit,” Mary Beatrice explained, “and how could we stay ‘very incognito’ for longer?”

There must be reunion with the maids of honor. The Princess Anne wanted to chat all the time about what was happening at the English Court. She embraced the Villiers sisters, Betty Selbourne, Jane Wroth, and Anne Trelawny.

“It has seemed years and years since I saw you,” she declared.

She explained to Mary how desolate she had been when recovering from smallpox she had heard that her darling Mary had left for Holland. “What I did without you I cannot say,” she said. “If it were not for Sarah I should be quite, quite desolate. Oh and sister, I have such news of Sarah! It is a secret as yet … Only I and my stepmother are supposed to know. But I must whisper it to my own dear Mary. Sarah is married!”

“Sarah! Married!” cried Mary delightedly. “Her husband must be a brave man.”

“Oh, Sarah would only marry a brave man! She would never tolerate a coward.”

“I meant, dearest Anne, that he will have to be brave to stand up to Sarah.”

“He is, dearest sister, he is. I’ll whisper his name. John Churchill. You remember John?”

“Arabella Churchill’s brother,” said Mary, and her happiness was slightly clouded. Her father’s relationship with that woman was a matter which had bewildered her childhood and turned her to fanciful dreams because reality had seemed somehow unpleasant.

“Arabella found him his place in the army, some say, and Monmouth helped him too. But he is very handsome, Mary, and so charming, and so devoted to Sarah … and she to him, although she does not show it so much. But she is determined to make a great man of him and you know Sarah always has her way.” Anne laughed. “He was very, very gay … and then he fell in love with Sarah and now they are married there will be no more philandering. But it is very, very secret.”

“Why should it be secret?”

“Because the Churchills will be quite furious. Sarah is so fascinating and clever and attractive but she is very, very poor and the foolish Churchills think she is not good enough for John. Sarah will show them.”

“Sarah will, I doubt not.”

“But our friendship will never, never change … even though she is married. We have sworn it.”

“And Frances?”

“Dear, dear Frances. She sends loving messages. She will never, never forget you. I have letters for you.”

Oh, what a happy time this was!

Her stepmother told her how at home they talked constantly of their dear Lemon. The King said he wished they had not married her into a foreign land because he missed her. As for her father, he was more melancholy than any.

“I shall think of you thinking of me when you have gone,” Mary told them sadly.

Anne wanted to examine her sister’s wardrobe; she chattered about the latest fashions in England.

Those were the happiest days Mary had experienced since she had arrived in Holland; and when William came to the Palace in the Wood and was gracious to the ladies she was delighted.

Alas, the stay had only been intended for a short one and very soon the ladies took their departure.

Anne embraced her weeping sister.

“At least, dearest Mary,” she said, “we have proved that we are not so far apart as we thought; I shall come again, very incognito, to see my darling sister, for I cannot be happy for long away from her.”

Mary Beatrice fondly embraced her dear Lemon; and they left Holland for England where they were able to tell the Duke of York that they had found his daughter happy.

Shortly after they had left Mary had her second miscarriage. There was no reason for it.

She was desolate. Sadly she missed her visitors. If they had been here they could have comforted her. She could not understand what had happened this time. Had she not taken every care?

William would blame her. She was young and foolish; and she could not even do what any peasant could: produce a healthy child.

“Oh William, William,” she cried into her pillows, “it seems I am doomed to disappoint you.”

Mary had finished supper when William came to her apartments. Although his expression betrayed nothing, she guessed he had some reason for coming at this hour; she had seen less of him since the second miscarriage and she had begun to wonder whether he believed her incapable of bearing a child and therefore saw no reason why he should not neglect her.

She felt her heart begin to beat faster as with a cold peremptory gesture he waved a hand and dismissed her women.

When they had gone he strolled to a table and picked up a book there, frowned at it and muttered: “I suppose Dr. Hooper persuades you to read these books.”

“Well … he … he gave me that one.”

William gave the book a contemptuous push. “I expected it.” He studied her and still she could not guess what was behind the look. “The man is as much a bigot as your father,” he said at length.

Mary flinched; she hated any criticism of her father and she knew that her husband was continually critical of him, disliking James as heartily as James disliked him. What she would have given to bring them together and make them friends.

“He is as fanatically against Calvinism as he is against popery.” He gave that half smile which was more like a sneer. “If ever I have anything to do with England Dr. Hooper will never be a Bishop.”

This was almost as wounding for Mary was very fond of both Dr. Hooper and his wife and she was afraid that the visit meant William was contemplating sending them back to England.

But this was not the case … not yet at any rate.

William did not look at her as he said: “Your father is on his way to Holland.”

“My father!”

She stopped in time. Her habit of repeating everything irritated him. Oddly enough she only did it with him.

“He is paying a visit to his daughter. He is so anxious for her welfare that he will come and see for himself. That is what he tells me. In actual fact he is coming to Holland because they will no longer tolerate him in England.”

“No longer tolerate my father!” she was stung to protest. “But England is his home. He is the heir to the throne.”

“He is a papist. That’s the root of the trouble. The English will not have a papist on their throne. That is why your father is being sent into exile.”

“But they will have to have him …”

“The English are not a people to be told they have to have what they do not want, I believe.”

Mary’s eyes were wide with horror. “But it cannot be as bad as that. They can’t be turning him out?”

“You, I suppose, will be fully aware of what is going on in England—even though you have been out of it for so long.”

It was cold sarcasm and her cheeks burned, but because her father was being attacked she lost her fear of her husband in the need to defend him.

“I know this: my father is a man who has served his country well. When he returned from his victories at sea the people treated him like a hero.”

“And now they treat him like an exile.”

“It is not true.”

William raised astonished eyebrows.

“I do not believe it,” she said, and there was no trace of tears now; her voice was firm, her color high; and she looked very beautiful. She said in a voice which matched his for coldness: “When may I expect my father?”

William felt temporarily defeated. “In a few days, I dare swear. As soon as the favorable wind carries him here …”

“Then I must prepare to give a good welcome to the heir of England.”

As she moved away from him, William felt alarmed. She was growing up, and this interview had given him a glimpse of a different woman. This was not the docile wife. Her father had a great influence on her. That was bad. He would have to be very watchful. Not that he feared James would make her change her religion; she was a firm Protestant. But he was her father and a deeply sentimental and emotional woman would doubtless have her head stuffed with notions of filial duty.

He must never forget that when James died—or was turned from the throne—it was Mary who was next in succession. He would never submit to playing the part of consort. Mary must therefore be conditioned to accept her husband as supreme in all things; and if that meant turning her against her father then that must be done.