The Three Crowns

THE ZUYLESTEIN SCANDAL

While William was away on one of his various journeys Mary made another discovery. He had remained as aloof as ever and did not appear to have noticed the change in his wife. Others had, for when Mary rose from her sickbed although she still played cards and liked to dance, she was often serious and thoughtful. Only occasionally did she weep and that was always due to some harshness of William’s. Those about her complained of his treatment of her, in particular Dr. Kenn; and Betty Selbourne declared that his behavior, not only to his wife but to everyone (with the exception of Elizabeth Villiers and her sister Anne who had now married Bentinck) was enough to make one scream. Much as they loved the Princess, they all thought longingly of the English Court where everything was more lively.

William was quite indifferent to the impression he made. He was deep in political schemes; he was cultivating Monmouth as one Protestant to another who was deeply concerned to see England tottering toward Catholicism. The fact that Monmouth was illegitimate meant that he, William, had little to fear from him; William believed that if Charles died the people of England would not have James and would turn to Mary. He was anxious to show Mary that he was her master—and this fact, in conjunction with his guilty feelings about his affaire with Elizabeth Villiers, set up a barrier between them and made him avoid his wife’s company.

He had visited England to try to discover exactly what was going on; but other urgent matters claimed his attention. He was trying to find allies in the German states for he was in great need of help against the greatest of his enemies, Louis XIV of France, and it was during one of these absences when Mary came across her maid of honor. Jane Wroth was in great pain. She collapsed while Mary was being dressed one morning and was hurried to her bed by some of the other girls. When Mary went to visit her she had a suspicion of what was wrong with Jane, for it now occurred to her that she had seen a thickening of her body recently.

As she sat by Jane’s bed, the girl looked at her fearfully. “You had better tell me, Jane,” said Mary.

“I cannot, Your Highness.”

“You are with child are you not?”

“Yes, Your Highness.”

“That should not make you collapse as you did. Jane, you have not been trying to bring about a miscarriage?”

Jane was silent.

“That,” went on Mary, “is not only wicked, but foolish. You could kill both yourself and the child.”

“Your Highness,” retorted Jane bitterly, “that could prove a solution.”

“There is another. You could marry the father of the child.”

“It is impossible, Your Highness.”

“Did this man want you to bring about a miscarriage, did he help you in this?”

“Y … yes, Your Highness.”

“It is a wicked criminal act. He should be punished for it. Who is he?”

“Your Highness, I cannot tell.”

“Now, Jane, that is foolish. How am I going to command him to marry you if I do not know his name?”

“You cannot command him, Your Highness. He’s in too high a position.”

For a moment Mary felt sick with fear. William! Not Elizabeth Villiers and Jane Wroth!

“Your Highness, I have been a fool.”

“We all are when we are in love,” said Mary. She steeled herself. “You must tell me the name of the man without delay. Come, I command you, Jane.”

Jane said: “Your Highness, you can do nothing for me. It is better that you should not know.”

“I demand to know.”

Jane hesitated. Then she said: “It is William Zuylestein.”

Mary hid her relief. She could laugh at the foolish thought which had come to her. William with two mistresses! Impossible. He would never have time for more than one, nor a lover’s energy. Why, he had not time for a wife and a mistress—that was why he chose the mistress.

But almost immediately she was concerned. Zuylestein was a member of the House of Orange, although through an illegitimate connection. Jane was the daughter of an English country gentleman of no very grand background. Could the cousin of the Prince of Orange marry such a girl? In the circumstances, he must.

“He must marry you without delay,” said Mary.

“He will not do so, Your Highness. He says his family would not allow it. I should not be considered a suitable match.”

“He considered you suitable to get you with child.”

“Oh, Your Highness, I see nothing but disgrace. I shall be sent back to my father and I cannot bear it. I sometimes say to myself anything … anything is better than that.”

“Has Zuylestein spoken to the Prince?”

“Oh, no, Your Highness. He would not dare. The Prince has other ideas for him. He will arrange a grand marriage …”

“Not surely when he so clearly owes it to you to marry you. How could you have been so foolish as to submit to him, Jane?”

“I loved him, Your Highness.”

“Ah!” said Mary.

“And in the beginning he promised to marry me.”

“In that case I think he should be made to keep his promise.”

“The Prince, he says, will never consent to the marriage.”

“I believe that this marriage should take place. I would that you had come to me earlier, Jane.”

“Oh, Your Highness, so do I. You are so good and kind … so understanding. You have not once upbraided me.”

“Now Jane, I am not a child. I know what it means to love. I am sorry though that you should have let your feelings run away with you. But in these matters it is not for any of us to put blame on others.”

Jane kissed her hands and began to cry quietly.

“You are quite overwrought which I am sure is bad for the child. Go to your room and leave this to me.”

“Oh, Your Highness, how can I thank you.”

“Save your thanks until I have married you to your seducer. It may not be easy, but rest assured I shall do my best.”

Mary sat in her apartments brooding on the difficulties of life. Poor Jane Wroth! One imagined her going back to her father’s house in the country to have her illegitimate child. The reproaches would very likely continue through her life, for it was improbable that she would find a husband since she was neither rich nor beautiful.

Years and years ago in Holland her mother had become pregnant and had believed that her seducer would not be allowed to marry her. She had heard the story many times and it had not pleased her; it was another of those unpleasant circumstances which had made her turn to Frances Apsley because men made unpleasant complications in life. Oh, for that cottage in the woods with Frances to care for and love for the rest of her days! No. That would not satisfy her now. She knew that her love for Frances was an escape from reality; she was not a natural lover of women. But she needed love though; she needed an ideal relationship; she needed William to be kind and loving.

But this was no time to think about her own complicated relationships. What of Jane?

Zuylestein had promised marriage and he should be made to keep that promise.

She sent for Dr. Kenn and told him what had happened.

The little priest was indignant. An English girl in trouble and the Dutchman who betrayed her now trying to shirk his responsibilities! It was something that Kenn would do his utmost to put right.

“Zuylestein, according to Jane, says that the Prince would forbid him to marry her, that he has other plans for him.”

“Such plans must be set aside then,” retorted the fiery Kenn. “His duty comes before grand plans and I have no doubt where that duty lies. Nor has Your Highness.”

“But the Prince …”

“Your Highness is the Princess, not only of Holland for your title did not come to you through your husband. You are the heiress to the throne of England; I think you are inclined to forget this in your relationship with your husband. In any case, while he is away it is for you to rule in his stead. And your duty is to see this girl married.”

“Against the Prince’s will?”

“What is done will be done.”

“You are right, Dr. Kenn. Send for Zuylestein.”

Zuylestein stood before the Princess and her chaplain.

“Your Highness desired to see me?”

“To ask you what you intended to do about Jane Wroth,” said Mary promptly.

“Do?”

“You intend to marry her, of course,” went on Mary, “and the marriage should take place without delay for she is far gone in pregnancy.”

“Your Highness, I would marry Jane but the Prince would not agree to the marriage.”

“I give my consent to it,” said Mary.

“Your Highness is gracious, but the Prince …”

Dr. Kenn growled: “The baby will be born like as not before the return of the Prince. We cannot wait for his consent. The Princess gives it and that will suffice.”

“Your Highness …” stammered Zuylestein.

“You have sinned,” said Kenn, “and there is one way of expiating that sin. You must marry the girl unless you prefer to rot in hell.”

“I will make reparations. I will see that she is well cared for.”

“There is only one reparation acceptable in the eyes of Heaven,” said Kenn. “You will make it.”

Zuylestein looked appealingly at Mary who answered sternly: “I command you to marry Jane Wroth and be a good father to your child.”

“I would, Your Highness, but …”

“I will leave you with Dr. Kenn,” said Mary. “He will explain to you the consequences of your sin to your victim and yourself. You will listen to him and I command that you come to me and tell me before the day is out that you will repair the harm you have done, as best you can, by marriage.”

She left him with Dr. Kenn.

Limp from the fiery denunciations of Dr. Kenn, with vivid pictures of hell fire in his mind, Zuylestein presented himself to Mary.

“Well?” she said.

“Your Highness, I have given my promise to Dr. Kenn.”

“I rejoice to hear it. You will do what is right for Jane and I am sure you will be happier for it.”

“Your Highness, the Prince is not going to be pleased with me.… or Dr. Kenn or …”

She held her head a little higher.

“I am sure we have nothing to fear for we have done what is right,” she said.

She dismissed him and sent for Jane, whom she embraced and told her that the marriage would take place tomorrow, with Dr. Kenn officiating.

Jane could not believe it; she fell on her knees and kissed the hem of her mistress’s gown.

“Get up,” commanded Mary. “It is bad for you in your condition to crawl about the floor.” Then she embraced her maid once more and told her how happy she was.

“A woman who is to bear a child should know nothing but joy,” she said a little sadly.

“I cannot thank Your Highness enough. But the Prince will not be pleased when he returns.”

“He will see that we have done what is right,” answered Mary firmly, “and none should be displeased with that.”

Kenn lost no time in marrying Zuylestein to Jane. The Court was astonished—not so much that Kenn had persuaded Zuylestein to keep his promise to the girl whom he had seduced, but that Mary, knowing that she would most certainly risk her husband’s displeasure, had concurred in this.

When William returned to The Hague he quickly discovered what had happened and was, as everyone had expected he would be, furious. He had decided on a brilliant marriage for his cousin; the House of Orange needed influential alliances. That this chance had been lost was infuriating. And who had been responsible? Kenn and Mary. That Kenn had done this was no surprise; he had summed up the nature of that little man; but Mary, his docile wife, to go against him! It was monstrous.

He was so startled that he sent for Kenn before upbraiding Mary.

The priest came to him unabashed.

“I understand,” said William, “that you take it upon yourself to arrange my family’s alliances while I am away.”

“I only discharge my duty, Your Highness, by righting the wrongs done to a poor girl.”

“I would have you, sir, mind your own affairs and keep your nose out of mine.”

“I must contradict Your Highness and point out that that girl’s soul is my affair.”

“If she is a slut, that is no concern of the House of Orange.”

“If a member of that noble house is responsible for her condition then that is, I fear, the concern of the House of Orange.”

“You are impertinent.”

“And if Your Highness will forgive me, you are unjust.”

“I must ask you to return to England. Your services are no longer required here.”

“I am prepared to go, Your Highness, but I must remind you that I am in the service of the Princess.”

When William was most angry he remained silent. He waved a hand to dismiss Kenn and went to Mary.

“I am grieved and astonished,” he told her.

“I am sorry that you should be so.”

He shot a look at her; her expression was serious. She did not seem to have changed from the meek wife he had come to expect.

“You know to what I refer—this disastrous marriage of my cousin’s.”

“It was a most necessary marriage.”

“With that I cannot agree.”

“Jane was far gone in pregnancy.”

“She should have been sent away to have the child quietly.”

“Your Highness does not know that she had received a promise of marriage from your cousin.”

“Then she was a fool to take it seriously.”

“But she did take it seriously and as a result was with child. Your cousin behaved particularly badly because he induced her to procure a miscarriage which might have killed her and the child.”

“And saved a great deal of trouble.”

Mary’s cheeks grew pink; he expected her now to burst into tears, to ask his forgiveness; but she did no such thing.

“I should have been most distressed to have lost my friend in such a way.”

He was bewildered, realizing that he was more shocked by the change in her than by his cousin’s unfortunate marriage.

“You knew that I would never have permitted this marriage to take place.”

“To my mind it was very necessary that it should take place. Jane’s life would have been ruined. She came to Holland with me, in my care …”

“You surely do not hold yourself responsible for the behavior of all your maids of honor?”

She met his gaze steadily. “Not all of them,” she said and there was something in her voice which alarmed him. How much did she know? Had she guessed? Was this a reference to Elizabeth?

He wanted to get away, to ponder on this change in her.

He said coldly: “I am most displeased.”

And turning, he left her.

Mary looked after him sadly. He had been away so long and he had no warm affection to offer her on his return. How foolish she was to dream of that ideal relationship!

William had shut himself into his own apartments, to be alone, to think. He did not want to discuss this even with Bentinck yet.

She had changed. Lately she had seemed older, wiser, more serious. She had remained a child for a long time and now she was growing up.

William was visualizing the future: Charles dead; James rejected by the British; Mary the Queen; and William—her consort? That woman who had stood so firmly over the Jane Wroth affair might well decide that since she was Queen of England she would rule her country. He had been counting on her docility; but if she could take a stand over one thing she could over another and much greater issue.

William was really worried. He saw himself the consort of the Queen of England, waiting on her decisions, obeying her commands.

It was no life for him. Mrs. Tanner had promised him the three crowns—not a seat beside a wife who wore them.

What did it mean? He must find out.

For the time being he avoided her. But he was very uneasy.

William did not insist on Kenn’s dismissal. Instead he seemed a trifle more affable to him. Kenn was amused and made it clear that the Prince’s opinion was of no great concern to him since he was in the service of the Princess.

He even remonstrated with William on the manner in which a Princess of England was treated in Holland; and then awaited William’s fury.

It did not come.

William was considering how best to treat his wife. If he gave up Elizabeth Villiers he could pay more attention to her, but he could not give up Elizabeth. She completely fascinated him, although he was not a man to be very interested in women. Elizabeth was the one woman he needed in his life and he was determined to keep her.

But he could not make up his mind how to treat Mary. He was determined to make her realize he was the master; she must remain cowed as she had been in the past. The tears in her eyes when he expressed his displeasure had exasperated him, but it was disturbing that he rarely saw them now.

He believed that her father might try to wean her from him. Several unfortunate possibilities occurred to him. What if she died? Then Anne would inherit the throne.

He must keep Mary healthy, and at the same time he must make her his slave. He had thought he had achieved the last until the Zuylestein affair.

That was a warning.

Perhaps he should take her into his confidence a little, pretend to discuss state affairs with her, turn her against her father, make her understand the importance of preserving Protestantism in England.

That was his difficulty. He had to take her into his confidence over state affairs and at the same time never let her lose sight of the fact that he was the master. He was not sure how to do this.

That was why during that time he scarcely saw her and she, conscious of the widening rift between them, was very sad.

Mary waited for the letters from Frances. She wrote to her “beloved husband” as though she were writing to William. It was a fantasy she clung to.

Then one day there came a letter from Frances. She was to be married to Sir Benjamin Bathurst. It was a marriage desirable on all sides and as Frances was now twenty-nine it seemed to be time she married if she were ever going to.

Mary read and re-read that letter. It was long past the time when that dream of the cottage in the wood should have been forgotten. They would both be matrons now; how everyone would laugh if they knew they wrote to each other as dearest husband and beloved wife!

Frances wrote that she was very busy preparing for the wedding. She seemed very happy. Mary fervently hoped she would be and that they would be friends for the rest of their lives.

“I wish you nine months hence two boys,” wrote Mary, “for one is too common a wish.”

She was seeking ways of pleasing William now; when he talked to her she was delighted; he was building his new brick palace at Loo and if there was anything William could really grow excited about it was building and the construction of gardens. Over the Palace of Loo they grew more friendly. He showed her the plans of the suite of rooms which were to be allotted to her.

“I think,” she said, “I should like flower beds here.”

He considered this and replied: “Flower beds would be pleasant but I have decided you should have a fountain which you will find more agreeable.”

He was delighted with her response. “Yes, of course a fountain would be better.”

He would ask her opinion and then superimpose his own. But he was at least taking notice of her. He showed an interest in the poultry garden she had set up and explained to her that she could have aquatic species of fowls because the canals provided the necessary water.

Mary listened eagerly; William’s anxiety decreased. He was certain that he would know how to keep his wife in order.

She still wrote to Frances but the passionate love was missing from the letters. She wanted to hear all the news from London. What was being worn at the Court? There were certain materials which she could not procure in Holland. Would Frances get them for her?

Frances was quickly pregnant.

“Lucky Frances!” she wrote. “How I envy you!”

And she knew that Frances was now almost entirely preoccupied with her family.

She was turning to William, waiting on those days when he honored her with his company, seeking to please him. He had now begun to talk to her of the unsatisfactory state of affairs in her own country. A great shadow overhung the land: the shadow of Catholicism.

Mary was very unhappy because her father was responsible. She kept remembering how affectionate he had always been and how when she had been a child he had made no secret of the fact that she was his favorite daughter. It was sad to have this conflict between her father and husband; but as a staunch supporter of the English Reformed Church she believed that it would be a disaster if the Catholic Church replaced that of England.

Gradually William was making her see through his eyes; and with each passing week her opinion of her father began to change. She had always been distressed by his infidelity both to her mother and stepmother; but it seemed that he was guilty of even greater indiscretions.

He was actually William’s enemy—her William’s.

Her William was a noble prince of high ideals who served his country loyally, who was a great ruler and had brought Holland away from the disaster which once had threatened her and if he was unfaithful to his wife with Elizabeth Villiers, were not all men unfaithful? And William was but a man.

She assured herself that she loved William. He was stern and seemed unloving, but that was his nature, the same as her nature was to be affectionate and demonstrative.

As she walked by the pond in the Loo gardens, she let herself dream that one day he would dismiss Elizabeth Villiers and remove that sinister barrier which, she told herself, stood between that ideal relationship for which she longed so fiercely that she must believe it was possible.