The Three Crowns

ROMANCE AT THE HAGUE

England seemed far away. This was her home: The Hague, the Palace in the Wood, the Palace of Loo, and William was at the center of her life. To others he was unattractive; those who thought highly of extravagant manners, of the courtesies which were practised at her uncle’s Court, considered William to be brusque and ungracious, harsh and stern. She had heard all those epithets in connection with him, but believed she had come to understand him, and understanding, to love. He was deeply religious; his concern for the future of England, she told herself, had nothing to do with his own hopes; he sincerely believed that for England to return to Rome would be a major tragedy. He suffered from ill health, which was a fact most people seemed not to understand. He was asthmatical and easily exhausted. Yet he ignored this and drove himself, so naturally he was impatient at times. She was beginning to see everything through his eyes.

There were times when she wanted to tell him that he need have no fear of her ever disobeying him because her greatest joy would be to show herself as his loving and obedient wife.

Her days were passed almost in seclusion; there were her needlework, her flowers, her fowls, her miniatures; and occasionally those treasured interviews with William. She had heard that her sister Anne had been involved in an unfortunate affair with Lord Mulgrave and for that reason it had been decided that a husband should be found for her without delay. Anne was now married to George of Denmark and wrote to Mary that she was very happy. Mary would always love her sister; she did not forget how close they had been; but even Anne seemed far away now. In her letters Mary caught glimpses of the somewhat frivolous life her sister led. She was pregnant and thrilled at the thought of becoming a mother; she wanted Mary to send her stuff for a bedgown because she had a notion that just what she wanted could be found in Holland; Anne was content with her dear George and her dearest Sarah whom she would never allow to be very far away from her.

Then life began to change with the arrival of the Duke of Monmouth at The Hague.

Jemmy was still one of the most attractive men Mary had ever seen and now that she was older, now that she knew that even William was guilty of adultery, she viewed his peccadilloes less severely. Jemmy came with his mistress Henrietta Wentworth and he seemed a different man from that gay—and perhaps heartless youth—who had fascinated her a little in the past.

For one thing his love for Henrietta was so deep; or perhaps it was Henrietta herself who made something beautiful of that relationship. She, a great heiress in her own right, had sacrificed all hopes of a conventional and comfortable life for the sake of Monmouth. He was aware of this and did his best to return her devotion. Henrietta was naturally beautiful and her love for Monmouth transfigured her so that she could not enter a room without everyone’s being aware of her, but she herself was conscious only of her lover. Such a devotion could not but have its effect on Jemmy.

He was more serious; beneath his natural gaiety and great charm there burned a zeal. He wanted to mount the throne of England; he was the son of the King and because he could ensure the continuance of Protestantism in England he believed his cause was righteous.

William, whose great enemy was James, tentatively offered friendship to Monmouth, but he would only do this as long as Monmouth’s bastardy was recognized.

It was a delicate situation.

Moreover Jemmy was in Holland because of the discovery of the Rye House plot—the object of which had been the murder of Charles the King and his brother the Duke of York.

William and Monmouth were closeted together and Monmouth passionately explained that he had had no part in the plan to murder his father; he swore that that intention had been kept from him.

“It was to be a revolt against the threat of Catholicism, to bring back the liberties which my father took away when he installed the Tory sheriffs and confiscated the city charters. My father has always wanted to rule without the Parliament … as our grandfather did. My father has been lucky. He has enjoyed great popularity. Because he is the man he is, they have never tried to chop off his head as they did our grandfather’s. But the people of England do not want an absolute monarch. And this was the object of the plot.”

William regarded his cousin steadily. “And because of this you are sent in exile?”

“I was in the first plot but not the second. By God, William, you know my feelings for my father. Those near him love him and I am his son. I have had great affection from him; the only thing he has ever denied me is my legitimacy and if it rested with him …”

William nodded. Charles did dote on this handsome son who was more than a little like himself. William thanked God that Charles’s sense of rightness had prevented him from giving his beloved son his dearest wish.

“My father and uncle were to be waylaid coming from the Newmarket races … and murdered. It was kept from me. I swear it, William, you know I would never harm my father.”

“I know it,” answered William.

“Russell, Algernon Sidney, and Essex are dead—Sidney and Russell on the scaffold, Essex in his prison—some say by his own hand. They wanted me to give evidence against them and I could not. They were my friends, even though they had kept me in ignorance of the plot to murder my father and uncle. And it is due to my father that I did not share their lot, William. It is due to him that I am here.”

“And what do you propose to do now?”

“What can I do? I cannot return to England.”

“Do you claim that your mother was married to your father?”

Their eyes met and Monmouth flinched. “I make no such claim,” he said, “for my father has denied it.”

William’s lips curled in a half smile.

“Then you can take refuge here. You will understand that I could not shelter one who put my wife’s claim in jeopardy.”

Monmouth bowed his head; he understood that he could rely on a refuge in Holland, but Mary must be recognized as the heir who would follow her father (or perhaps her uncle) to the throne.

William visited his wife in her apartments and at his approach her women, as always, promptly disappeared. Mary looked up eagerly and was dismayed to find herself comparing him with Monmouth. They were both her cousins—and how different they were! Monmouth, tall and dark with flashing eyes and gay smile. It was difficult to imagine William gay; his great wig seemed too cumbersome for his frail body and one had the impression that he would not be able to maintain its balance; his hooked nose, slightly twisted, seemed the more enormous because he was so small; he sat hunching his narrow shoulders, his small frail hands resting on the table.

“You realize the significance of Monmouth’s visit?” he asked coldly.

“Yes, William.”

Her face was alight with pleasure. She was always delighted when he discussed political matters with her.

“I think we must be watchful in our treatment of this young man.”

“You are as usual right, William.”

He bowed his head in assent. He was pleased with her; he was molding her the way he wanted her to go. She was beautiful too; her shortsighted eyes were soft and gentle; her features strong and good. He had always wanted a beautiful wife, but of course docility had counted more than beauty. In her he had both—or almost. When she stood up she towered over him; he could never quite forget her horror when she had learned she was to marry him; he could never forget his shuddering bride. He knew that she did not always agree with him but when she did not she bowed her head in tacit acceptance that it was a wife’s duty to obey her husband. On the other hand he must never forget the Zuylestein affair and that she was not the weak woman she sometimes gave the impression of being; on occasions she could be strong; and how could he ever be sure when one of those occasions would arise?

This made him cautious of her, and cold always.

“I have received a warning from Charles that I should not give him shelter here.”

She was alarmed. “We should not offend my uncle …” Then he was pleased to see that she realized her temerity in daring to tell him what he should do. She amended it. “Or William, what would be the best thing to do?”

“Monmouth shall have refuge here and I do not think in giving it we are going to offend our uncle. I will tell you something. When I was last in England he showed me a seal. He must have expected trouble with Monmouth—and indeed who would not? Your father is causing so much anxiety in England.”

She looked worried for it was almost as though William blamed her for her father’s misdeeds.

“He showed me this seal, and said: ‘It may be that at times I shall have to write to you about Monmouth. But unless I seal my letter with this seal do not take seriously what I tell you.’ ”

Mary caught her breath in wonder. “He must have a high opinion of you, William. And it so well deserved.”

He did not answer that, but added, “These instructions were not sealed with the King’s special seal; therefore we need not take them seriously.”

He half smiled; Mary laughed. She was so happy to share his confidences.

Mary was reading a letter from her father.

“It scandalizes all loyal people here to know how the Prince receives the Duke of Monmouth. Although you do not meddle in matters of state, in this affair you should talk to the Prince. The Prince may flatter himself as he pleases, the Duke of Monmouth will do his part to have a push with him for the crown, if he, the Duke of Monmouth, outlive the King and me. It will become you very well to speak to him of it.”

When Mary read that letter she realized how deep was the bitterness between her husband and her father. She wept a little. She so wanted them to be friends. If only she could make James understand how noble her husband was; if only she could make William see that for all his faults and aptitude for falling into trouble, her father was at heart a good man.

She went with it to William who, when he had read it, regarded her sternly.

“I see,” he said coldly, “that you are inclined to listen with credulity to your father.”

“William, he is a very uneasy man.”

“Let us hope he is. He should be, after his villainies.”

“William, he never intends to behave badly. He sincerely believes …”

William interrupted her. “Am I to understand that you are making excuses for your father?”

“I would wish that you could understand him.”

“I would wish that I had a wife of better sense.”

“But William, of late …”

“Of late I have tried to take you into my confidence. I can see that I have been mistaken.”

“No, William, you are never mistaken.”

He looked at her sharply. Was that irony? No, her smile was deprecating; she was begging to be taken back in favor.

He relented very slightly. “Because this man is your father you are inclined to see him as he is not. You should write to him and say that you can do nothing, for the Prince is your husband and your master and you are therefore obliged to obey him.”

“Yes, William,” she said meekly.

“In all things,” he added.

Monmouth was prepared to spend the winter at The Hague. James wrote furiously to his nephew; William ignored his letters; instead he gave orders to his wife.

“I wish you to entertain the Duke of Monmouth. There is no reason why we should not give a ball. Please see to it.”

Mary was delighted. A ball! It would be like old times. “Yet how shall we know the latest dances?” she cried. “But Jemmy will know them. I must have a new gown.”

William eyed her sardonically. She had not grown up as much as he had thought. Now she looked like that girl who had delighted him when he had first seen her—vivacious, gay, a typical Stuart, as he was not, perhaps because he was half Dutch. Mary was like her uncle Charles in some ways and to see her and Monmouth together made one realize the relationship between them.

They were two handsome people. Monmouth had always been startlingly attractive and so was Mary now that she was in good health and preparing to lead the kind of life she had enjoyed in England.

She was beginning to believe that this was one of the happiest times of her life. William was growing closer to her and allowing her to share confidences; she knew what was going on in England and every day there would be a conference between them. How she would have enjoyed these if her father’s name was not constantly brought into the discussions and she was expected to despise him! But since she was beginning to believe the stories she heard of her father’s follies, even that did not seem so bad.

Then there was Henrietta—what a dear friend she had become! Monmouth declared that she was his wife in the eyes of God and although Mary had loved the Duchess of Monmouth dearly, she had to accept Henrietta; for Henrietta was not the frivolous girl who had danced in Calista but was a serious woman with a deep purpose in life which was to give Monmouth all he desired and to live beside him for the rest of her life. Henrietta’s feelings for Monmouth were like those Mary held for William. They were two women determined to support their men.

Then there was Jemmy himself. It was impossible not to be gay in Jemmy’s company. Whatever great events were pending, Jemmy had always time to play. He could dance better than anyone else and he was very fond of his dear cousin, Mary.

She believed that he understood her feeling for William and that he was sorry for her. She did not resent pity from him because she was so fond of him, and because she felt so close to him that she could accept from him what she could not from almost anyone else.

There were times when his beauty and grace enchanted her; when she saw him and Henrietta together she found herself thinking that Henrietta must be the luckiest woman in the world. She looked forward to those evenings when Jemmy taught her the new dances.

“Do you remember Richmond?” she asked him.

And he smiled at her and said: “I shall never forget dancing with you at Richmond.”

Again she caught herself comparing William with Monmouth; and she stopped that at once.

They are so different! she assured herself. Each admirable in his way.

Then more severely: William is the idealist. He would never have indulged in all the pranks Jemmy indulged in. Jemmy was wild in his youth as William would never be. Jemmy might be handsome and charming but it was William who was the great leader.

She thought of Jemmy’s wild past, how again and again his father had stepped in to save him from disgrace and disaster. She remembered poor Eleanor Needham who had left court when she was seduced by him and about to bear his child. Now she had five of his children; the Duchess had six and Henrietta two. Thirteen children that she knew of and there were probably others—and she had not one. How could she possibly compare William and Jemmy!

There was Elizabeth Villiers.… She shut her mind to that affair. She saw Elizabeth frequently but she had convinced herself that that trouble was over. William had too much with which to occupy himself; he simply had not time for a mistress. It was over. It was to be forgotten.

She was dining in public nowadays which was something she had not done for a long time. William no longer wished her to live like a recluse, and he was always anxious that people should know that they were in accord.

One day while she sat at table a dish of sweetmeats was placed before her and as she looked at them idly she saw a small fat hand descend on the dish and pick up handfuls of the sweetmeats.

She gasped with surprise and a pair of blue eyes were lifted to her in fear. They belonged to a small boy who had seen the sweetmeats placed there and had found them irresistible.

“Your Highness, I pray you forgive him …” The boy’s terrified nurse had seized him; she was trying to hold him and stay on her knees at the same time.

Mary smiled. “Come here, my child,” she said.

The boy came.

“So you wanted the sweetmeats?”

He nodded. “They are very nice.”

“How do you know until you have tried them? Come, sit here beside me and eat one now.”

He looked a little suspicious until Mary signed to the nurse to rise. Then the boy sat down and ate one of the sweets.

“Is it good?” asked Mary.

“It’s the sweetest sweetmeat I ever tasted.”

“Well, won’t you try another?”

He did, and Mary, watching the little round head with the flaxen hair, the golden lashes against a clear skin, felt a great emptiness in her life. If he were but my son! she thought.

She talked to the boy and he answered brightly while his nurse stood by marveling at the success of her charge; and when Mary reluctantly let him go she told him that whenever he wished for sweetmeats and saw them on her table he should present himself because she would prefer to give them to him than that he should attempt to steal them.

When she danced with Monmouth that evening, he having seen the incident with the child, said: “Mary, do not be too grieved that you have no children. You will … in time.”

She flushed. “Sometimes I think not, Jemmy.”

“But that is not the right attitude.”

She could not tell him that William rarely gave her an opportunity of having a child and that she had begun to fear that he was incapable of begetting one which would live. Perhaps Jemmy understood that though, for he was very worldly wise.

She always tried to make light of her misfortunes and she was now afraid that her treatment of the little boy that day had made many understand the void in her life and feel sorry for her.

“You who have so many should know. But I believe, Jemmy, that you often had them when you had no great wish to.”

“The perversity of life,” he remarked. “But, Mary, do not grieve for the children you never had … to please me.”

“There is little I would not do … to please you,” she said.

He pressed her hand and it was love she saw in his eyes. Her own responded.

Jemmy was devoted to Henrietta and she to William; but there was love between them for all that.

Monmouth had changed the dour Court of The Hague; he had changed Mary’s life. Often she wondered how she could ever go back to live as she had lived before—almost like a prisoner! Rising early, spending much time in prayer and with her chaplain, sewing or painting miniatures when her eyes permitted, being read to, and her greatest diversion of course—playing cards.

She wondered why William had allowed this change. Was it because he wanted to show the world that he allied himself with the Protestant cause? The troublous matter of the succession in England was in fact one of Catholic versus Protestant. Her father would never have been so unpopular if he had not shown himself to be a Catholic.

But whatever the reason, the change had come; and when in December Monmouth told her that he was returning to England for a secret visit to his father, she was melancholy.

“I will be back,” he told her. “Needs must. I am still an exile.”

So he and Henrietta returned to London that December; and Mary was melancholy, wondering when she would see them again.

It had been a bitterly cold January day and it looked as though it were going to be a hard winter. Mary had slipped back to the old routine, rising early and retiring early.

On this particular evening she had decided to retire early as she intended to be up at a very early hour that she might take communion. Anne Trelawny and Anne Villiers, who was now Anne Bentinck, were helping her to undress when a messenger came to the apartment.

The Princess is to come at once to the Prince’s chamber, was the order.

Anne Trelawny said indignantly: “The Princess has already retired.” Anne Trelawny, indignant because her mistress was not treated with the respect due to her, was often truculent to the Prince’s servants.

The messenger went away and came shortly afterward. “The Prince’s instructions. The Princess is to dress and go to his chamber at once.”

Even Anne Trelawny had to pass on such a message to her mistress and when she heard it Mary immediately dressed.

When she presented herself at her husband’s apartments she gave a cry of pleasure, for Monmouth was with him.

“You are back sooner than I had hoped,” she cried.

Monmouth embraced her.

“And how do you find events in England?”

“Much as before,” answered Monmouth. “Your father is determined to have my blood. My father is determined that he shan’t.”

“And so you are to stay with us for a while?”

“I throw myself on the hospitality of you and the Prince.”

“You are welcome,” put in William. He looked at his wife. “There should be a ball in honor of our guest,” he added.

She smiled happily.

This was a return to all that she had begun to miss so much.

Observers were astonished by the behavior of the Prince of Orange, in particular the French Ambassador, the Comte d’Avaux, who reported to his master, the King of France, that he and Monmouth stood for Protestantism. He did not know what they were plotting together, but it might well be that should Charles die they would make an attempt to put Mary on the throne.

Mary, he reported, was sternly Protestant, adhering to the Church of England; she was a woman he did not understand; she seemed to form no fast friendships with anyone about her; she was completely the dupe of the Prince. And yet she was not a stupid woman; one would have thought she had a mind of her own. In fact over the affaire Zuylestein she had shown she had. He was following events closely, for William was throwing her constantly into the society of the Duke of Monmouth, who had not a very good reputation.

Orange was determined to fête Monmouth; he had given him free access to his private cabinet at any time—a privilege accorded only to one other person, his faithful friend Bentinck. It was a strange state of affairs and the French ambassador could only guess that he wanted the world to know he stood firmly for Protestantism.

Meanwhile Mary and Monmouth were constantly together.

A frenzied excitement seemed to possess them both. He was thinking that if they had married him to Mary he would have realized his ambition and become King of England. She was happy as she used to be in those long-ago days at Richmond. She loved to dance, laugh, and chatter without wondering whether what she said would be considered stupid. With her cousin she could be carelessly gay, she could talk with abandon; she could laugh and sing and dance.

“Dear God,” she thought, “I am so happy.”

“There should be theatricals,” said Monmouth, “as there used to be in the old days.”

“I should love that!” cried Mary, and then wondered what William would say.

But William made no objection. “Let there be theatricals,” he said.

So they played together—she, Monmouth, and Henrietta. William was a spectator—aloof but coldly indulgent, sitting there close to the stage watching. She could not act freely when she thought of him there. But it was at his command.

Because of the hard frost there was skating, and Monmouth expressed his pleasure in the sport.

“The Princess should skate with you,” William said.

“But, William, I have never skated.”

“Then learn. I doubt not the Duke will teach you.”

“It will be a pleasure,” Monmouth told Mary.

And so it was, after the first misgivings. How she laughed as she leaned against him, iron pattens on her feet, her skirts tucked up above her knees. Many times she would have fallen, but Jemmy was always there to catch her.

The French Ambassador was horrified. A most undignified sight, he commented. The Princess of Orange would only have so demeaned herself at the command of her husband, he was sure.

“We can depend upon it,” he wrote, “that this fawning on Monmouth can mean only one thing. Orange and Monmouth are planning an invasion of England and Orange wishes the world to know that the heiress to the throne is with them in this plot.”

Everywhere Mary went there was Monmouth; there was no need, William implied, of a chaperone. He trusted his dear friend.

“What a gay life you lead here in Holland,” said Monmouth one day.

“It has only been gay since you came,” she told him.

He kissed her on the lips for he was deeply moved. She stood very still and said: “Jemmy, have you ever wanted a certain time of your life to go on and on …?”

He answered, “I have always been one to believe that the best is yet to come.”

“But Jemmy,” she cried, “what could be better than this?”

He took her arm and they sped over the ice. It was firm and strong at the moment; but a little change in the weather and the change would set in. That was inevitable. He felt it was symbolic but he did not call her attention to this.

She was charming, his cousin. They should have married them. But he loved Henrietta, and Mary was bound to William; thus their emotions were continually checked and they were safe from disaster.

But they were so happy together … and life might have been very different for them both.

A feverish excitement caught them. That evening they rode on sleds to Honselaarsdijk where there was a ball in honor of Monmouth.

William insisted that Mary and Monmouth lead the dance; his asthma prevented his taking a part; but he sat, watching them; and he saw his wife’s excitement and he thought: she has honored our guest but she must never forget who is her master.

Shortly after the Honselaarsdijk ball, came that day of mourning which Mary had always observed throughout her life. The thirtieth of January—the day of the execution of Charles the Martyr.

“There will be no dancing today,” she told Anne Trelawny, as she dressed in her gown of mourning. “Today I will pray for the soul of my grandfather and we will pass the time in sewing for the poor.”

“It will do you good to have a rest from all the gaiety,” replied Anne, “although I must say you don’t look as if you need it.”

“I could dance every day of my life,” replied Mary.

“The Duke has done you the world of good. It seems strange that …”

Anne dared not utter open criticism of William before Mary, who was well aware that her friend did not like her husband.

During the day William came to her apartment. She rose delighted to see him and as was their custom her maids hurried away and left them together. She was astonished to see that William was more gaily dressed than usual—not that his garb was ever anything but somber; but she thought he must have forgotten what the day was.

“I like not that gown,” he said curtly.

“Oh, it is dull is it not, but fitting to the day, I believe.”

“Change it at once. Put on a brightly colored gown and wear jewels.”

She stared at him in astonishment. “William, have you forgotten what today is?”

“I have made a simple request and I expect it to be obeyed.”

“William, it is the thirtieth of January.”

“I am well aware of that.”

“And yet you suggest I wear a bright color … and jewels!”

“I do not suggest, I command.”

“I cannot do it, William. It is our grandfather’s day.”

“Enough of this folly. Put on a bright gown. You are dining in public today.”

“But, William, I never do on this day. I spend it in seclusion.”

“Do you mean that you will flout me?”

“William, anything else I will willingly do, but always this has been a day we observed.”

“Let me hear no more of this nonsense. I shall expect to see you differently dressed and ready to dine with me in public.”

He left her and when her women came back they found her silent and bewildered.

“What now?” whispered Anne Trelawny to Mrs. Langford. “What new tyranny is this?”

Mrs. Langford, the wife of a clergyman who had been one of Mary’s devoted servants for a long time, shared Anne Trelawny’s dislike of William.

“He wants to show who is master, that’s all,” she retorted.

“Your Highness,” said Anne, “what has happened?”

“I wish to change my dress. Bring out a blue gown and my diamonds and sapphires.”

“But this is the thirtieth of January, Your Highness.”

“It is the Prince’s wish that I dine in public with him and show no sign of grief for my grandfather.”

Anne Trelawny and Mrs. Langford lifted their shoulders and looked at each other.

What a wretched meal that was! Mary could eat nothing. William watched her critically as the dishes were placed before her and taken away.

How could he? she was thinking. This was a deliberate insult to their grandfather—his as well as hers. Everyone knew she spent this as a day of mourning and although he had not mourned as she did, he had never before prevented her.

After the meal he told her that they were going to the theater together.

“You are going to the theater, William?” she asked.

“I said we were going together.”

“But you dislike the theater.”

“And you love it.”

“Not on this day.”

“We are going,” he said.

This was significant. He was telling the world that she and he dissociated themselves from that policy of Divine Right, which had lost their grandfather his life, which his son Charles had followed and his brother James was threatening to do.

William wanted the people of England to know that he stood for a Protestant England and an England which was ruled by a Sovereign who worked with his Parliament.

Thus there was no need to feel regret for one who had done the opposite.

Anne Trelawny and Mrs. Langford were talking of the affair while the Prince and Princess were at the theater.

“I have never known a Princess so shamefully treated,” said Anne.

“He wants to show her that he is master.”

“Why she doesn’t stand up to him I can’t imagine.”

“Oh, she’s gentle. She wants him to be a perfect husband. I know my Princess. She pretends he is one—and that she feels is as near as she’ll get.”

“Caliban!” muttered Anne. “I often wonder what her father would say if he knew the way she was treated.”

“She’s being turned against him. It’s unnatural, that’s what it is.”

“I wish there was something we could do.”

“Who knows, perhaps one day there will be.”

Mary found it difficult to fall back into the old gaiety after the January day. How could William have behaved as he did? She had been so unhappy. She thought she would never forget the misery of that public meal and afterward going to the theater and sitting there, not listening to the actors, just thinking of her grandfather and all that he had suffered.

It was like dancing on a holy day.

Her father would hear of it. Her father! What had happened to their relationship? She knew that she must love and obey William but there were times when it was very hard.

Monmouth tried to cheer her.

“You take life too seriously,” he told her.

“Don’t you, Jemmy?”

“No, never.”

“There are times when you seem serious now.”

“Ah, I have a feeling that this is the turning point of my life.”

He was looking at her ardently, and although she reminded herself that that was how Jemmy must have looked at so many women, still she was deeply moved.

She tried to smile when they danced a bransle together, but she could not raise herself from her melancholy. There was something unreal about the strange turn life had taken, she saw now, and it could not last.

“Jemmy,” she said, “how long shall you stay in Holland?”

“As long as I am welcome, I suppose,” he answered.

“You know how long that will be if I have any say.”

“Tell me,” he whispered.

“Forever,” she answered; and turned away, afraid.

On the evening of the sixteenth of February 1685 Mary was in her apartments playing cards with some of her women when a message was brought to her that she must present herself without delay to the Prince in his cabinet.

She rose at once and as soon as she saw William she knew that he was excited, although his expression was calm as usual. But a nerve twitched in his cheek and when he spoke he found it difficult to control his breath.

“News,” he said, “which should have been brought to us days ago. On account of the ice and snow it has been delayed. Charles, King of England, is dead and your father has now mounted the throne.”

“Uncle Charles dead!” she muttered.

He looked at her forgetting to be exasperated by this habit of repeating his words.

“You realize,” he went on, “the importance of this to … us?”

She did not answer. She was thinking of Charles, her kind dear uncle, with his charming careless smile … dead.

“I have sent for Monmouth,” went on William. “He should be with us soon.”

No one could doubt the genuine grief of Monmouth. What had he ever had but kindness from the hands of his father? And what would become of him now that his greatest enemy was King of England?

He remained closeted with the Prince of Orange for many hours; then he went back to the Palace of the Mauruitshuis, which William had lent him during his sojourn in Holland, and there gave way to sorrow.

Bevil Skelton, the new Envoy from England, asked for an audience with the Prince of Orange.

This William granted. He had received a cold, somewhat unfriendly letter from Whitehall which ran:

“I have only time to tell you that it has pleased God Almighty to take out of this world the King my brother. You will from others have an account of what distemper he died of; and that all the usual ceremonies were performed this day in proclaiming me King in the city and other parts. I must end, which I do, with assuring you, you shall find me as kind as you can expect.”

As kind as you can expect. There was an ominous ring in those words.

Great events were about to break and rarely had William felt so excited in the whole of his life.

When Skelton was ushered in he came straight to the point. “His Majesty King James II wishes you to send the Duke of Monmouth back to England without delay.”

William bowed his head. “I shall do as the King of England demands. And now if you will leave me I will have him informed that he is no longer my guest. Then, when that is done, you may make him your prisoner and conduct him to your master.”

Skelton was delighted with his easy victory; but when he was alone William immediately sent a messenger to Monmouth with money, explaining that a plot was afoot to carry him back to England and his only hope was to leave Holland with all speed.

Thus when Skelton went to arrest Monmouth, he had fled.

Gone were the gay and happy days.

Mary sat with her women thinking of the dances and the skating, wondering what the future would hold.

All through the spring she waited to hear news of Jemmy. There was none.

He will never be able to return to England because my father hates him, she thought.

But in May of that year there was news. Monmouth had left for England.

The tension at The Hague had never been so great. Messengers were arriving at the Palace all day. William was shut up with Bentinck for hours at a time; he hardly seemed to be aware of Mary.

Monmouth was in Somerset. Taunton was greeting him. He had followers in the West of England who would go with him to death if need be for the sake of the Protestant cause.

To William’s surprise there were many to support the King, and his army under Churchill and Feversham was a well-trained force. What chance had the rebels against it?

King Monmouth, they were calling the Duke. King! William gritted his teeth and prayed for the victory of his greatest enemy.

It came with Sedgemoor and debacle. Victory for King James. Defeat, utter and complete, for King Monmouth.

In The Hague William secretly rejoiced. Monmouth, you fool! he thought. You deserve to lose your head and you will, King Monmouth.

Oh, Jemmy, thought Mary, what will become of you? Why did you do this? Why could you not have stayed with us, dancing, skating. We were so happy. And now what will become of you?

She quickly learned. Before the end of July Jemmy was dead. He was taken to the scaffold from his prison in the Tower. He went to his death with dignity and he did not flinch when he laid his head on the block.