The Three Crowns

THE BRIDE FROM MODENA

Soon after the death of the Duchess of York two new girls were introduced to the household at Richmond—Anne Trelawny and Sarah Jennings; and with the coming of these two the power of the Villiers was undermined, Anne Trelawny becoming Mary’s great friend and Sarah Jennings, Anne’s. Elizabeth Villiers was furious but there was nothing she could do about it; and she was beginning to realize that she had not been very clever because now that Mary was growing up she was becoming more important and the attitude of those around her was changing.

Mary herself was aware of this. “When I have my own household,” she confided to Anne Trelawny, “I shall dismiss Elizabeth Villiers.”

As yet she was far from that happy state.

Young Edgar died very soon after his mother, to be followed almost immediately by the new baby Catherine. The Duke was very sad and declared that he could only find comfort in the company of his daughters.

“Why does death always happen to us?” Mary asked him.

He held her tightly and put his cheek against hers. “It is happening all over the world,” he explained. “It is a sad fact that many are born not to reach manhood or womanhood. But we must be good to each other, my little daughter, for you and Anne are all I have to love now.”

She looked steadfastly into his face and thought of the rumors she had heard. “The Duke of York, like his brother, is a great lover of all women.” Whispers. Laughter. There were many women, according to what she had heard. Then how could she and Anne be the only ones he had to love?

“You have been hearing talk of me,” he said, and she felt the blood hot in her cheeks. Now he was going to tell her something shameful, something that she believed she would rather not hear.

“You have heard that I have been ill. It’s true I believe that I was going into a decline; but my health has improved, dearest Mary. I shall be with you for a long time yet.”

Her relief was evident. So he was referring to his ill health not that vaguely mysterious shameful life. He saw it and misconstrued the feeling which prompted it; his eyes became very tender.

“My dear little one,” he said, “it is your love which makes life bearable for me.” He stroked her hair. Then he said: “Mary, have you thought what Edgar’s death means?”

“That we shall never see him again.”

“Something besides. If the King has no children and when he and I are dead, it will be your turn.”

She looked alarmed and he said: “Oh, that is for the years ahead, but your uncle and I will not live forever. And then, Mary, you could be Queen of England, for I shall never marry again.”

She was very grave and he kissed her gently and said: “Do not be unhappy, dear child. We will not talk of the far, far distant future. Here is the present. We have lost dear ones, but let us remember that we have each other.”

Elizabeth Villiers came into the schoolroom to find Mary there alone. Mary picked up a book and prepared to leave.

Elizabeth was defiant. She had been foolish but she was not going to admit it, for she knew Mary would always consider her an enemy.

“I suppose,” said Elizabeth, “that you are thinking now Edgar is dead you will be Queen of England. That will never be.”

“You seem to know so much. Does His Majesty ask you to share his counsels?”

“You never will be Queen. Your father will marry again.”

“He will never marry again.”

Elizabeth laughed and Mary turned away. But Elizabeth’s words stayed in her mind.

Charles was well content. He had a new mistress whom he adored in Louise de Kéroualle, the girl who had come to England to comfort him after the loss of his sister; she it was whom he had seen in Minette’s suite and coveted; he guessed of course that Louis had sent her to spy on him, but she was so desirable and the very fact that she was probably working for Louis added a piquancy to her charm. Charles was sure of his ability to look after himself as far as both Louis and Louise were concerned. There had as yet been no occasion to proclaim his faith to his country and he told himself sardonically that there might well never be—and he was receiving the installments of his pension from the King of France. A very satisfactory state of affairs.

A year had passed since the death of the Duchess of York and James was beginning to feel the need of domesticity. Often he thought tenderly of his late wife, recalling all the joys of the conjugal life and forgetting its restrictions. He was, he decided, not a man to live alone. Those days at Richmond, when he had believed himself to be going into a decline, and had lived quietly with his sick wife, their children about them, had been the happiest of his life. He forgot his infidelities, Anne’s jealousy, the scandals and trials. Looking back he saw them all about a great open fireplace playing games such as “I love my love with an A.” How proud he had been of Mary’s quickness, how indulgent of young Anne’s inability to find the right word! How he had prompted little Edgar! Oh, happy days! But how could he enjoy more like them without a wife?

He had soon deceived himself into the belief that his had been the happiest marriage in the world. And the reason? He had married for love. Those early struggles against his family and Anne’s—how well worthwhile they had been.

If I married again, he told himself, it would be for love.

He did not at first recognize the charms of Susanna Armine, Lady Bellasis. She was neither very young nor very handsome. But one day something in her manner reminded him of his dead wife and the more he saw of her the more pronounced this likeness seemed to become and he began to picture her seated at a fireside with children around her.

From that moment he started to fall in love and his resolutions not to marry again were swept away.

He courted Susanna. At first the Court paid little heed, except to murmur that James had chosen a hard task because Susanna was known to be the most virtuous matron at Court. Charles looked on cynically. How like James, he thought; he would always make difficulties for himself. And why did he always select the least beautiful women!

Susanna appeared at first to regard the Duke of York merely as a friend and because of the nature of his attachment James was content for a while that this should be so. He would talk to her of the loss he had sustained and she confided in him her own troubles.

Her marriage had not been a happy one on account of her late husband’s fondness for drink.

James condoled with her. “I, who was extremely happy in my marriage, can perhaps sympathize more deeply with those who had to make do with so much less.”

“I thought I should never live through the disgrace,” sighed Susanna, “when they came home and told me he was dead. Killed in a duel—in itself a criminal act. He had taken too much to drink and … his opponent killed him.”

James put his hand over hers. There were tears in his eyes.

“How you must have suffered!”

“Moreover my husband was a Catholic; and my son is being brought up in the same religion.”

James was ardently enthusiastic. He did not think she should regard that with any misgivings; he would talk to her of his opinions which, she would understand, in view of his position must be kept as secret as possible. “But I feel none the less seriously for that,” he assured her.

She was a member of the Church of England, she told him, and nothing would change her, because she was convinced there was one true faith and that was the one she would always follow.

James was determined to convert her; she was determined to convert him; but far from making a rift between them, this drew them more closely together. She was his dear theologian, he told her; not even the Archbishops could put up such a case for the Church of England as she did, but he was going to demolish her arguments … one by one.

In this he failed and he was almost glad to fail, for it seemed to him that never had he heard such brilliant discourse. He pictured hours at the domestic hearth when they would talk to each other of their feelings for religion and perhaps between them, come closer to the truth than any had ever come before, because he had to admit he was moved by her arguments. She was brilliant; she was sound; she was even beginning to shake his absolute faith.

And that, he told himself, is what I need. Before I become a Catholic, I must be sure that I am entirely one. There are too many risks to be run for me to take this lightly. What a joy therefore to discuss with Susanna. He called her his confessor, his guide and comfort.

This idyllic state of affairs could not go on.

One day Susanna said to him: “I have heard rumors which distress me. Your Grace’s visits to me have been noted and I believe that we have become the subject of one of the Court lampoons. Doubtless my Lord Rochester is behind this for it is what one would expect of him.”

James could not bear to see her distressed. “I will find out who did this and have him punished.”

Susanna shook her head. “That will not stop the rumors. More likely will it strengthen them. Nay, you must not come here so frequently; and when you do come we must not be alone.”

James was aghast. Not see Susanna! Not talk of what he called “their secret matter”! He could not endure such a state of affairs. But he agreed that it was intolerable that Susanna should be compared with those women of light morals who had been his mistresses.

He made a decision. His first marriage had been for love. Why not his second?

“Susanna,” he said, “will you marry me?”

She was astonished. Marry the King’s brother who was heir presumptive to the throne? It was impossible. The King and the Parliament would never allow it. When James married it must be to some foreign princess, and the marriage would be for state reasons.

“My dear,” murmured Susanna, “that which you suggest could not be.”

“It shall be,” retorted James. “I married for love once and I shall do so again.”

“It will never be permitted. I shall never forget the great honor Your Grace has done me, but I fear this is the end of our friendship. It breaks my heart and I know it saddens you. But the fact is without marriage we cannot be together as we wish; and I greatly fear that the King himself would forbid such a union.”

“I was told this before, but I married as I wished. I swear to you I will do so again.”

He kissed her tenderly, stemming his passion. He went to his apartments and wrote a promise of marriage which he sent to her without delay; and he made no secret of the fact that he had written it. He wanted the scandalmongering Court to know that Susanna Armine was not his mistress; nor ever should be, although he loved her so tenderly, because she was going to be his wife.

The King sighed deeply when he heard the news. He sent for his brother.

“James, James,” he cried, “what new folly is this? Do you seriously believe that a man in your position can marry the widow woman?”

“If you are referring to Lady Bellasis …”

The King raised his eyebrows. “To whom else should I refer? Don’t tell me you have given more promises of marriage to more widows?”

“She is the only one I can ever marry.”

Charles sighed with affected relief. “At least there is only one! No, James, this is out of the question.”

“I have heard that tale before.”

“Alas, so have we, and it grows a little more wearisome the second time than the first. You cannot make a fool of yourself again—not at your age, brother.”

“I do not consider …”

“Alas, you never do. A little more consideration, James, and you would be a better politician, a better future King, and perhaps a better sailor.”

“I am in love with Susanna.”

“I see you are indeed a lovesick boy. Now I pray you oblige me by going to your lady. Tell her that you will give her a house and land, a resounding title perhaps in time; but there will be no marriage. I am sure she will understand.”

“She could not understand such a proposition. It is marriage or nothing.”

“Alas, poor James, that it should be nothing as far as this good lady is concerned. Do not fret though. There are many fair ladies in the Court; some are very happy to accept a house and land … they will not ask for the ultimate sacrifice.”

“Charles … I beg of you …”

“Pray do not beg. I never could abide beggars. Leave me now and think on what I have said.”

When James had gone Charles summoned certain ministers to his chamber. When they were assembled he said: “The Duke of York grows restive. It is time he married. Find a suitable bride for him, and we will get the matter settled as soon as possible.”

When Susanna understood that if James married her against the wishes of the King and the country he might be rejected by them, she herself decided to break off their friendship.

There was one last interview between them before James went off to join the Navy, for war with the Dutch had broken out again.

“I see,” said Susanna, “that I can never be happy again. For if I married you I should continually reproach myself for the harm I had done you; and since I cannot, I shall think of you with longing all my life.”

“Do not despair,” cried James. “Once I have beaten the Dutch I will fight for our happiness.”

She smiled sadly, for she knew that he would not.

She begged though to be allowed to keep his promise of marriage. It would be a little souvenir of the esteem in which he had held her and show the world that theirs had been an honorable relationship.

He declared he would come back to her. They embraced affectionately. Then James went off to win the battle of Solebay and restore to the Navy some of its lost prestige.

Meanwhile in London plans went ahead to marry the King’s brother with as little delay as possible.

James, Duke of York, being the only living brother of the King and heir presumptive to the British throne, was one of the most desirable matches in Europe, but the negotiations for his marriage to a suitable lady were again and again frustrated.

The first choice—favored by the French—was Madame de Guise, but James would not have her, complaining that she was short, ungainly, and did not enjoy good health so would be unlikely to bear him children. The second, Mademoiselle de Rais, he also declined for similar reasons. The Archduchess of Inspruck seemed an ideal choice as far as he was concerned, for she was a Catholic; and he sent off Henry Mordaunt, Earl of Peterborough, who was not only a servant but a friend, to make the necessary arrangements with all speed. Unhappily before the marriage could be completed the mother of the Archduchess died and she decided to choose her own husband. She chose the Emperor Leopold I.

There were three other ladies who were considered suitable: these were the Princess Mary Anne of Wirtemburg, the Princess of Newburgh, and Mary Beatrice, Princess of Modena. These three were charming girls, but the most delightful of all was Mary Beatrice who was only fourteen years old.

Peterborough first visited the Duke of Newburgh with the object of reporting to his master on his daughter. He found her charming, but a little fat—and since she was so now, he asked himself what she would be in ten or fifteen years’ time. He did not believe her worthy of his master, and as his object was known and he went away without completing arrangements for a marriage, this was never forgiven the Duke of York but remembered against him by the young lady for the rest of her life.

A picture Peterborough acquired of Mary Beatrice enchanted him for it showed him a young girl of dark and startling beauty, but since she was not yet fifteen it had been decided that negotiations should go ahead for bringing the Princess of Wirtemburg to London.

Mary Anne of Wirtemburg was living in a convent in Paris and hither Peterborough hastened, where he asked for an interview with the Princess and told her that her hand was being sought by James, Duke of York, heir presumptive to the British crown. Mary Anne, a gay young girl who found convent life irksome, was delighted, and being inexperienced unable to hide this fact. Peterborough was relieved, although he thought often of that lovely young girl who was by far the most beautiful of all the candidates.

These negotiations however were destined to fail, for suddenly Peterborough had an urgent message to stop them.

Having already informed Mary Anne that she was to marry the Duke, he was horrified by these instructions. It appeared that the King’s mistress, Louise de Kéroualle, who was now the Duchess of Portsmouth, had selected a candidate—the daughter of the Duc d’Elbœuf; and although the King guessed that his mistress’s plan was to bring her fellow-countrywoman into a position of influence that they might work together, so besotted was he that he allowed the negotiations already begun by Peterborough to be withdrawn.

It was typical of Charles that while he listened to his mistress and made promises to give her what she asked, he should find an adequate excuse for not doing so.

Mademoiselle d’Elbœuf he decided was too young for marriage to the Duke of York, being not yet thirteen; and James, being of more sober years, needed a woman who could be a wife to him without delay. So Louise de Kéroualle did not have her way as she had hoped; but at the same time it was impossible to reopen negotiations with Mary Anne of Wirtemburg.

The Duke of York must be married. There was one candidate left. It was therefore decided that plans to marry James to Mary Beatrice of Modena should go forward without delay.

When James saw the picture of Mary Beatrice he was completely captivated and felt faintly relieved—although he would not admit this—that Susanna had rejected him.

When he showed it to Charles the King agreed that there was indeed a little beauty.

“She reminds me of Hortense Mancini,” said Charles, nostalgically, “one of the most beautiful women I ever saw. You’re in luck, brother.”

James believed that he was. “Why,” he said, “she cannot be much older than my daughter Mary.”

“I can see you are all eagerness to have her in your bed.”

James sighed: “I have a desire for domestic happiness. I want to see her at my fireside. I want her and Mary and Anne to be good friends.”

Charles raised his eyebrows. “Spoken like a good bridegroom,” he said. “One thing has occurred to me. The Parliament will do all in its power to stop this marriage. Your little lady is a Catholic and they will not care for that.”

“We must make sure that the matter is settled before Parliament meets,” said James.

“I had thought of that,” Charles told him slyly.

He wanted to ask: And how is Susanna at this time? But he did not. He was kind at heart; and he was relieved that James had come out of that madness so easily.

Henry Mordaunt, Earl of Peterborough, Groom of the Stole to the Duke of York, had a task to his liking. He was going to Italy to bring home Mary Beatrice Anne Margaret Isobel, Princess of Modena, and although his previous missions of this nature had ended in failure, he was determined this should not; he was secretly delighted because as soon as he had seen the portrait of this Princess he had made up his mind that she was the ideal choice for his master.

Peterborough was devoted to the Duke of York; he was one of the few who preferred him to his brother; and since Mary of Modena was quite the loveliest girl—if her picture did not lie—that he had ever seen, he wanted to bring her to England as the new Duchess of York.

James had pointed out to him the necessity for haste. “Because,” James had declared, “unless the marriage has been performed before the next session of Parliament, depend upon it they will make an issue of the fact that she is a Catholic and forbid it to take place.”

Peterborough had therefore left England in secrecy; he was, he let it be thought, a private gentleman traveling abroad for his own business.

When he reached Lyons after several days, and rested there for a night before proceeding, he was received with the attention bestowed on wealthy English travelers, but without that special interest and extra care which a messenger from the Duke of York to the Court of Modena would have received. He planned to be off early next morning that very soon he might be in Italy.

While he was resting in his room a servant came to tell him that a messenger was below and would speak with him. Peterborough asked that the man be brought to his room, thinking that a dispatch had followed him from England. To his surprise it was an Italian who entered.

“I come, my lord,” he said, “with a letter from Modena.”

Peterborough was aghast. How did the writer of the letter know he was on his way to the Court. Who had betrayed his mission?

He took the letter and the messenger retired while he read it, but the words seemed meaningless until he had done so several times.

“The Duchess of Modena has heard of your intention to come here to negotiate a marriage for her daughter Mary Beatrice Anne Margaret Isobel, and wishes to warn you that her daughter has no inclination toward marriage, and that she has resolved to enter a convent and lead a religious life. I thought I must give you this warning, that you may convey to your Master His Majesty King Charles the Second and His Royal Highness the Duke of York, that while the house of Esté is very much aware of the honor done it, this marriage could never be.” This was signed “Nardi,” Secretary of State to the Duchess of Modena.

Peterborough was bewildered. His secret mission known! And moreover the Duchess already declining the hand of the Duke of York for her daughter!

And these messengers, what did they know of the contents of the letters? Was the project being discussed in Modena and throughout the countryside? Was this going to be yet another plan that failed?

Peterborough was determined that this should not be.

He asked that the messenger be sent to him and found that there were three of them. He offered them refreshment in his room.

While they drank together, he said: “It is strange that the Duchess of Modena should think it necessary to write to me. I am only a traveler who is curious to see Italy.”

But of course they did not believe him; and as soon as they had left him he sat down to write to Charles and James, to tell them of this incident.

All the same, he lost no time in continuing with his journey, and in due course arrived at the town of Placentia, where he found Nardi, the writer of the letter, awaiting him.

“I have come,” said Nardi, “to deliver to you a letter from the Duchess of Modena in which she herself will confirm all I wrote to you. Her object is, that such a great country as yours should not openly ask for that which cannot be granted. There are other Princesses in the family who might interest the Duke of York.”

Peterborough replied, thanking the Duchess for her concern for him, but he was a private person.

All the same he fancied that the Duchess, while telling him that Mary Beatrice was not available, was very eager for him to choose another member of her family. And why not? Alliance with Britain was a great honor done to the House of Esté, petty Dukes of a small territory. Peterborough did not believe in all this reluctance; and the more he thought about the matter, the more determined he became to bring back Mary Beatrice for his master.

The reason for the Duchess’s attitude was the young girl herself, her fourteen-year-old daughter.

The Duchess loved her daughter dearly. Her children, Mary Beatrice and Francisco, who was his sister’s junior by two years, had been left in her care when her husband Alphonso d’Esté had died. Laura Martinozzi, Duchess of Modena, was not of royal birth, although she belonged to a noble Roman family, but she had sufficient energy and wit to rule her little kingdom. She was a strong woman, determined to guard her children; and when Alphonso died—he had suffered from the gout for many years—she was determined to be both father and mother to them.

She loved them with the force of a strong nature, but this love rarely showed itself in tenderness because she was determined to prepare them to face the world and for this reason she decreed that they should be most sternly brought up.

Mary Beatrice loved her mother too, because it quickly became apparent to her that all the whippings and penances which were imposed on erring children were for their own good. If she could not repeat her Benedicite correctly she would receive a blow from her mother’s hand which sent her reeling across the room; when on fast days it was necessary to eat soupe maigre, a dish which revolted Mary Beatrice and made her feel absolutely sick, she was forced to eat it, because her mother explained, it was a religious duty. The little chimney sweeps with their black faces had frightened Mary Beatrice when she was very young for she thought they were wicked goblins come to carry her away; and the Duchess, hearing of this, forced her little daughter to go into a room where several little chimney sweeps had had orders to wait for her. There she was to talk to them, in order to learn that fears must be boldly faced. Little Francisco’s health suffered from bending too closely over his books and the doctors thought that he needed more exercise out of doors. “I would rather not have a son than have one who was a fool without learning,” was the Duchess’s answer.

She was the sternest of parents, but in spite of this had so aroused her children’s respect and admiration that they loved her. No sentiment was allowed to show; there was only sternness; but each day the Duchess spent much time with her children; she supervised their lessons and was present at meals, and they could not imagine their lives without her. She was the all-powerful, benevolent, stern but strict guardian of their lives.

When Mary Beatrice was nine years old her mother decided that she should go into a convent where she would be educated by the nuns. Here in this convent she found an aunt, some fifteen years older than herself, in whose charge she was put, and life flowered suddenly for Mary Beatrice. The affection of her aunt astonished and delighted her, because she had never been allowed to feel important to anyone before; she still admired her mother more than anyone in the world, but she loved her aunt; the nuns were kind too, kinder than her mother had been. If she made a little error there was no resounding box on the ears; and since she was not forced to eat soupe maigre, life in the convent was so delightful by comparison with that of the ducal palace that Mary Beatrice decided that she would become a nun and spend the rest of her days there.

This was the state of affairs when she was recalled from the convent to the ducal palace.

Her mother received her with more warmth than was usual and Mary Beatrice knew that she was secretly pleased.

“Sit down, my daughter,” said the Duchess. “I have news for you, which I think you will agree with me is excellent.”

“Yes, Mother.”

“The Duke of York will most certainly be the next King of England.”

The Duchess paused. “You do not seem to understand.”

“I am sorry, Madame, but I have never heard of the Duke of York nor of England.”

“Your education is being neglected. What do you do in your convent?”

“We pray, Madame. We meditate. We …”

The Duchess waved an impatient hand. Religion was an important part of life, but it was necessary to learn something of the outside world. Never heard of England! What did this girl know of the politics of the world? Had it been a mistake to send her to a convent? Should she have been brought up in a more worldly manner? There was nothing to complain of in her religious education, but …

“England is one of the most important countries in the world,” said the Duchess sharply. “I will see that you are instructed in its history—and its importance to Europe and ourselves—without delay. The King of England has no son or daughter who would inherit his crown; but he has a brother who is heir presumptive to the throne. This is the Duke of York; and he is asking for your hand in marriage.”

The girl turned pale. “Marriage, Madame? That is impossible. I am to be a bride of Christ.”

“I was not aware that I have been consulted, daughter.”

“Madame, my life is in the convent. I belong in the convent.”

“You are too young to make decisions affecting your future. You are not yet fifteen and—naturally—you will do as I say.”

“Madame … the idea of marriage is repugnant to me.”

“You know nothing of it. I shall decide.”

The girl was suddenly rebellious. “I shall not marry,” she cried. “I shall not!” And she fell into such a passionate storm of weeping that even the Duchess could do nothing to restrain her.

She looked at her daughter, that rippling jet black hair, that delicate skin, the dark firmly marked eyebrows, the heavy lashes, the perfect oval face and thought she was so beautiful that she must be one of the loveliest girls in the world.

The Duchess imagined her daughter—fourteen years old, married to the Duke of York, twenty-five years older than herself, already a father; and his reputation, although not quite as bad as that of his brother, the King of England, was decidedly tarnished.

Imagine this delicate—and surprisingly passionate—creature in his hands!

For the first time in her life the Duchess wavered. The honor of union with England should not be missed, but for Mary Beatrice, no. It was too much.

Perhaps the attention of the Duke of York could be diverted to one of the other princesses of Modena, someone older, more knowledgeable in the ways of the World.

The Duchess would try it before she forced her innocent young daughter into the arms of the over-amorous and, by reputation, even lascivious Duke of York.

During the next days Mary Beatrice grew so pale and despairing that her uncle Rinaldo d’Esté conferred with the Duchess concerning the proposed marriage, and when they called in the Duchess’s confessor, Father Garimbert, they all agreed that, while the immensely influential union could not be abandoned, they must try to find another bride for the Duke of York.

“Twenty-five years her senior,” mused Rinaldo, shaking his head.

“That will be less noticeable as she grows older,” put in the Duchess, “and he is more likely to cherish a young girl than an ageing woman.”

“The Princess should never be allowed to mate outside her religion,” added Garimbert.

“Nor would she,” was the Duchess’s answer, “for the Duke of York is known to be a Catholic.”

“A secret Catholic. I like that not,” replied Garimbert, whose views always carried great weight with the Duchess. The outcome of these interviews was that the Earl of Peterborough should be invited to the Court; that he should be asked to suggest another Princess of Modena to his master; and that failing that Mary Beatrice might be persuaded to change her mind.

Immediately Secretary of State Nardi was dispatched to the lodgings of the Earl of Peterborough to invite him to the Court.

The Earl of Peterborough was delighted to receive an invitation from the Duchess and confidently set out for the Modena Palace. When he arrived he was taken at once to the presence of the Duchess who greeted him with warmth and respect, although it was obvious that she was a little uneasy.

“My lord Earl,” she told him after the formal greeting, and when she had bade him sit down at his ease, “while being deeply conscious of the honor your great country does mine, I have to tell you that my daughter’s wish is to become a nun and that she has no desire for the married state.”

“Your Highness, the Princess is young as yet. She can have little knowledge of the happiness this marriage could bring her. Nor, if I may say so, can she understand all that is entailed in the life of a recluse.”

“You speak truth, my lord. But she is of a delicate constitution and I do not know how she would fare in a colder climate than that in which she has lived her life.”

“Our climate is temperate, Your Highness; and although we do not enjoy great warmth neither do we suffer from excessive cold. It would be the desire of the Duke of York to give his wife every comfort.”

“Of that I am sure. But then shall we say that the main objection to this marriage is the fact that although I am told the Duke of York is a Catholic, he has not openly declared his faith. Before this marriage could take place it would be necessary to procure a dispensation from the Pope.”

“And, Your Highness, if this dispensation were procured, there would be no further obstacles to the marriage?”

The Duchess hesitated. “As I told you, my daughter is very young. There are other members of my family who might be more suitable for His Grace of York.”

“Madame, the Duke of York has set his heart on marriage with your daughter. This is the alliance which is acceptable to him.”

The two regarded each other in silence for a few seconds; and during them the Duchess weighed up all that this alliance would mean to Modena; she knew also that it would be an alliance with Mary Beatrice or none at all.

“Yes,” she said decisively, “if there is a dispensation, then I am of the opinion that the affair could be happily concluded.”

“I should esteem it a favor if I might meet the Princess.”

The Duchess bowed her head in assent.

When the Duchess led her daughter to the Earl, he could scarcely hide the effect her beauty had upon him. She was startlingly lovely—even more than her picture had led him to believe, and in that moment he had decided that, however difficult this task, he was going to succeed and take this strikingly beautiful girl home to his master. Her jet black hair fell about her shoulders, simply dressed as was becoming to one so young; but her lovely dark eyes were deeply troubled and he wanted very much to reassure her that she would have nothing to fear from his master who was the kindest man he had ever met.

The girl eyed him warily and it was clear that she, knowing his mission, was not very pleased to see him.

“My lady Princess,” said the old Earl, when he had bowed over her hand, “I ask you to forgive me if I have in any way disturbed your tranquillity, but I have come to ask your hand for the Prince who is my master and to assure you that if you will consent to be his wife you will be one of the happiest women in the world, for he is a Prince of such geniality and kindness that you cannot fail to love him.”

Mary Beatrice did not look at her mother as she began to speak quickly. “I am obliged to the King of England and his brother for this great honor, but I wonder why they chose me when there are so many Princesses more worthy than I …”

“There could be none more worthy.”

She silenced him with an imperious wave of the hand. “If I am forced to accept this proposal when I have vowed myself to another sort of life, I do not see how I can ever be happy.”

“Your Highness is mistaken. I who well know my master can assure you of that.”

“You know him well and mayhap have influence with him. Then if you would be of service to me, I beg of you dissuade him from this marriage and beg him to look elsewhere.”

The Earl was exasperated. Glancing at the girl’s mother and seeing the sadness in her stern face, he felt depressed. The girl had too much spirit. If he were not careful this attempt to bring her home to James was going to fail. And having seen her, having written to his master of her incomparable beauty, how was James going to content himself with any other?

The interview was unsatisfactorily ended and the Earl continued in his despondency.

Mary Beatrice was exultant when she heard the Pope had refused to grant the dispensation. She embraced her seventeen-year-old friend and attendant Senorina Molza, and declared herself happier than she had been since this horrible proposition was made to her.

Senorina Molza, a little older and more experienced than the Princess, was more moderate in her joy. She had seen the comings and goings to the Duchess’s apartments and guessed that the matter would not be allowed to end there.

The Duchess was being told how foolish she would be to pass over this chance of alliance with a great and powerful country. It would be pointed out to her that her daughter might well one day be the Queen of that country. All knew the value of these alliances.

“They can do nothing … nothing since the Pope refuses,” declared Mary Beatrice. “Why are you so glum?”

“I am just praying that they will heed His Holiness,” answered her friend.

“But of course they will. My mother is a good Catholic. How could she possibly go against the Pope’s wishes?”

“How could she indeed?” murmured the Senorina Molza.

“Then cheer up. I should like to sing. I feel in the mood for singing.”

But Mary Beatrice’s joy did not last. The Cardinal Barberini, the Duchess’s most trusted adviser, was at that moment closeted with her, explaining to her that to lose this great opportunity would be a folly which she would never cease to regret, and if the marriage took place, it would not be difficult to obtain papal forgiveness. The Duke of York was at heart a Catholic, and it was possible that His Holiness would come to regard the marriage as good for the Catholic world. It might well be that Mary Beatrice would influence her husband to become a declared Catholic and if it happened that James should one day take the throne, it would be almost a certainty that he would bring Britain back to Rome.

The Duchess was persuaded. Even without the dispensation, the marriage should take place.

When the news was brought to Mary Beatrice she was stunned; her women, the little Molza and Anna Montecuculi tended her; they bathed her tear-stained cheeks; they knelt beside her and told her that perhaps she would come to love England and her husband; they tried to make pictures of the glories of Court life in England. But poor Mary Beatrice could not be comforted. She declared that her heart was broken and that the only state she could pray for was death.

On a bright September day the Earl of Peterborough, who was to stand proxy for his master, was taken from his lodgings by young Francisco, Duke of Modena, and the Prince Rinaldo, to a chapel in the Ducal palace, and there he was married in the name of the Duke of York to Mary Beatrice of Modena.

An obscure priest married them, because no other would agree to do so, since the marriage was taking place without the dispensation from His Holiness. The bride’s eyes were swollen with weeping and she walked like one in a dream. Her ladies stood about her ready to support her should she faint, which they expected, for she had taken very little food since she had known this marriage was to take place.

There could never have been a more reluctant bride.

The Earl was angry. This was he believed the greatest honor that had ever come to Modena and the girl was receiving it as though she were a beast being taken to the slaughterhouse. The Duchess was uneasy; as for the proxy bridegroom, he was afraid that something was going to prevent the marriage at the last moment.

But nothing did, and the ceremony proceeded. The Duke of York was married by proxy to Mary Beatrice and not until the diamond ring, the outward symbol of union was put on to that white and reluctant finger, was the Earl’s relief apparent. Now he could prepare to take home to his master the one whom he believed to be the most beautiful girl in the world.

When James in London heard the news he was delighted. A wife, at last! And, if Peterborough could be believed, a beauty.

His eyes grew misty at the thought. He saw the years ahead, the children they would have—lots of them, girls as well as boys. He would spend much time with them. He remembered that period when he and Anne had lived with their children in Richmond Palace … those months when they had both been ill and had believed themselves to be not long for the world. Anne had been right regarding herself; but he, by the blessing of the Virgin, had recovered his strength. They had been wonderful years—lived in the shadow of death it was true; but he would find even greater happiness when the sense of urgency was removed! With this young girl from Modena he would recover conjugal happiness. She and their children all about them. What greater joy could there be on earth?

They would have sons. He would have liked to see his dear Mary Queen of England, because of all his children she would always be his favorite; but it was better to have a boy. Mary would understand that. Yet never, he was sure, would he love a child as he loved Mary.

He wanted to share this joy with his beloved daughters. He could scarcely wait to tell them, so he went with all speed to the schoolroom, where he was delighted to find Mary alone with her sister Anne. His heart was full of love for them as he watched them for a second or so before they saw him. Purposely he had come unannounced because he wished this to be a very private meeting.

They were bending over a table drawing together and Mary was pointing out to Anne some fault in her work. What a pretty pair! Anne so placid with her rosy cheeks and light brown hair; Mary so dark and graceful, so serious—his darling best-beloved.

“My dearest daughters.”

They looked up and in that moment he felt he was the happiest of men. A lovely young girl for a bride … a girl not much older than this delightful daughter. Oh, the future was going to be good indeed.

They had both risen, but he would have no ceremony on such an occasion; he strode to them and putting one arm about each held them against him.

“My dearest girls!” he murmured.

“You are very happy,” said Mary, the perceptive one. “Something has happened to please you, Father.”

“It is something I am longing to tell you. I am providing you with a playfellow.”

Mary’s long dark eyes were clouded. Another girl, she thought, to invade the nursery, perhaps to be a friend rather to Elizabeth Villiers than to her. Was this a matter for such rejoicing?

“You will be so delighted with her,” went on James. “You too, Anne.”

Anne smiled a little vaguely, and her father went on: “My daughters, you will have more than a playfellow. You will have a mother.”

“But our mother is dead …” began Mary.

“Alas, alas! We have never been happy since then, have we? So I thought I should provide you with another. I have been married to a charming young girl—only a few years older than you are, Mary. Are you not pleased?”

“You said a playfellow,” said Mary slowly. “This is a stepmother.”

“She will be your friend, playfellow, and mother. My children, I see happy days ahead for us all.”

Mary smiled, only half convinced. She had already come to suspect change.

Now that the marriage by proxy had been completed, Charles and James waited for the storms to rise.

They were not long in coming. The Earl of Shaftesbury asked for an audience with the King.

Charles studied his minister sardonically and as he asked his business was well aware that he had come to protest and what about.

“Your Majesty,” began Shaftesbury, “it is with great regret and misgiving that I hear of the plan to marry the Duke of York to the Princess of Modena. I beg Your Majesty not to proceed with this plan which I am convinced would not please the people.”

“Your request comes a little late, my lord. The alliance is completed and the Duke already married to the lady.”

Shaftesbury turned pale. “Your Majesty, then there is but one thing to be done. The marriage must never be consummated.”

“You cannot be asking me to deprive these two people of so much anticipated pleasure—and one my own brother!”

“Your Majesty, I fear the reaction of the people.”

“You must not be so fearful, my lord. This is a matter for the Duke. He is pleased with his marriage and a man of his kind needs a wife. Let him enjoy her.”

“A popish marriage will not please the people, Your Majesty,” insisted Shaftesbury. “But since it is an accomplished fact, should not the Duke of York retire from Court to live as a country gentleman?”

“I do not think this would be gracious welcome to his bride. I am also of the opinion that to ask the Duke of York to retire to the country would be an insult to the King’s brother.”

There was a gleam of rare anger in the King’s eyes which caused Shaftesbury to retire hastily.

The mist hung on the trees in the gardens of Richmond Palace. It seeped into the apartments where Mary bent over her needlework. Very soon all the children would assemble in one of the gardens to see the burning of the effigy of Guy Fawkes, and the Pope, because this was the Fifth of November—the anniversary of that day when Mary’s great-grandfather and his Parliament might so easily have become victims of the Great Gunpowder Plot. It was celebrated each year, more some said because the people liked displays than because they felt any great regret for King James I.

Anne Trelawny was sitting close to Mary and as usual the Princess Anne was in a corner whispering to Sarah Jennings. Anne’s needlework was always neglected; she hated work of any sort and always made the excuse that she could not see, and because of this affliction of the eyes she was generally humored.

Elizabeth Villiers was primly stitching. She was smiling secretly as though she were well pleased.

“It’ll be fun when the bonfire starts,” she said. “This is a special Guy Fawkes day.”

“Why?” asked Anne Trelawny.

“Don’t you know?” Elizabeth was supercilious; she was looking at Mary.

“I don’t see why there should be anything special about it,” said Anne Trelawny.

“You don’t know much! It’s because the Lady Mary and the Lady Anne have a new stepmother.”

“Yes,” said Mary, turning to Anne Trelawny. “She is not much older than I and my father said she will be like a playfellow.”

“A stepmother,” said Elizabeth with a grimace, “I shouldn’t like a stepmother.”

“She won’t be like an ordinary stepmother,” suggested Anne Trelawny. “She’s so young. Perhaps she will be with us.”

Elizabeth looked scornful. “No matter how old she is, she’s a stepmother. And the people don’t like it. That’s why they are going to make this a special Gunpowder Plot day. I heard them in the streets this morning. They were shouting: ‘No popery.’ And you know what that means.”

Mary looked from one to the other, but Anne Trelawny tried to change the subject. “Last Fifth of November, one boy was burned to death in the palace bonfire.”

“There’ll be more burned to death tonight,” gloated Elizabeth. “They’ll all be shouting ‘No popery’ and letting everyone know they don’t like this popish wedding.”

“What nonsense you talk,” said Mary loftily.

Anne Trelawny smiled at her in agreement. Elizabeth bent over her needlework; it was pleasant, reflected Mary, to have Anne Trelawny as her ally.

The young bride did not land at Dover until the twenty-first of November although the proxy marriage had taken place on the thirtieth of September. Desolate and frightened she had done everything she could to delay it. She was married, her mother had told her, and nothing could alter that; therefore she must reconcile herself to going to England and being a worthy Duchess of York. Mary Beatrice wept and pined; she ate so little and wept so often that her health began to suffer, and to reconcile her a little her mother agreed to go with her to England. This pacified her a little and when she knew that Signorina Molza, Signora de Montecuculi and Anna, and Signorina Turenie were to act as her personal attendants at the English Court she was even more cheered. But there were occasions when she considered what all this change in her life was going to mean to her; she was being torn from her home to live in a strange country; she would have to say good-bye to her brother who had been her friend all her life; she would have, eventually, to lose her mother, for although the Duchess would accompany her to England, naturally she would not stay there; and most terrifying of all, she must be a wife—and to an old man, yet one who had had many mistresses as well as a previous wife. The thought of physical contact with such a man horrified her.

She was in such a state of despair that she prayed every day for some calamity to occur—she believed she would have welcomed anything which would have prevented her arriving in England.

Preparations continued and at length the day fixed for her departure drew near, and with her mother, her friends and attendants she began the long journey through France. So desperate had she become that one morning when Anna Montecuculi came to waken her she found her delirious and suffering from a fever. This was the beginning of an illness which gave great alarm to everyone, for so distressed in mind was she that they feared for her reason. Her mother was at her bedside throughout the day and night; and as she sat there the Duchess wished that she had not been persuaded to agree to this marriage. However, it was done now; her daughter was married—albeit by proxy—to the Duke of York and nothing short of her death could prevent her going to England. It was two weeks before Mary Beatrice recovered and then Louis XIV invited her to rest awhile at his Court until she regained her strength. This put heart into Mary Beatrice because it was certainly going to mean some delay.

When Louis met her he was delighted with her beauty and charm, and she was fêted and honored by him and his Court; he told her that he would be delighted to have her with him forever. These were empty compliments, she was well aware, and now that she realized the inevitability of her fate she had accepted it, but her lovely face was marked with melancholy and those who loved her were very sad on her account.

She would never forget her despair as she saw the coast of France receding; she prayed for a storm which would destroy the vessel and then immediately thought of all the others who would suffer with her. That must not be, she knew. She wanted a storm in which she and she alone would lose her life.

A tragic way for a bride to come to her bridegroom.

A strong wind arose, but that seemed only to mock her, for it carried her vessel to Dover with greater speed than, said the sailors, could have been hoped for.

On the sands she found waiting for her—her husband. He was old—very old, she thought—and there were wrinkles about his eyes; and because she had imagined him to be an ogre he seemed to her like one. He took her hands and then embraced her, and assured her he was very happy to see her. She tried to smile but could not do so; and when he drew back to look at her, he said: “But you are beautiful … even more beautiful than they told me you were.”

His eyes, his warm and passionate eyes, took in each detail of her lovely face.

“Why, my little wife,” he went on, “you are going to be happy. We are going to be the happiest family in the world.”

She was aware of her husband’s attendants standing by; her mother was beside her, so was the Earl of Peterborough, whom she regarded as her enemy because she believed that if he had been less determined the marriage might never have taken place.

There was no turning back now. The quiet of the convent would never be hers. She was aware of her husband’s desire for her; she knew that he was longing for that second marriage, in which there would be no proxy for the bridegroom, with an intensity which matched that of her dread.

Her hand was in his; he held it firmly as though to say she should never escape him. She was shivering, believing that this consummation of which she knew so little but which she dreaded, would be even more alarming, even more shocking than she had feared.

He whispered to her: “You are happy to be here?”

She was too young to hide her feelings. “No, no,” she answered.

He was taken aback, but the desire in his eyes was touched by a certain tenderness. “You are so young. There will be nothing to fear. I will do everything in my power to make you happy.”

“Then perhaps you will send me home.”

Those about them had heard her words. Her mother was frowning, and Mary Beatrice knew she would be scolded but she did not care. She had always been brought up to believe it was wrong to lie. Well, she would tell the truth now.

James smiled whimsically as he broke the horrified silence. “My little bride,” he said kindly, “it is natural that you should be homesick … just at first. Soon you will understand that this is your home.”

The next day the marriage was solemnized in accordance with the rites of the Church of England and Mary Beatrice then wore, as well as the diamond ring which had been put on her finger at the proxy marriage, a gold ring adorned with a single ruby which James gave her during this ceremony.

James had done all he could to pacify her; he sat beside her at the banquet which followed; he expressed concern at her poor appetite; he coaxed her and endeavored to persuade her that she had nothing to fear from him. She wept bitterly and made him understand that no matter how kind and considerate he was, he had torn her away from the life she had chosen and now she would be forced to live in a manner repugnant to her.

James was a practised lover, his experiences in that field being vast, and he used all his powers to lessen the ordeal which he understood faced this young wife of his.

He explained to her the need for them to have sons; their son, he told her, might well be King of England; it was for this reason that marriages were arranged. He was sure she would wish to do her duty.

Mary Beatrice lay shuddering in the marriage bed. She prayed, while she thought he slept, that something would happen to prevent the events of that night ever being repeated. She did not know that James lay wakeful beside her, thinking of the passion he had shared with Anne Hyde before their marriage, asking himself what happiness there was going to be for him and this girl who was nothing but a child, nearer to his daughters than to him.

The bride must surely be one of the most beautiful girls in the world. Anne Hyde was far from that. Yet what a travesty of his first marriage was this. He believed that she dreaded his touch, loathed him for the loss of her virginity; she had made him feel ashamed, a raper of the innocent.

This was not the union for which he had longed.

The wedding party did not stay long in Dover, but were soon on their way to London. All along the route people came from their houses to see the Italian bride. She was viewed with curiosity, admiration, and suspicion. She was after all a Catholic and the Duke was suspected of being one; and although her youth and beauty enchanted all who beheld her, there were murmurs of “No popery.”

The Duke rode beside his bride and in spite of his misgivings he could not disguise his pride in her, and as he watched her acknowledging the acclaim of the people with grace and dignity in such contrast to the frankness in which she had shown her dislike of him, his spirits lifted a little. She was after all a Princess, and would know what was expected of her.

He began to think with pleasure of his latest mistress. How differently she would welcome him! A man could not make continual love to a woman who was repelled by the act. But Mary Beatrice would change—and when it had ceased to become a matter of duty, when she could respond with ardor, then would be the time to build up that idealistic relationship for which he, being a sentimental man, longed.

They slept at Canterbury the first night where the citizens welcomed them with affection. Pageantry was always a delight in Restoration England; the people had been too starved of it during puritan rule, not to find pleasure in it, whatever the cause; but Mary Beatrice could find none in the beauty of the Cathedral City; she felt bruised and bewildered and there was nothing for her but the thought of past horror and the dread of more to come. And the second night in Rochester her mood had not changed.

And so they came to London and at Gravesend, amid the applause of the spectators, the Duke of York took his Duchess aboard his barge, which, decorated with evergreen leaves, was waiting for him.

James had successfully hidden his disappointment in his marriage and appeared to be quite delighted with his bride. As they stepped aboard, to the accompaniment of sweet music which was being played by the barge musicians, he told her that somewhere on the river they would meet the royal barge and he was sure that his brother would be on board.

“The King will wish to greet you in person at the earliest moment,” he told her, and when he saw the look of fear cross her face, he smiled grimly. The reputation of Charles had in all likelihood reached her, as his own no doubt had, and she was going to be as repulsed by the King as by the Duke. He hoped she would not be as frank with Charles as she had with him; but he ruefully accepted the fact that Charles would doubtless know how to deal gracefully with the situation whatever it should be.

“You will have nothing to fear from the King,” he told her. “He has a reputation for kindness and he will be kind to you.”

Her expression was stony; he thought ruefully she would be almost unbelievably beautiful if she would smile and be happy.

Down the river sailed the barge; the bells were ringing, and sounds of revelry came from the banks; there were cheers, and shouts for the bride and groom to show themselves. This they did, waving to the people as they sailed along. James was once more pleased to notice that his wife did her duty in this respect. How different it might have been, sailing down the river on this November day, if he had had a happy young girl beside him who was prepared to love him as he was her.

At length they met the royal barge, and a messenger boarded the Duke’s with a command from the King. His Majesty was eager to greet his brother’s bride and he wished the Duke to bring her to him without delay.

James smilingly reassured her, saw the fear in her face, and thought it was a pity she, being so young, was unable to hide her feelings. He was dreading that moment when she came face to face with her brother-in-law—the rake of rakes, the man whose reputation was known throughout the whole of Europe—Charles, King of England, whose mistresses ruled him and the only comfort in that situation was that they were so numerous.

Poor little Mary Beatrice! They should never have made such a little nun of her.

Charles was waiting on deck, and taking his wife’s hand James led her forward. He saw the lovely eyes lifted to that dark humorous face, already marked with debauchery yet losing none of the charm which had been there when Charles was a young man of twenty. Perhaps there was a deeper kindliness in the lazy, yet shrewd eyes, perhaps the charm increased with the years which was nature’s special concession to one who loved life—as he loved his mistresses—passionately while he refused to take it seriously.

Mary Beatrice bowed low but Charles took one look at her lovely face, her graceful body, and with an exclamation of delight lifted her in his arms.

No one could dispense with ceremony more naturally and gracefully than Charles and whatever he did, he had the gift of making the action seem acceptable and charming.

“So I have a sister!” he cried. “And what a delightful one! I trust my subjects have been giving a good account of themselves.” He glanced quickly at James and his eyes said: You fortunate devil! Would I were in your place.

Mary Beatrice was surprised at the complete revolution of her feelings. She had come on board prepared to hate this man; she had been fighting her feeling that she might not betray the aversion she felt for him. Instead, she was smiling, glad to put her hand in his, finding it a pleasure to be led to the rail to be seen standing side by side with him by the watchers on the bank.

“Why, my dear,” he said in that soft tender voice he invariably used for attractive women, “you are very young, and you have come a long way from home. It is a trying ordeal, I understand full well, for I remember when I was young I was forced to leave my home … under very different circumstances than those in which you have left yours. The homesickness … the yearning … my dear sister, they have to be lived through to be understood. But remember this, that although you suffer from leaving your home, you bring great pleasure to us because you have come to live among us. Now you shall sit beside me and tell me what you have left. I have a fondness for your mother, of which I shall tell her soon. I remember how desolate she was when you lost your father and how she brought up you two children. A bit stern eh? Soupe maigre? Ah, I have heard of that! Rest assured, little sister, we shall not force you to eat soupe maigre while you are with us.”

Mary Beatrice was smiling, and James looked on in astonishment. What power was this in his brother to charm? How could he, in his careless way, in a few short moments put at ease this girl whom he himself had tried so hard to please.

He could not answer that question. All he knew was that from the moment Mary Beatrice met the King she became a little less unhappy, a little more reconciled to her marriage.

When the party arrived at Whitehall the bride was conducted into the palace and there the King presented her to his Queen.

Mary Beatrice was greeted by the quiet Catherine with affection, while the King and the Duke looked on benignly. Mary Beatrice’s mother had told her that the Queen of England would be her friend because, like herself, she was a Catholic living in a country where the recognized religion was that of the Reformed Church.

“We will have much in common,” Catherine told her; the Queen’s voice was a little sad, for she was wondering how this young and clearly spirited girl would deal with her husband’s infidelities. She, Catherine, had been bewildered, humiliated, and deeply wounded by those of the King. She hoped that Mary Beatrice would not have to suffer as intensely as she had. “I trust,” went on Catherine, “that we shall be friends and that we shall have informal hours together.”

Mary Beatrice thanked her and then turned her attention to the two young girls who were being brought forward.

These were her stepdaughters—the Princess Mary and the Princess Anne. She studied them eagerly for the elder was not so many years younger than herself. Mary was about eleven years old—tall, graceful, with long dark eyes and dark hair. Her manner was serious and because Mary Beatrice guessed she was as apprehensive as she was herself, she felt a longing to show her friendship for this girl, and for the second time her spirits were lifted and the prospect of her new life seemed a little less grim.

It was possible to have a little informal conversation with her stepdaughters and then she realized that neither of them resented her and were anxious to be friendly.

“My father tells me that you will be as a sister to us … just at first,” Mary told her. “But you are in truth our new mother.”

“I will do my best to be all that you wish of me,” answered Mary Beatrice.

She looked at Anne who gave her her placid smile; and she knew at once that they would help her to bear her new life.

Charles smiled knowledgeably at his brother.

“I trust you are taking advantage of your new state, brother?” he asked lightly.

James frowned. “She is beautiful, but very young.”

“It is rare that men complain of the youth of their mistresses or wives.”

“She is but a child and they have brought her up with a craving to be a vestal virgin.”

“I trust for the honor of our house she can no longer aspire to such folly.”

James was moodily silent and the King went on: “Some of your enemies are suggesting that, having made this Catholic marriage, you should for the sake of peace retire from Court. It was hinted to me only the other day. How would you like, James, to leave Court and take your little beauty into the country?”

“My place is at Court.”

“So think I,” said Charles. “But methinks also, brother, that if you were as successful at courting your wife as you are at courting trouble you would by now have persuaded her that the life of a vestal virgin is not nearly so exciting as that of Duchess of York.”

“I do not propose to leave Court.”

“Nor do I propose that you should. I have already said so. But the people are not pleased with you, James. You stand for popery and the people in these islands do not like it.”

“What am I to do?”

Charles lifted his shoulders. He too secretly stood for the Catholic Faith; he had even made a bargain with Louis to bring his country back to Catholicism—yet he dealt with these matters shrewdly, graciously, and secretly. Why could not James do the same?

“Act with caution, brother. Stand firm. Remain at Court. Honor your little bride. Let every man know that you realize he envies you the possession of such an exquisite young creature, which I am sure he does. Do your duty. Let the Court and the people know that while she be young and so beautiful and a Catholic she is also fertile. Do this, James, and do it boldly. And, would you like a further word of advice? Then get rid of the mother.”

“But my wife’s great consolation is her mother.”

Charles smiled shrewdly. “It is a fact, brother, that when a Princess comes to a strange land and is a little … recalcitrant, she changes when she is no longer surrounded by relations. The old lady reminds her daughter by her very presence of all that she has missed in her dreary convent. Get rid of the mother, and you will find the daughter becoming more and more reconciled to our merry ways. There is little room for vestal virgins and their dragons here at Whitehall.”

James was silent. Charles who had charmed Mary Beatrice, who conducted his affairs with skill, who was a Catholic at heart and kept the matter secret for the sake of expediency, who had dared make a treaty with France which could have cost him his throne, whose wife was as Catholic and as foreign to Whitehall as Mary Beatrice and yet was in love with him—must understand what was the best way to act.

It was six weeks since Mary Beatrice had arrived in England. Christmas was over and she was astonished at the extravagance with which it had been celebrated. She had discovered that her charming brother-in-law scarcely ever spent his nights with the Queen; that fidelity and chastity in this island were qualities which, among the King’s circle, were regarded with incredulous pity; she was surprised that Queen Catherine longed for her husband’s company almost as intensely as Mary Beatrice prayed she would not have to endure hers; this Court was gay and careless; it was immoral and irreligious. It was all that she had feared it would be and yet she was a little fascinated, if not by it, by certain personalities. The chief of these of course was the King. He was making her fascinated by his Court as she was a little by himself.

When, during the Christmas festivities, she heard her mother was to leave England, she wept bitterly.

Duchess Laura comforted her, pointing out that she could not leave Modena and her son, the young Duke, forever. She had done an unprecedented thing when she had come to England with her young daughter, but now Mary Beatrice was old enough to be left.

“I shall die of sorrow,” declared Mary Beatrice.

“You will do no such thing. You have your friends, and your husband is kind to you.”

Mary Beatrice shivered. Kind he was; but she wished there were no nights. If it were always daytime she could have endured him.

“When you leave me,” she told her mother, “my heart will be completely broken.”

“Extravagant talk,” said the Duchess, but she was worried.

When by the end of December the Duchess had left for Modena, James discovered his wife to be in such a state of melancholy that he wondered whether he should leave her to her Italian women attendants for a few days. It was disconcerting to know that he was almost as great a cause of her wretchedness as her mother’s departure.

A few nights after the Duchess had left, Mary Beatrice said to her husband: “When I am with child as I must soon be, then you need not share my bed.”

James looked at her sadly.

“Then,” he said slowly, “it shall be as you wish.”

Her ladies had prepared her for bed. She shivered as she did every night. Soon he would be there. She anticipated it with horror: his arrival, the departure of the attendants, the dousing of the candles.

He was late. They were chattering away, not noticing, but she did. She must be thankful, she told herself, if the dreaded moments were delayed even for a short while.

They talked on and on—and still he did not come.

“His Grace is late,” said Anna.

“Perhaps we should leave you,” suggested one of the others.

Mary Beatrice nodded. “Yes, leave me. He will be here soon.”

So they left her and she lay shivering in the darkness waiting for the sounds of his arrival.

They did not come.

For an hour she lay, expectant; and finally she slept. When she awakened in the morning, she knew that he had not shared her bed all night.

She sat up, stretched her arms above her head, smiled and hugged herself.

If all nights were as the last one would she enjoy living at her brother-in-law’s Court? The gowns one wore were exciting; so was the dancing; she did not greatly care for the card playing but she need not indulge in that too much. She was one of the most important ladies of the Court and the King made sure that everyone realized this.

How strange this was! Her mother had left her; she was alone in a foreign land; yet, when she was free of the need to do her duty as a wife, she was less unhappy than she had believed possible.

The next night she waited and he did not come; and during the following day she knew why.

It was Anna who told her, Anna who loved her so much that she shared her unhappiness to a great degree and knew her mistress’s mind as few others did.

“He spends his nights with his mistress. I do not think you will often be worried by him. This woman was his mistress before the marriage and I have heard that he is devoted to her.”

“His mistress!” cried Mary Beatrice. “But he has a wife now.”

“But the marriage was for state reasons. He will continue with his mistresses. He is like his brother.”

“I see,” said Mary Beatrice blankly.

“I do not think you will be greatly troubled with him in future.”

“I shall tell him that it does not please me that he should continue with this woman.”

Anna opened her eyes wide. “But do you not see? While he is with her, you are free of him.”

“Yes, yes,” said Mary Beatrice. “That is a matter for which I must be grateful.”

“Well, if you want to be rid of him, who better to take him from your bed than a mistress?”

“You are right, of course,” replied the young Duchess.

Night, and her attendants had left her. She was waiting for him, expectantly, angrily. It was five nights since he had been to her.

She did not believe she was pregnant. He had no reason to think so either. Yet he continued to spend his nights with his mistress.

It was humiliating. She, a Princess, to be left alone because he preferred another woman! She was his wife. He had pretended to be so pleased because she had crossed the seas to come to him; the Earl of Peterborough had wooed her urgently and tenaciously on his behalf in spite of her protests.

Now here she was—neglected on account of a mistress!

Was that his step outside the door? He was coming after all. She sat up in bed, clasped her arms about herself, apprehensive, terrified.

But it was not his step. She stared about her darkened room, and knew she was to be alone again.

She thought of him with that woman. What was the woman like? Beautiful she supposed. All mistresses were beautiful. Men went to them not for the sake of duty; it was all desire where a mistress was concerned. For the sake of such women, they left their wives … lonely.

Lonely. She was lonely!

She lay down and began to weep silently. Perhaps he would come and find her weeping. He would say: Do not be afraid. I’ll go away because that is what you wish.

He would be pleased to go because he preferred to be with his mistress than to do his duty with his wife. So it was duty?

Mary Beatrice’s eyes flashed angrily and she dealt her pillow a blow with a clenched fist.

Then suddenly she put her face on her pillow and gave way to her sobs.

A realization which bewildered her had come into her mind.

She wanted James.