The Three Crowns

THE PASSIONATE FRIENDSHIP

The girls made a pleasant picture walking in Richmond Park; four of them were arm in arm—the special friends: the Princesses Mary and Anne with Anne Trelawny and Sarah Jennings. Sarah was such good company and the Princess Anne kept screaming with laughter at her comments.

Behind were two of the Villiers sisters—Elizabeth and Katherine—outside the magic circle of friendship. Mary pressed Anne Trelawny’s arm to her side in a sudden gesture of happiness. It was pleasant to have such a friend; she felt completely at home with Anne Trelawny; and since she had always been devoted to her sister, she was now in the company she loved best. Sarah Jennings was a little overbearing, but Anne thought her so wonderful that Mary accepted her as a member of the quartette.

Princess Anne peered shortsightedly ahead and said: “Let’s go toward that tree over there.”

Following the direction in which she was pointing, Mary could see no tree; but there was a man standing on the grass.

“It’s not a tree, Anne,” said Mary. “It’s a man.”

“Oh no, sister, it’s a tree.”

“It’s a man,” insisted Mary.

Anne turned away and replied: “I’m sure it is a tree.”

“Well, we’ll go and see. I am determined to show you that you are wrong.”

Anne shrugged her shoulders in her lazy way. “Oh, I’m sure it’s a tree. I don’t want to go that way now. Let us go back to the Palace.”

Mary looked reproachfully at her sister. Anne must be taught a lesson, and Mary was going to teach her that she must not make observations and insist that they were true before proving them.

Releasing Anne Trelawny’s arm and taking her sister’s she led her across the grass. As they came near to the object of dispute, it began to walk.

“There,” cried Mary triumphantly. “You cannot doubt now what it is?”

Anne had turned her head and was smiling blandly in the opposite direction. “No, sister,” she said, “I still think it is a tree.”

Exasperated, Mary said: “Oh, Anne, there is no reasoning with you. Let us go back to the Palace.”

As they came within sight of the Palace she forgot to worry about this unfortunate aspect of her sister’s character because she saw the Duke of Monmouth giving his horse to one of the grooms.

A call from Jemmy was always a pleasure.

Monmouth had called on the sisters whom he knew were always pleased to see him. He had thought of a new idea for bringing himself to his father’s notice; not that that was necessary for Charles was always very much aware of him; but Monmouth longed to show how he excelled in all courtly attainments, how much more popular he was than his Uncle James, how much more the people esteemed him than they did his uncle. When Monmouth had first heard that James was to have a young wife he had been angry and depressed. A young wife would probably mean sons, and once a son was born to James, Monmouth’s hopes of being legitimized would completely disappear. It was only while there would be no one to follow James but his two daughters that there was a chance that Parliament would agree to make a male heir by this legitimization; and once the Parliament wished that, Charles, Monmouth was sure, would be very ready—or at least could be easily persuaded—to agree.

Unfortunately James was now married—and to a young and beautiful girl. It was almost certain that there would be issue. Then the bell would toll, signifying the burial of Monmouth’s hopes.

But Jemmy was by nature optimistic and exuberant. He never accepted defeat for long. The marriage was one of the biggest blows to his hopes that could have been given him; and yet almost immediately he began to see a glint of brightness.

The celebrations of the last Fifth of November had been an inspiration to him. Whenever he heard the shout of “No popery” in the streets he rejoiced. James might produce legitimate sons but he was a Catholic and the people showed clearly on every possible occasion that they did not want a Catholic on the throne.

The young Duke of Monmouth had, in the last weeks, become a man deeply interested in matters of religion. He was seen at his devotions frequently; although he continued to live as gaily as anyone at the Court, his conversation was spattered with theological observations. He was ostentatiously Protestant; and already the Protestants were beginning to look on him with great favor.

The seed was being sown. It might not bring forth a good harvest but that was a chance he had to take. Against the Catholic Duke of York, the legitimate successor to the throne of England, there was the Protestant Duke of Monmouth—a bastard it was true, but a little stroke of the pen could alter that.

Perhaps, then, he mused as he made his way to Richmond Palace to ingratiate himself with the Duke’s young daughters, the marriage was not altogether a bad thing. If the young Duchess failed to produce the heir—and he prayed that she would fail to do this—if it were a plain contest between York and Monmouth … well, who could say what the outcome would be? But he must hope there would be no offspring; these young children had a way of worming themselves into the hearts of the people, were they Catholic or Protestant.

He had heard talk too that Charles was thinking of taking the education of Mary and Anne out of their father’s hands since the Catholic marriage. All to the good. Let the people understand that the King was aware of the dangerous influence of Catholicism which had tainted the York branch of the family. It would help them to think more kindly of Protestant Jemmy.

“Hail, cousins,” cried Monmouth, as the sisters hurried to him to be embraced.

“Great news. Can you dance? Can you sing?”

Anne smiled and nodded but Mary replied: “We are not very good, I am afraid, cousin Jemmy.”

“Well, we will soon remedy that. Now listen. I am arranging for a ballet to be performed before His Majesty. How would you like to play parts in it?”

Anne said: “It will be wonderful, Jemmy.”

“But we are not clever enough to perform before His Majesty,” added Mary.

“My father is lenient toward those he loves.” Jemmy, Mary noticed, always referred to the King as “my father,” as though he were afraid people were going to forget the relationship.

“But he does not care to be wearied,” put in Mary sagely. “And I fear that we might do that.”

Monmouth put his head on one side and studied the girls shrewdly. Mary was wise for her age; and there was truth in what she said.

“Suppose,” he suggested, “you danced and recited for me now. Then I could judge whether you were good enough to perform before my father.”

Anne was willing enough. It never occurred to her to worry what people thought of her. If they did not like what she did, she would shrug her shoulders and forget. Mary was different; she hated not to be able to please.

Anne performed carelessly and badly; Mary made too much effort and was equally bad.

“I have an idea,” said Monmouth, “you shall have lessons. Then I think you will be very proficient. I’ve set my heart on your dancing with me before the King. In fact, this has been written with parts for you in mind. So it has to be.”

“Shall we need many lessons, Jemmy?” asked Mary.

“Very many and with the best teachers. Leave this to me.”

It was wonderful, Mary told Anne afterward, to be part of Jemmy’s ballet. Jemmy said that they would be at Court and that it was time they were there.

“I’ve always wanted to go to Court,” Anne answered. “Sarah says we should be there. Sarah would enjoy it … and of course if we were there so would she be.”

“We must do our best to improve our dancing,” said Mary.

“So that we may be invited to go often to Court?” murmured Anne.

“So that we do not disappoint Jemmy,” added Mary.

As a result of Monmouth’s plan, Mrs. Betterton, the principal actress at the King’s Theater, arrived at Richmond in order to instruct Mary, Anne, and their friends on how to speak on a stage, how to walk on to one, how to conduct themselves with grace, charm, and utter naturalness.

James had readily given his consent to her appointment because he knew how much Charles enjoyed theatrical performances and he thought it a good idea that his daughters should shine before their uncle.

The girls enjoyed their lessons and adored Mrs. Betterton who seemed so gay and amusing to them and made their lessons more of a game than a task.

Mary was happy. Her new stepmother had proved to be a gentle creature who seemed to want to please her as much as she, Mary, wanted to please her stepmother. The grim creature Elizabeth Villiers had tried to conjure up had no likeness to her at all; and it was good to prove Elizabeth wrong. The days when she practised dancing with Jemmy were for her touched with a kind of bliss. Every night when she said her prayers she mentioned Jemmy; she told herself that next to her sister Anne she loved Jemmy; but she was not sure whether, in her secret heart, she did not love him best of all.

He whispered to her that he was going to command John Crowne, the poet, to write a play with a ballet and the principal part should be for her. The part he had chosen for her was that of Calista, a nymph of Diana.

John Crowne was in despair.

He went to the Duke of Monmouth to remonstrate with him.

“My lord, how can I write Calista for the Princess Mary. Have you forgotten that Calista is raped by Jupiter?”

Monmouth laughed. “It will do me good to watch the effect of that on His Grace of York. His dear little daughter raped!”

“Nay, my lord. I would not wish to place myself in jeopardy. The King would not be pleased.”

“You can trust me to put my father in a good mood.”

“Indeed yes, my lord. We know how he dotes on you, but I fear this would not be suitable for a young girl. May I suggest that the rape does not take place, and that Calista succeeds in escaping from Jupiter in time.” He hurried on before Monmouth could protest. “And I could write in a part for the Princess Anne, for I know how the Princess Mary loves her sister to do everything with her. For the younger Princess there will be the part of Calista’s younger sister Nyphe. And for Jupiter …”

Monmouth said sharply: “I have the girl for Jupiter. She will play the part well.”

“Your lordship …”

“Lady Henrietta Wentworth,” said Monmouth smiling. “She will be perfect.”

The proposed play and ballet was being discussed throughout the Court and the King himself had expressed his interest. Jemmy was in charge and Jemmy was probably the best dancer at Court; moreover, Charles was pleased that he was interesting himself in Mary and Anne, who now that they were growing up, would have to take more and more part in Court life. Calista, Charles decided, should provide the Princesses’ introduction to Court.

In Queen Catherine’s apartments, Margaret Blagge, one of the Queen’s maids of honor, was on her knees praying that she might be spared the need to play in Calista. Monmouth had seen her and selected her for the part of Diana the goddess of Chastity. She feared that he was considering the possibility of making an onslaught on her virtue and because he had seen in her one of the few chaste women at his father’s court he would not be satisfied with anyone else to play Diana.

Margaret had been maid of honor to the Duchess of York before her death and after that event had joined the Queen’s household. The laxity of morals practised by those about her made her long to escape from Court. It was not that she wished for life in a convent; she could visualize a future with a husband and children—but away from Court, far, far away.

This revulsion had caused her to find great comfort in seclusion. And now to have been chosen to appear to dance and act before the King—something which she considered immoral in itself—horrified her.

But it was no use protesting. Monmouth insisted. She had refused him what he desired; well, now he would refuse her.

Lady Henrietta Wentworth burst into the apartment—a lovely creature, some years younger than Margaret.

“Why, Margaret, what are you doing? Not on your knees again? And what are you weeping about?”

Margaret stood up. “I am to be Diana in Calista.”

Henrietta smiled. “I can see no reason for mourning. I am to be Jupiter—the bold lover. Do you know I almost rape the Princess Mary. According to Ovid I did, but John Crowne fears the wrath of the Duke of York if aught ill befalls his daughter, so she is going to be allowed to escape me.”

“I would that I could be released from this.”

“Released! My dear Margaret, how many girls do you think would not give all they possessed for your opportunity.”

“Opportunity … to sin!”

“Margaret. What sin is there in dancing?”

“I see it as a sin.”

“You should have been born years ago. You would have enjoyed living under Oliver Cromwell. This Court life is not for you.”

“Then why should I have to take part in it?”

“Because, my dear, in spite of your seriousness, you are very pretty. And the part of chaste Diana was made for you.”

“I have told the Duke that I do not wish to take the part.”

“And what said he?”

“He waved my reluctance aside. He would have none of it.”

“The Duke of Monmouth,” said Henrietta slowly, while a smile touched her lips, “is a man who will always have his way.”

“Not always,” insisted Margaret. “And I cannot play this role. The players are to be most sumptuously clad and covered in jewels. My lord Monmouth must realize that I am not rich. I have no jewels. So therefore he must find someone else to play Diana. I think that will be the answer, don’t you?”

She looked at Henrietta, who did not answer. She was staring into space smiling—her thoughts far away.

Charles summoned his brother and when he arrived told him that he was distressed to have been obliged to come to a certain decision but he believed James would see at once that it was inevitable.

“Since your marriage to your little Catholic, the people have not been pleased with you, James. We may as well face it. You have shown yourself to be too good a Catholic. Even though you don’t profess your Catholicism publicly, all know that you are devout enough in secret. They are complaining that your girls are being brought up to be little Catholics too.”

“But this is not true.”

“Maybe not. But we don’t have to consider what is true but what is being whispered. Whispering can be as damning as the truth. You’ll have to pass over the girls’ education to my jurisdiction, James. There’s no help for it.”

“But they are my daughters.”

“And if neither of us get a son Mary could be Queen and Anne could follow her. It’s for this reason that the people want to see them taken from the care of a Catholic and given a good Reformed preceptor. There’s no help for it, brother. Grin and submit with a good grace. You will see them constantly. It will merely be that I shall put someone in charge of their education.”

“And whom have you in mind?”

“Compton, Bishop of London.”

“Compton. I hate the fellow.”

“A pillar of the Reformed Church, brother; and for that reason I select him. The people will find pleasure in my choice.”

“The people?”

“Yes, brother, they by whom we retain our crown; and unless you have a taste for the wandering life, never let us underestimate their importance.”

James was sad and angry; but there was no help for it. The care of his children was taken from him and given to a man whom he neither liked nor admired.

Elizabeth Villiers was furious because she had not been given a part in Calista although that pushing Sarah Jennings had.

“Why do you think John Crowne has written that part for you?” she asked Mary.

“Jemmy says it is because I should be at Court and this is an introduction.”

Elizabeth blew between her lips. “He wrote the part because until your father has a son you are second in the line of succession and he wants to be sure of your patronage if ever you are Queen. It is as simple as that.”

“What nonsense!” said Anne Trelawny. “Parts are often written for people. Why shouldn’t the Lady Mary have a part written for her?”

“One doesn’t have to be royal to have a part written for one.” That was Sarah Jennings executing a difficult step. It was obvious that she believed the company would be enchanted by her performance and sooner or later someone would be writing a ballet especially for Sarah Jennings.

One had to smile at Sarah, who clearly believed herself to be the most important person in the schoolroom, for all that she was the most humbly born. The Princess Anne, her constant crony, was beginning to agree with her; and her outrageous conceit baffled Elizabeth Villiers.

The Princess Anne, taking the part of Nyphe, sister to Calista, practised indolently, and looked, Mary thought, very pretty in her costume which set off her round fresh-colored face and chestnut brown hair. Unfortunately the eye complaint which had been troubling her for a long time had had the effect of contracting her lids and this gave her a look of vagueness; but even this was not unattractive because it made her seem helpless, which was appealing. Mary, with her dark hair, long, almond-shaped eyes, and lovely skin was very attractive; no one could doubt that she was a Stuart.

There was great excitement in the Palace when the Princesses and their suite were preparing to leave for Whitehall. Sarah Jennings said that it was the beginning of change; and even Elizabeth Villiers, a little subdued since the coming of Sarah, accepted this. Lady Frances spoke seriously to her daughters. They might not be appearing in the ballet, she reminded them, but any change in the fortunes of the Princesses was a change for them.

Elizabeth Villiers, who was now quite a young woman, was beginning to realize that she had been rather foolish. Sarah Jennings had taught her a lesson. Sarah had chosen the docile Princess Anne for her friend and although she dominated Anne, at the same time made herself so pleasant that the Princess never wanted Sarah to leave her side. Thus Sarah Jennings was becoming more prominent in the circle than any of the others—largely due to her forceful character. It was too late now to ingratiate herself with Mary, for Mary already disliked her heartily; and in any case Mary had chosen Anne Trelawny for her friend.

Elizabeth Villiers therefore decided that she must be more cautious now; because once Mary was in command of her own household she would certainly dismiss those whom she had no reason to love. But although Elizabeth grew more pleasant, her hatred had not diminished at all, and secretly she greatly enjoyed seeing Mary discomfited.

Riding to Whitehall from Richmond was in itself an adventure. The people came out to cheer the little cavalcade because they already knew that the King had taken the girls’ education under his care and that the Protestant Bishop of London was in charge of them. That the Bishop was no scholar was unimportant; he was a Protestant and in view of their father’s unfortunate leanings those poor children were in need of protection.

Moreover, the fact that Charles was having the girls brought up in the Protestant religion could mean that the evil rumors concerning his own convictions were false. This conjecture gave pleasure to the people.

Arriving at Court, the Princesses were warmly welcomed by all. And what a gay and colorful scene it was! Everyone wanted to do honor to the girls and sought ways of pleasing them—their father and stepmother, the gentle kindly Queen, Jemmy, and their benign and witty Uncle, Charles, the King himself.

Mary in the shimmering dress in which she was to play Calista was both nervous and exalted. She was so anxious to please her father, who wanted her to be a success at Court, but feared that she might disappoint him. When she confided these fears to Jemmy, he laughed at her.

“Why, cousin,” he said, “you look so beautiful that my father and his Court would forgive you however badly you danced. But you won’t dance badly. You’ll enchant them all.”

Jemmy kissed her lightly on the forehead; and she thought earnestly: I must not fail. I must not disappoint Jemmy.

Anne suffered no such qualms. She would do her part and if she was a failure, well then, it would soon be forgotten. Sarah had said so and Sarah was invariably right. All the same Sarah was determined to make a success of Mercury; and Sarah knew she would.

When they were preparing to go on to the stage they were joined by Margaret Blagge and Henrietta Wentworth, the latter radiant in contrast to her companion.

Mary attempted to comfort Margaret.

“Why,” she said, “you look very beautiful. I am sure everyone will say you are a perfect Diana. Your dress is so lovely. What brilliant stones.”

Margaret said: “They terrify me. I had no diamonds to wear and the Duke induced the Countess of Suffolk to lend me these.”

“They become her well do they not?” asked Henrietta.

“So well,” said Mary, “that everyone’s eyes will be upon her.”

Margaret shivered.

“Oh, come,” said Henrietta impatiently, “there is no harm in dancing.”

“I prefer not to,” replied Margaret.

“Is she not foolish, my lady Mary?” asked Henrietta. “Here she has a chance to look beautiful in all those diamonds, to dance before the King and she is ungrateful.”

“I am sorry,” said Mary earnestly.

“You are very good.”

“Nonsense,” cried Henrietta. “This is meant to make everyone happy and surely that is good. You must smile as a compliment to the lady Mary. This is her ballet.”

“You alarm me,” murmured Mary. “I feel everything depends on me.”

“There is no need to fear,” Henrietta soothed her. “Jemmy will be supporting you. He will look after you and see that all is well.”

“I am so grateful to dear Jemmy.”

“As we all are,” added Henrietta.

They turned, for a girl had come into the room.

“I wondered,” she said, “if I could be of help.”

“We can do with help, Frances,” replied Henrietta.

Frances Apsley, maid of honor to Queen Catherine, seeing the Princess, made a deep curtsy. Mary felt a sudden excitement for she had never seen anyone so beautiful and wanted to keep looking at her; the lovely dark eyes were serene; the beautifully shaped head so gracefully bowed, the smooth dark hair so shining; the expression kindly and intelligent.

“My lady,” said Henrietta, “this is Frances Apsley.”

Mary said: “I am pleased to make your acquaintance.”

“It would be an honor to serve you,” answered Frances.

They stood smiling, each completely conscious of the other’s charm.

“Margaret is never satisfied,” Henrietta was saying. “She is complaining that she has one of the best parts in the ballet and is laden with diamonds.”

Margaret was speaking in response to Henrietta’s taunts, but neither Mary nor Frances Apsley were listening.

How frightened Mary was when she stood before them all. They applauded her kindly; she saw her father looking anxious on her behalf, seated near her uncle. He was kind and she wished that she could love him as he loved her. There were times when she did love him dearly as now; but she could never forget the rumors she had heard of him. She did not fully understand his relationship with those women who had caused her mother so much anxiety; but she imagined what took place between them; it was vague and horrible and she tried to shut her mind to it; but there were occasions when pictures crept in unbidden.

Then she noticed Frances Apsley watching her intently. Their eyes met and Frances smiled.

“She wants me to succeed,” thought Mary. “She will be unhappy if I do not.”

Mary was determined then to dance as she never had before.

The music had begun and her legs felt heavy; but there was Jemmy smiling and whispering: “Come on. It’s only a game after all.”

And then because of Jemmy, Frances Apsley, and her father, it became the fun it had been when they had practised at Richmond and she danced as well as she ever had.

She was delighted to see Margaret Blagge’s success. She looked so beautiful in her shimmering dress—the perfect Diana. Surely, thought Mary, she must be enjoying the approval of the spectators.

Sarah Jennings tried to get nearer to the audience that she might be noticed; as for Anne, she performed with a carelessness which everyone seemed to find amusing.

Dryden’s epilogue was read and they all knew that the ballet had been a success. The King was delighted—particularly with his nieces; he saw this for an excellent beginning of Court life for them.

James was almost in tears; nothing could have given him greater pleasure than the success of his daughters. The King declared that such shimmering talents must not be hidden when he congratulated John Crowne, Mr. Dryden, his nieces, Jemmy, and all the dancers.

In the dressing room where the company had prepared themselves, Mary found Margaret Blagge in great distress.

“I was wearing it about my neck when the ballet began. I cannot understand it. How could I have lost it?”

Mary asked to know what and when Margaret replied that it was Lady Suffolk’s diamond, she was horrified.

“But it must be on the stage.”

“I have searched everywhere. Oh, my lady Mary, what shall I do? It is worth eighty pounds. I cannot replace it. I don’t possess eighty pounds. What shall I do? No one will ever trust me again. And to think I tried so hard not to borrow it. This is a judgement. I knew it was sinful.”

To see the lovely maid of honor so distressed, upset Mary. It seemed to her a terrible calamity to have borrowed a valuable diamond against one’s will and then to have lost it.

“No one will ever trust me again,” sobbed Margaret.

“We must look everywhere you have been.”

“They have already done so. My maids have looked. I have looked. There is no sign of it. I daren’t tell Lady Suffolk.”

“Are you sure you’ve looked everywhere?” asked Mary.

“I … I think so.”

“I will look. I am rather good at finding things. It is big enough and it sparkles so, it ought not to be difficult to find.”

“That’s why I greatly fear that someone has found it and kept it.”

“Oh, poor Margaret. I will look and if I can’t find it perhaps I could ask my father what is the best thing to do.”

“Lady Suffolk will never forgive me, I know. I shall have to replace it and I don’t see how I can.”

Mary went off purposefully; she would search in every place where they had been.

She made her way to the stage, passing the anterooms on the way; she wondered whether Margaret had gone into any of these and forgotten. Mary would search every one because she could not bear to see lovely Margaret so unhappy.

She searched the first of these without success, and went to another. There was no light in this room except that which came through the window, but there was a full moon. She hesitated. Would it be possible to find the diamond in this light? It was big and sparkled, so perhaps it would be visible. She would take a good look and then perhaps call for candles. She heard a sound and knew at once that she was not alone. Someone else had come to this room.

She was about to say that she was looking for a lost diamond when, her eyes having become accustomed to the light, she saw them, and recognition was instantaneous. It was Jemmy and Henrietta Wentworth, and she knew what they were doing.

She stood for a few seconds and then ran from the room.

Jemmy and Henrietta! But Jemmy was married.

She was shocked and horrified: and there was some new emotion too which she had not experienced before. She was not sure what it was; she only knew that she had been fond of Jemmy, and was horrified that he could so betray his wife.

She ran out of the room and on to the stage. How foolish of her, for the hall was crowded and she would be seen.

“Is anything wrong?”

Mary turned round; she was looking into the lovely face of Frances Apsley.

“So … it is you,” stammered Mary.

“You seem distressed, my lady.”

“Yes … yes … I believe I am.”

“If I could help you …”

“I do not know.”

“If you feel that you could confide in me …”

“Yes, perhaps I could.”

Frances Apsley took Mary’s hand and led her into an anteroom, similar to that in which Mary had seen Jemmy and Henrietta Wentworth, but this one was lighted.

“There, let us sit down.”

They sat in one of the window seats and Mary leaned against Frances and felt comforted.

“I don’t think I can tell you,” she said. “It was … disgusting. It was someone I know.”

“I think I understand.”

“Do you? But that is clever of you.”

Frances smiled. “I am a good deal older than you.”

“I am eleven,” said Mary.

“That makes me nine years older than you.”

“You are very wise and beautiful.”

Frances laughed. “I think you may not be very discriminating.”

“I only know,” said Mary, “that when I saw you I knew that I had never seen anyone so beautiful.”

“When you come to Court you will meet many beautiful people.”

“Perhaps,” said Mary. “But when I see perfection I know it. I am so honored that you spoke to me. Do you know, that does not seem important any more.”

“I am glad. I am sure it was not of any great importance.”

“No. It is only when things like that happen to people of whom one is very fond … And I was fond of …”

Frances laid a hand over that of the Princess. “Don’t think of it. It is best forgotten.”

“Meeting you has made it seem unimportant. Your name is Frances. I think it is a lovely name—but not lovely enough for you, of course. I want to go on talking to forget that. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” said Frances, “I understand. Let us talk of the ballet. You danced beautifully, and of course you were the center of the play. Diana was charming.”

“Oh, that reminds me. She is so distressed. I was looking for it when …” Mary turned to Frances. “You are so wise. Perhaps you can help me comfort her. Margaret Blagge has lost a diamond which belonged to Lady Suffolk, and she is terrified because she is afraid she will have to replace it and she is not rich.”

“It will likely be found.”

“Yes, Frances, but if it is not? Poor Margaret is almost ill with grief. You see she did not want to dance in the ballet because she thinks dancing sinful, and she did not want to borrow the diamonds. It is very sad.”

Mary’s long dark eyes were expectant as she lifted them to the face of her new friend.

“Have you told your father?” asked Frances. “He might be able to help.”

“Do you think he would?”

“I am sure that if you asked him he would want to do it … just to please you.”

“You are right, Frances. Oh how clever you are. Let us go to him at once.”

“You wish me to come?”

“Yes, I want to show him that I have a new friend. He will be so delighted that I have found you.”

Frances laughed. “I do not think so,” she said.

“But you are wrong. He wants me to be happy. He loves me very much and I …”

She frowned. She did love him; if only she did not have to imagine … what she had seen this night with Jemmy!

She hated it. It was degrading and humiliating. But she would not think of her father and Jemmy. She had a new friend—Frances Apsley—and their relationship would never be sullied by degrading actions.

“Let us find my father,” she said. “I will ask him, because I cannot bear that Margaret should be so unhappy.”

The Duke of York was in the company of a handsome woman but when he saw his daughter coming toward him he turned from her.

“Something is wrong, my dearest?” he said.

“Father, I wish to speak to you. Frances thinks you may be able to help us.”

James smiled at the young maid of honor whom he knew slightly, she curtsied and he led them out of the hall.

“Now, tell me what is wrong,” he said, when he had shut a door and they were in that anteroom which Frances and Mary had just left, and Mary explained how Margaret had been forced to act against her conscience and not only dance but borrow diamonds, one of which she had lost.

“And what sort of a diamond is this?” asked James.

“It is worth eighty pounds.”

James touched his daughter’s cheeks lightly with the tips of his fingers. “Well, sweetheart, that does not seem such a mighty sum. What if I promise to find a diamond to replace this one—that’s if it cannot be found.”

“You mean that you will give it to Margaret so that it need not be known that she has lost one?”

“If that would please you.”

“It pleases me very much.”

“Then so shall it be.”

Mary smiled shyly from her father to Frances Apsley. “This is a very happy night,” she said.

“That night,” wrote Mary to her new friend, “was the most important in my life because in it I met you.”

Everything had changed. Not only were she and her sister frequently at Court, not only were they present at Court functions, but Mary was soon deep in a new and exciting friendship.

Frances filled her thoughts; when she was with Frances that seemed to her the greatest happiness in the world. She adored Frances—the way she walked, talked, looked. Life was suddenly full of pleasure for she had a friend such as she had never had before; and the love she felt for her sister Anne was a mild affection compared with the passionate devotion Frances inspired.

Everyone at Court was ready to be charming to the Princess Mary. The King had no legitimate heirs and until the Duke of York produced a son, Mary could well be the future Queen: it was known that the King had a special interest in his nieces and that meant that all those who were ambitious should share this.

The girls remained at Richmond Palace under the care of Lady Frances Villiers, but Henry Compton, whom the King had appointed as Governor of their studies, did not greatly care whether they studied or not. Mary, who since the days when she had wished to please her father had developed an interest in knowledge, continued to work hard, but Anne rarely looked at her books.

“My head aches,” she would say. “And my eyes are watering.”

Anne’s eyes were her excuse to be lazy. But she was so good tempered that no one minded; and she continued to use her affliction whenever she wanted to escape from something which bored her. The new life suited her admirably. To be petted, to be continually given presents of sweetmeats (for her weakness was now becoming well known) to be often at Court, to spend her evenings with the cards, a dish of sweets beside her, to be constantly in the company of her dear friend Sarah and sister Mary, what more could she ask from life?

Mary might study French with Pierre de Laine until she became proficient. Anne would listen to her sister reading in that language and clap her plump hands.

“My darling sister, you are so clever. It does me good to hear you. I wish I were more like you.”

“You could learn as easily.”

Anne laughed. “Oh, it would strain my eyes. And I could never be as clever as you, my dearest.”

“You are lazy,” Mary would say in the indulgent voice she had used to her sister when they were children; and Anne would merely laugh.

“One clever daughter is enough for Papa.”

Sometimes Anne would attempt to draw, for she had a certain talent. The Princess’s drawing teacher, Mr. Gibson, who was a dwarf, did all he could to encourage her; and often she would sit with her sister lightly sketching. Mrs. Gibson helped her husband in teaching art for she too was an artist; and together these little people were one of the wonders of the Court for they had produced nine ordinary sized children. Gibson had belonged to Queen Henrietta-Maria before his marriage and was a specially privileged person in the household.

A pleasant life, made wonderful for Mary by this deep friendship. When she was at Richmond she constantly longed to be at St. James’s because Frances lived there with her parents Sir Allen and Lady Apsley. Their friendship was unusual, Frances had said, because she was so much older than the Princess; and this gave it a piquant flavor. Yet the difference in their ages seemed unimportant for Frances was as attracted by Mary as Mary was by Frances.

There was always so much to talk about; and to sit close beside Frances, holding her hand, seemed to Mary complete happiness. Mary realized that this was how she had wanted to love her father and perhaps Jemmy; but she never could because between them was the shadow of some shame, not quite understood but ever present. Lampoons had been written about them; they were untrustworthy because of this; they were in a sense shameful and could never enjoy a relationship of idealistic love such as that which existed between Frances and Mary.

“Frances,” said Mary on one occasion, “I shall never marry. I could not bear to marry. I shall call you my husband and I shall be your wife, and perhaps one day we can leave the Court and have a little house together.”

Frances laughed and said it was because Mary was young that she talked in this way; but Mary shook her head, and when she next wrote to Frances she called her her husband and signed herself her loving wife.

She was sitting with her sister one day drawing with the Gibsons when Lady Frances came into the room. She was carrying a letter in her hand, and Mary started up in dismay for she recognized it as one which she had written to Frances Apsley.

Lady Frances dismissed the dwarfs and Princess Anne and when they had gone she put the letter on the table.

“My lady,” she said, “this is your handwriting?”

Mary admitted that it was.

“It is addressed to ‘my dear husband’ and signed ‘your wife Mary’.”

Mary did not answer.

“And addressed to Frances Apsley. What does it mean?”

“It means,” said Mary, “that she is my dear friend and … I wrote to her.”

“You seem very fond of her.”

“She is the dearest person in the world.”

“H’m,” said Lady Frances. She picked up the letter and tapped the table with it. “I do not think you are wise to write so extravagantly to this young woman.”

“But I say nothing that I do not mean.”

Lady Frances was faintly worried.

As soon as Lady Frances had disappeared the Princess Anne came quietly to her sister who was sitting thoughtfully at the table—the letter which she had taken from Lady Frances still in her hand.

“What was wrong?” demanded Anne.

“I am accused of writing extravagantly to a friend.”

“What friend?”

“A very great friend.”

“Please tell me,” wheedled Anne, sidling up to her sister.

Mary wanted to talk of Frances Apsley and having begun found it difficult to stop. Frances was perfect, she explained, so good and unsullied, there was no one in the world as beautiful or as good as Frances and Mary loved her passionately.

Anne was interested.

“I have seen her,” she said. “I want to be her friend too.”

“You always wanted to copy me, Anne.”

“Not always,” her sister corrected her. “You eat like a little bird.”

“And you like a lion. Yes, that’s true.”

“But all the same,” said Anne, “if you have a dear friend, I must have one too.”

Mary Beatrice was no longer the serious girl who had wanted to be a vestal virgin. She found great pleasure in the entertainments which were the fashion at her brother-in-law’s Court. No one had been more thrilled to see the pageant which had featured her husband against the Duke of Monmouth when they had reconstructed the siege of Maestricht for the amusement of the Court. How thrilled she had been to see James in action as a general, building trenches and giving orders and showing what a brilliant strategist he was. The King looked on with great amusement and many witty asides to his friends. Charles realized as fully as anyone present that there was more than play in the rivalry between his brother and his natural son. James wanted to show the Court that he was a better general than Jemmy could ever be, while Jemmy was burning with zeal to show them that youth, energy, and boldness were a better choice than age and experience.

Such a situation was bound to amuse Charles and his friends, but it was impossible to know whose side Charles was on. He doted on Jemmy, but he was never a fool where his affections were concerned and saw the loved one’s faults as clearly as the virtues. In any case, Charles was not a man to love for virtue. He knew that his handsome brash Jemmy was so fond of his father largely because of what he hoped to attain through him, and that his exasperating brother was a man of honor. He never forgot that James was the legitimate heir of England and that although the people deplored his religious views they would always remember that he was the legitimate son of a King.

So the siege of Maestricht played out on a stage was more than a pleasing pageant.

Mary Beatrice, watching it, was deeply conscious of her husband. She would not have believed it possible when she first came to England that she could have such strong feelings for that man. He was twenty-five years her senior; he was a sensual man; he made demands on her which she had never thought it would be a pleasure to fulfill; but how wrong she had been. Mary Beatrice, once longing for the virgin’s life, had now become a woman passionately in love with her husband.

It was a marvel to her that she who had once lain in the nuptial bed shivering at the prospect of his approach, now lay waiting for him, her only fear being that he would not come but decide to stay with one of his mistresses instead. She was passionately jealous of his mistresses; she had remonstrated with him about them, but although he was always kind, and implied to her that they were not as important in his life as she was, he would not give them up.

She had discovered a great deal about her husband’s first marriage—for she never tired of hearing about it and asked numerous questions. She knew that he had loved Anne Hyde his first wife so much that he had defied his formidable mother, his brother, and all his family for her sake. They had made life unpleasant for poor Anne Hyde, except the King who, when he saw that everyone was against her, sought to be kind to her.

She could well believe that. Had he not been kind to her? Looking back now she believed the change in her had begun when she had met the King.

Now she watched her husband and she prayed that he would triumph over Monmouth, because she knew that Monmouth hated James; but she believed James to be too kindly to hate his nephew.

She was pregnant and as she put her hands on her body which was beginning to swell, she was filled with love and tenderness for the child who would be born in five months’ time. Her child and James’s. She longed to have the child; she wanted to protect it from all the misfortunes which could beset a royal infant.

And when she looked at James, there in the mock battle against the King’s bastard, she wanted to protect him too.

The Princess Anne must follow her sister whenever possible, so as soon as she saw Frances Apsley she became violently attracted by her.

Mary was not altogether displeased; she was delighted whenever anyone admired Frances, and as she loved her sister dearly she found it hard to be angry with her. But she was tortured that Frances might prefer Anne to herself, which she thought might be possible. Anne, with her easygoing nature, was popular; people understood Anne more readily than they did Mary; so it seemed to the elder sister that Frances might very well find the younger more attractive.

Mary had given Frances the name of Aurelia—a character from a Dryden comedy—the Aurelia of the play being a delightful creature, whose company was greatly in demand. Mary herself was Clorine, a shepherdess from one of the Beaumont and Fletcher works—a faithful character who was constantly misunderstood.

When Mary could not see Frances her only consolation was in writing letters to her. To her beloved Aurelia she told of her undying devotion, imploring her always to love her exclusively and to remember that she was the loving husband to her Mary-Clorine.

As Lady Frances Villiers did not approve of this correspondence and Mary was in constant dread that something would be done to stop it, the letters had to be smuggled out of Richmond Palace to St. James’s. The dwarfs, Mr. and Mrs. Gibson, who loved their mistress and wished to please her, conveniently obliged and did the carrying. So a pleasant atmosphere of intrigue had been created and when Mary looked back to those dull days before she had known Frances Apsley, she wondered how she had endured them.

Anne refused to be left out. She even bestirred herself to write to Frances, although writing was an occupation which held little charm for her.

One day Mary found her bent over a letter and looking over her shoulder saw that she was writing to her beloved Semandra.

Anne put her hands over the letter, pretending to hide it.

“Who is Semandra?” asked Mary.

“Well, if she is Aurelia to you she cannot be to me.”

“Semandra! That is one of the characters in Mithridate.”

Anne nodded. “Mrs. Betterton wants me to act in it. And Ziphares is in it too. So while Frances is Semandra I shall be Ziphares.”

“Anne, why do you always have to copy me? Can’t you think of anything for yourself?”

Anne looked astonished. “But why should I, when I have my dear clever Mary to think of everything?”

Mary wanted to feel angry and exasperated; but how could she? She loved Anne and could not imagine ever being without her.

She thought then that she would like to spend the rest of her life in a little house—far from the Court. She and Frances together. They would have cows and she would do the milking; and she would cook like a country woman. Anne should visit them … often, very often.

She was smiling at her sister. “Really, Anne, you ought to try and do something of your own.”

Mary Beatrice was longing for a son. The people expected it of her; if she had a boy he would be the heir to the throne; it was no wonder that everyone watched her with apprehension during those waiting months.

When she was indisposed her health was the main topic of conversation. Every night she prayed for a son.

Poor barren Queen Catherine spent much time with her and they became good friends, for it seemed that since Catherine could not provide the heir to the throne she was content for her sister-in-law to do so.

It was a great responsibility.

She guarded her health with the greatest care all during the cold dark autumn days, and early in January she went to St. James’s Palace to await the birth.

On the ninth of that month she knew her time was near; and with relief and apprehension waited for the beginning of her ordeal.

Outside the snow had begun to fall and the bitter wind blew along the river. Her women were bustling round her.

This was the most important birth in the kingdom.

She awoke on a dark Sunday knowing that her time had come; she called to her women.

It seemed to Mary Beatrice that all the world was waiting breathlessly for the child she would have.

She was aware of voices as she emerged from unconsciousness. The room was lighted by many candles and her pains were over.

Someone was bending over her.

“James,” she said.

“My dear.”

“The child?”

“The child is well and healthy. And you must rest now.”

“But I want to see …”

He said: “Bring the child.…”

The child? Why did he continue to say the child? She knew of course. Had it been a boy he would not have said the child.

They brought the little bundle; they laid it in her arms.

“Our little daughter,” said James tenderly.

“A daughter!”

But when she held the child in her arms she ceased to care that it was not a boy.

It was her child. She was a mother. She laughed scornfully at that foolish girl who had believed that the ultimate contentment could only be found within the walls of a convent.

She lay in her bed, drowsily content. My daughter, she thought. There would be others. Next time a son. But she was entirely content that this one should be a daughter.

She thought of the future of the child. Should she be brought up with her half-sisters? But they were much too old. Moreover they were in the care of the Protestant Bishop of London. The Protestant Bishop! Why should her child be brought up as a Protestant? She was a Catholic, James was a Catholic; even though he was not publicly known as one. Why should they not be allowed to bring up their children as they wished?

When James came to see her she told him that she wanted the child baptized as a Catholic.

“My dear,” said James, “that is not possible.”

“But why? I am a Catholic and so are you.”

“Our little daughter is in the line of succession to the throne. The people of England will not accept a Catholic baptism.”

“This is my daughter,” said Mary Beatrice obstinately.

“Alas, my dear, we are servants of the state.”

He did not discuss the matter further, but Mary Beatrice lying back on her pillows continued to brood. Why, because she was young, should she be continually told what she must do? She had been married against her will and nothing could alter that, even though she was now glad that she had been. She was not going to allow anyone to dictate to her where her child was concerned.

She sent for her confessor and when he came she said: “Father Gallis, I want you to make ready to baptize my daughter.”

Father Gallis raised his eyebrows, but she went on: “I want no interference. Indeed I will have no interference. My daughter shall be baptized in accordance with the rights of my Church. I care not what anyone says. That is what I have decided.”

Father Gallis, secretly pleased, obeyed his mistress and the little girl was christened on her mother’s bed, according to Rome.

Charles came to call on his sister-in-law.

He sat by the bed smiling at her.

“I have come to welcome my new subject,” he said genially.

The baby was brought to show him.

“She is charming,” he said, and he smiled from James, who had accompanied him, to the beautiful mother.

“You are very proud of your achievement,” he went on, “and rightly so. Have you decided on her names?”

“Yes, Your Majesty,” answered Mary Beatrice, “she is to be Catherine after Her Majesty.”

“A pretty compliment,” murmured Charles, “and one which will satisfy the Queen.”

“And Laura after my mother.”

“Who, rest assured, will be equally gratified. Now, let us talk about the arrangements for this blessed infant’s baptism.”

Mary Beatrice’s heart began to beat fast. It was one thing to talk defiance to her confessor; another to do so to the King’s face.

“Your Majesty,” she said slowly and she hoped firmly, “my daughter has already been baptized in accordance with my Church.”

Charles was silent for a few seconds then he smiled. “Catherine Laura,” he said. “What charming names!”

Mary Beatrice lay back on her pillows. She had won. She should have known that the easygoing King would let her have her own way.

The Queen came to visit her.

“I am so touched that the baby is to be named after me,” she said.

“I should perhaps have asked Your Majesty’s gracious permission.”

Catherine laughed. “It would have been readily given as you knew. And the King has asked me to discuss the baby’s baptism with you.”

“But …”

“It is His Majesty’s wish that it should take place in the chapel royal where the bishop will perform the ceremony.”

“In accordance with the Church of England?”

“But of course.”

“When did His Majesty request you to come to see me?”

“Only half an hour before I arrived.”

Mary Beatrice lay back on her pillows. He had shown no signs of anger. But then he rarely did. He had merely smiled and then made plans to have it done the way he wished it.

She was afraid then that some punishment would fall on Father Gallis for what he had done, and as soon as the Queen had left she sent for him and told him what had happened.

He said they could only wait for the King’s vengeance.

They waited. Nothing happened. And then the baby was baptized according to the King’s desire and the rites of the Church of England. Her sponsors were the Duke of Monmouth and the baby’s half-sisters, Anne and Mary.

The King did not refer to the matter again. He hated unpleasantness, Mary Beatrice was to learn; but at the same time he liked to have his way with as little fuss as possible.

Mary was in despair. The family of her dear Aurelia were moving from St. James’s Palace to St. James’s Square.

“What will this mean to us?” she demanded. “How can we meet when you are not at the Palace?”

“My dearest,” answered Aurelia, “we must content ourselves with letters when we are apart; my family will often be at St. James’s or Whitehall and you must contrive to be there when I am.”

Mary was a little comforted.

“I shall give you a cornelian ring so that when you look at it you will always remember me,” said Aurelia.

“It will comfort me,” answered Mary.

When she returned to Richmond she was pensive. Frances in St. James’s Square was no longer easily accessible but they would meet and there would be letters; it was a warning that life did not go on indefinitely in the same pleasant pattern.

Change came.

Daily she waited for Gibson to bring her the cornelian ring. Anne, who had wept with Mary when she had heard that Frances was moving from the Palace, declared that she too must have a ring for remembrance; and when the cornelian did not arrive Mary believed that Frances had sent it to Anne instead.

She poured out her jealous anguish in a letter.

“Not but that I think my sister do deserve your love more than I, but you have loved me once and now I do not doubt that my sister has the cornelian ring. Unkind Aurelia, I hope you will not go too soon, for I should be robbed of seeing you, unkind husband, as well as of your love, but she that has it will have your heart too and your letters, and oh, thrice happy she. She is happier than I ever was for she has triumphed over a rival that once was happy in your love, till she with her alluring charms removed unhappy Clorine from your heart …”

But Anne did not have the cornelian ring; and all in good time it came to Mary.

A happy day, which almost made her forget that communication would be more difficult now that Frances was going to St. James’s Square.

In spite of her love for Frances, which was all absorbing, Mary still had an affection for her cousin Monmouth; and now that she was growing up and was a great deal at Court she had many friends among the maids of honor. She was mildly fond of a number of them, but her passion for Frances meant that she had little room in her heart for others.

Eleanor Needham, a beautiful young girl, was a friend of both Mary and Frances; so that when Eleanor was in trouble and she had to confide in someone, she chose the Princess Mary.

But this did not happen until the interfering Sarah Jennings had made it necessary.

Sarah dominated whatever household she found herself in; her passion for management was irresistible to her. She had quarrelled with most of the maids of honor and was continually trying to call attention to herself. She had made the Princess Anne her special charge, but since Mary had become so attached to Frances (and Anne must follow her sister in everything) Anne had become less friendly with Sarah.

Sarah was alert; there was little she missed; and she it was who warned the Duchess of Monmouth to watch her husband and Eleanor Needham, for she was certain something was going on there.

The Duchess told Sarah to mind her own business, to which Sarah retorted that if she could not take a warning she was welcome to the consequences of her blindness. The Duchess accused her husband, mentioning Sarah, at which Monmouth called on Sarah and told her that if she did not keep her sharp nose out of his affairs she might not be in a position to much longer, for that same nose would not reach the Court from the place to which he would have her banished.

Sarah was furious; but then Sarah often was furious. All the same she was aware of the power of the King’s favorite son; and although she might talk of upstart bastards out of his hearing, she was a little afraid of what he might do. Sarah knew that it was most essential for her to keep her place at Court if she were going to make the marriage that was necessary to establish her social position.

So before Eleanor came to Mary she had had an idea of what was happening and now that she was so knowledgeable of how people at Court conducted themselves, she was not surprised at the outcome.

“My lady,” said Eleanor, “I am with child and I must leave the Court very soon.”

“Is it Jemmy’s?” whispered Mary.

Eleanor nodded.

“Poor Eleanor. But what will you do?”

“Go right away from here and no one shall ever hear of me again.”

“But where will you go?”

“Do not ask me.”

“But Eleanor, can you look after yourself?”

“I shall be all right.”

“But I must help you.”

“My dear lady Mary, you are so kind and good. I knew you would be. That is why I had to say good-bye to you. But I shall know how to look after myself.”

“You should stay at Court. No one takes much account of these things here.”

“No, I shall go. But I wanted to say good-bye.”

Mary embraced her friend.

“Promise me that if you need help you will come to me?”

“My good sweet lady Mary, I promise.”

Mary told Anne what had happened, and how sorry she was for poor Eleanor.

“Sometimes,” said Mary, “I think I hate men. There is Jemmy who is as gay as ever while poor Eleanor is so unhappy she has to go right away. How different is my love for Aurelia.”

Anne nodded, and taking a sweet from the pocket of her gown, munched it thoughtfully.

Mary went into her closet and sitting at her table wrote that she was taking up her new crow quill to write to her dearest Aurelia.

She told her about the quarrel between that busybody Sarah Jennings and the Duke and Duchess of Monmouth, which was on account of Eleanor Needham. It was sad, wrote Mary, that a woman should be so ill-used. They had both been fond of Eleanor, and now she had left the Court to go, as she said, where no one would hear of her. How Mary longed to escape from the Court where such intrigues were commonplace.

“As for myself, I could live and be content with a cottage in the country and a cow, and a stiff petticoat and waistcoat in summer, and cloth in winter, a little garden where we could live on the fruit and herbs it yields.…”

Little Catherine died in convulsions ten months after her birth.

Mary Beatrice was heartbroken for a long time; Mary did her best to comfort her and for a while James deserted his mistresses and became the devoted husband.

There would be other children, he assured her; she was so young.

The little girl was buried in the vault of Mary Queen of Scots in Westminster Abbey; and after a short period of mourning Mary Beatrice was obliged to take her part in Court functions.

The devotion of her husband and the company of her two stepdaughters did a great deal for her over this unhappy time.

Although Mary mourned her half-sister, life had become too exciting for brooding on what was past. There was the gaiety of the Court, the friendships with the girls, none of which rivaled that with Frances, but Mary had much affection for friends such as Anne Trelawny. Her sister was very dear to her, and although at times she would feign exasperation because of Anne’s imitative ways and her refusal to change her mind once she had made it up, even when as in the case of the man in the park, she was confronted with the truth, the two sisters were inseparable.

Their stepmother was not in the least alarming. A little imperious, sometimes, a little pious often, but as she recovered from the death of her baby, ready to play a game of blindman’s buff, hide-and-seek, or “I love my love with an A.”

Then there was dancing, in which Mary was beginning to excel, and acting which was amusing. Sarah Jennings generally managed to infuse intrigue into the household which made it a lively one.

The years were slipping past and so absorbed was Mary by her own circle—and in particular Frances—that she forgot she was no longer a child: she had little interest in affairs outside her own domestic circle. A crisis occurred when there was a question of a husband being found for Frances.

A husband! But they had no need of men in their Eden.

“No one could ever love you as I do,” wrote Mary. “Marriage is not a happy state. How many faithful husbands are there at the Court, think you? They marry, tire of their wives in a month, and then they turn to others.”

It was alarming to contemplate. It reminded her of what she had seen when she surprised Jemmy and Henrietta Wentworth; it reminded her of the stories she had heard about her father and her uncle.

Unpleasant thoughts which it was best to avoid, but how could she avoid them when there was talk of Aurelia’s marrying!

For some months her anxiety persisted; and then the matter seemed to have been forgotten and the serene state of affairs continued: meetings with Frances on Sundays and holy days; and always those letters which must be smuggled out to the Apsley home. Her dancing master Mr. Gorley, the Gibsons, and very often Sarah Jennings and Anne Trelawny acted as go-betweens. It was a pleasant intrigue, for it must be carried on without the knowledge of Lady Frances Villiers who did not entirely approve of the correspondence.

So life went on merrily until Mary was nearly fifteen.

It was the day of the Lord Mayor’s feast and the King was dining at the Guildhall. This was one of the greatest occasions in the City of London and when Charles had told James that he thought Mary and Anne should be present James guessed that his daughters would soon be called upon to play their part in state affairs.

Anne’s favorite form of entertainment was attending banquets; as for Mary she enjoyed the pageantry. Both their uncle and father watched how the crowd cheered the girls; and how charmingly they responded. James was not surprised therefore when, on the day following the banquet, Charles sent for his brother, in order, said Charles, to discuss some small projects concerning the Lady Mary.

“James,” said Charles, “how old is Mary?”

“Fifteen.”

“Old enough, most would say.”

“For marriage, you mean?”

“What else? My dear brother, don’t look downcast. You must have realized that before long it would be necessary to find a husband for her.”

“She seems but a child to me.”

“Still, you would wish a brilliant parti for her?”

“I suppose it will be necessary.”

“Then the sooner the better.”

“She seems such a child.”

“It matters not what she seems but what she is. She is fifteen. Time she was betrothed. Have you a husband in mind for her?”

James hesitated. “There is Louis’s son,” he said at length. “I should like to see Mary Queen of France—and France is not so very far away.”

Charles grimaced, and James went on hotly: “Our own cousin, Charles. Why not?”

“Our little Mary is an important person. We must not forget that, as matters stand now, she could follow us to the throne. If you had a son, James, Mary’s marriage would not have been a matter of such deep concern.”

“Where could she make a better marriage than with France? The Queen of France. That is a position I should like to see her hold.”

“Alliance with a Catholic monarch, James?”

“With one of the greatest powers …”

“The people want a Protestant marriage, and I have thought of a likely husband for Mary.”

“And who is this?”

“Our nephew, William. William of Orange.”