The Three Crowns

THE RELUCTANT BRIDE

The King was smiling across the table at Lord Danby. Poor Danby! he thought lightly. His position is not a happy one.

“In the circumstances, Your Majesty,” Danby was saying, “the Dutch marriage is greatly desirable.”

Charles agreed. “The people hate the war with Holland and marriages are the best guarantees of peace.”

The eyes of the King and his Lord Treasurer met. There were so many secrets which they shared and which it would be advisable, both knew, should never leak out. Danby had helped in those transactions with France which some might consider shameful and which would certainly shock the King’s subjects if they were aware of them; Charles’s secret leanings toward Catholicism, his monstrous promise to Louis, could lose him his throne if they were known. They had much to hide, these two. But the King was nonchalant; he had an infinite belief in his ability to extricate himself from the difficult situations into which he could not resist falling in his continual attempts to provide himself with money which his Parliament would not—and indeed could not—grant him.

Danby, on the other hand, trying hard to appear calm, could not hide his disquiet. His fall could be imminent. In the streets they were singing lampoons about him. He was the most hated man in England. He had not sinned so deeply as his master; but he would be blamed. Charles had only to flash his famous smile—which was merry and sardonic at the same time—on his subjects and they would forgive him his lechery, and his treachery. Such was not the case with Danby. He could not charm them with his unromantic appearance—his lean figure, his pale face, and his obvious ill health. Moreover, he knew that if Charles’s secret dealings with the King of France ever came to light, it would be Danby who would be blamed for them, not Charles.

And now the people were restive largely because they hated war. Charles would show them that he was prepared to put an end to the war and that he was no friend of the King of France because Louis would be furious at a match between Holland and England. Perhaps of late his subjects had begun to suspect Charles favored Catholicism.

“Very well,” said the King. “We will send for Orange. We will show the people that we are anxious for peace with Holland, for can we want to be at war with the husband of our own Princess Mary?”

“Your Majesty,” said Danby, “the Duke of York will not consent to this marriage.”

“You must make him understand the importance of it, Danby.”

“Your Majesty, the Duke of York has not your understanding of affairs. I feel sure he will remind us that you once promised not to dispose of his daughters without his consent.”

Charles was thoughtful. “It is true I made such a promise. But God’s fish, he must consent.”

Danby bowed his head. Consent or not, he thought, the marriage should take place. He, Danby, was rushing headlong to his ruin, as Clarendon had some years before. It was not easy to serve a King such as Charles II, a clever man who was in constant need of money and not too scrupulous as to how he acquired it, a man who was ready to conduct his own foreign policy in such a manner that his Parliament knew nothing about it.

For them both the marriage was a necessity.

Charles’s shrewd eyes met those of his statesman. He knew what Danby was thinking.

“You see the need as I do, Danby,” he said. “So, it shall be done. Tomorrow I leave for Newmarket.…”

James, furious, stormed into his brother’s apartments.

“I see you are speechless,” said Charles, “so I must help you out of your difficulty as I have so many times before by speaking for you. You have doubtless seen Danby.”

“This marriage …”

“Is most desirable.”

“With that Dutchman!”

“A dour young lover I will admit, but our nephew, brother. Forget not that.”

“I will never give my consent to this marriage, and I am her father.”

Charles raised his eyebrows and gazed sadly at his brother.

“Without my knowledge Danby has dared …”

“Poor Danby. He has his faults, I doubt it not … and many of them. All the more sad that he should be expected to carry those of others.”

“You promised that my daughters should never be given in marriage without my consent.”

“And, as ever, it grieves me to break a promise.”

“Then Your Majesty must be constantly grieved.”

“I fear so, James. I fear so. My dear brother, do try to be reasonable. This marriage must take place. It is more necessary to you than to any of us.”

“To me! You know I dislike that Dutchman.”

“He is of our flesh and blood, James, and we loved his mother. Families should live in amity together. He is a dull fellow, I’ll be ready to swear, but he did once try to get at the maids of honor.”

James shrugged impatiently.

“And you, James,” went on Charles, “are far from popular. This ostentatious popery of yours is a constant irritant.”

“And what of yourself?”

“I said ostentatious popery. You should learn to show proper respect to words, James, if not to your King. Now listen to me. If Mary marries our Calvinist the people will say: How can the Duke of York be such a papist if he allows this Protestant marriage! You need this Protestant marriage more than any of us.”

“Your Majesty has always been for tolerance.”

“I am more tolerant than my subjects are prepared to be. You have always known that.”

“And Charles, is it not your dealings with the French which make you so eager for this marriage?”

Charles smiled wryly. “As I have said before, I have no wish to be like a grand signor with mutes about him and a bag of bowstrings to strangle men if I have a mind to it. At the same time I could not feel myself to be a King while a company of fellows are looking into all I do and examining my accounts. There, James. That is your brother and King. Tolerance, yes. Let every man worship as he pleases and let the next fellow do likewise. Thus if I wish to be a papist I’d say I’ll be one and that is my affair. And if I make agreements with foreign kings because by so doing I can get what my Parliament denies me—well then, that is my affair too.”

“And because of this my daughter must marry the Dutchman?”

“Because of this, James—my follies, your follies, and the follies of those who want to go to war when they could live so much happier in peace. You’ll give your consent, James. Then … we must see that we get the better of our little Dutchman.”

When William arrived at Newmarket the King greeted him cordially.

“It is long since we met, nephew, too long. And now you come as a hasty lover.”

“I would wish first to have a sight of the Princess Mary,” replied William cautiously.

Charles laughed. “Do you think that we would ask you to make an offer for what you have not seen? Not a bit of it. You shall see her and I will tell you this: there is not a more charming young girl at this Court, nor in the length and breadth of England I’ll dare swear—perhaps not in Holland!”

William did not smile. He knew that they would attempt to make fun of him as they had before; he had always suspected that Charles had played a part in the maids of honor episode.

“I shall be delighted to meet her.”

“And in the meantime, my dear nephew, we will discuss less agreeable matters. We will save the tasty tidbit until the last which I believe is a very good habit. There are the peace terms which I suppose we should consider of the utmost importance. We will go into council here at Newmarket, and then it may be that there will be two great events to be celebrated.”

William’s lips were tight as he said: “Your Majesty, I could only discuss the terms of peace after the Princess Mary was affianced to me.”

“Oh come, nephew—business before pleasure you know.”

“I can do no more than explain to Your Majesty my intentions.”

Charles showed no sign of annoyance.

“What did I say,” he appealed to his friends. “Here we see the eager lover.”

The Lady Frances Villiers sent for the Princess Mary. She was fond of the Princess and yet relieved that very soon she would not be in charge of her. Mary had always been eager to please and gave little trouble; her passionate friendship with Frances Apsley was the only real anxiety she had felt on her behalf; and now there would be no need to worry about that.

“My lady,” said Lady Frances, “your cousin, the Prince of Orange, has come to Court and His Majesty is anxious for you and your sister to be presented to him.”

“I heard that he was in England,” replied Mary lightly. She was wondering whether Sarah Jennings would show her a new seal she had. It would be amusing to use it for her letter to Frances.

“Tomorrow you and your sister will be presented. The King and your father wish him to find you agreeable.”

Mary wrinkled her brows. “I have heard that he himself is not always considered so.”

“Who said this to you?”

Mary lifted her shoulders; she would be careful not to betray the offender. Lady Frances, who knew her well, was also aware that Mary had no realization of the reason behind her cousin’s visit.

Poor child, thought Lady Frances. She will have a great shock, I fear.

Mary was pleasant enough to look at, thought Lady Frances. She was trying to see the child with the eyes of a stranger and a would-be lover at that. She would most surely please him. Her complexion was unusually good; her nose well proportioned and her almond-shaped eyes really beautiful. She scarcely looked marriageable; but she had always seemed young for her years—and in any case she was only fifteen.

While Lady Frances scrutinized her charge Mary was looking anxiously at her governess.

“You are pale, Lady Frances,” she said. “Have you one of your headaches?”

Lady Frances put a hand to her brow and confessed that she had been feeling unwell for the last few days.

“You must go and lie down.”

Lady Frances shook her head. “And you must tell the Princess Anne of the appointment for tomorrow.”

“Oh, yes,” replied Mary, “I shall not forget.”

Face to face with William she thought that the stories she had heard about him might well be true. He looked as though he rarely smiled.

“Welcome to England, cousin,” she said; for the King and her father seemed to wish that she be the one to talk to him.

He inclined his head and she asked him how he liked England.

He liked it well enough, he answered.

What a dour creature he was. She would remember this conversation and report it all in her next letter to Frances. Better still keep it until they met. She smiled as she visualized that meeting.

“Very different, I’ll swear, from your Court at The Hague.”

“Two Courts could hardly be expected to be the same.”

She was thinking: But, Frances, it was so difficult to talk to him. He makes no attempt to carry on the conversation at all … and it simply dies out. I had to keep thinking of fresh subjects.

“Do you … dance much at The Hague?”

“Very little.”

“I love to dance. I love playacting too. Jemmy … the Duke of Monmouth, excels at it all … dancing, playacting …”

“Is that all he excels at?”

Flushing, suddenly remembering Jemmy with Henrietta Wentworth and Eleanor Needham, she did not answer the question but said, “Pray tell me about Holland.”

That forced him to talk and he did so briefly. It sounded a dull place to Mary; she was watching Anne, who was with their father, out of the corner of her eye, while she longed to be rescued from William who was so dull.

She was pleased when it was over and she could escape.

William was pleased too. She had perhaps been brought up to be too frivolous, but that was something he would soon remedy.

She was not without beauty; she was young, very young, and he believed that he could mold her into the wife he wanted.

James and Charles were well aware of the impression Mary had made on her cousin. William was eager for the marriage, and Charles delivered his ultimatum: Peace terms agreed on first and after that the marriage should be discussed.

William had betrayed his desire for the marriage and his uncles might use his eagerness to their own good and the detriment of Holland. That must never be. The marriage contract must be settled first so that he might not be forced into accepting disadvantageous terms in order to secure it.

William now stood firm. The contract must be completed before the peace terms were discussed.

James was angry; Danby was terrified; and Charles lifted his shoulders in a significant gesture. Orange was not the most charming of men; tact was a quality which had not been bestowed upon him; but, God’s fish, the marriage was important. Charles was never a man to cling to his dignity when he found it expedient to dispense with it.

“Our lover shall have his bride,” he declared. “It shall be as he wishes. Wedding first; business after.” He turned to his brother and momentarily his eyes were sad. “Now, James,” he went on, “there can be no further delay in breaking the news to Mary. You’re the man to do that.”

Mary started at her father. She could not believe she was hearing him correctly.

Marriage! But she did not want marriage. All she wanted was to go on as she was now. Marriage was something she had never considered seriously because she found the subject distasteful. Married people were rarely happy. She knew how her uncle the King deceived the Queen again and again and she was aware of the Queen’s unhappiness. She remembered the quarrels between her father and her mother; and even now that he was married to the beautiful Mary Beatrice he was not faithful to her. Mary Beatrice wept often because she was so hurt by his infidelities.

And now it was her turn! And the husband they had chosen for her was that little man, her cousin William, who looked as though he had never learned how to laugh. If she had to marry he was the last husband she would want.

“So you see, my dearest,” James was saying, “you are no longer a child and it is time you married.”

“I do not wish to marry.”

“That is often the case, but when you are married you will be content.”

“I never shall. I never shall.”

“Now, Mary.”

She turned away from him for the tears were already on her cheeks.

“Please, Mary, you must be sensible. This is difficult I know. You have had such a happy time and perhaps some would say have been a little spoilt … but now you must realize your duty. You see, my dear, you are in a position of great importance …”

She was not listening. Marry Orange. Go to bed with Orange. It was shocking. It was distasteful. She hated it.

Then another thought struck her. He did not live in England. He had a kingdom over the seas. So she would not only have to endure him, but she would leave home. Leave her dearest Frances … Frances, her true husband! She would leave Anne, her sister, from whom she had never been separated in the whole of her life. How could she be happy without Anne to scold, to laugh at, to play with. She could not endure it; she would not endure it.

She flung herself at her father and began to sob wildly.

“Father, do not make me leave home. Do not make me marry. Let me stay at home. I cannot bear to go away.”

James stroked her hair and tried to comfort her.

“Oh, my dearest, alas that this should be.”

The Princess Mary was inconsolable.

The Queen came to her to try to comfort her, but Mary would not be comforted.

“It happens to us all, my dear,” said Catherine. “I came to England to marry the King.”

“The King is not like Orange.”

Catherine had to admit that. Charles was the most charming man in the world and she loved him dearly; in spite of his constant infidelities she considered him a good husband for he never spoke an unkind word to her and all she had to suffer was his neglect and the pain which his preference for other women gave her.

“You will feel better later,” Catherine assured her. “It is the first shock.”

Her stepmother, heavily pregnant, also tried to reassure her.

“When I came here I was your age. I hated your father and now I love him dearly.”

“But this is Orange,” persisted Mary. “He is not like my father.”

“Yet you will come to love him. You must because he will be your husband.”

They could not understand. It was not only that they had given her this most unattractive man; it was the contemplation of marriage itself.

Her sister Anne was moved out of her usual placidity.

She came running to her sister, her face puckered in distress.

“Mary, they are saying that you will go away.”

The sisters clung together.

“But you cannot, you cannot. How can we be parted?”

“They will send me to Holland … with William, Anne.”

“It will never be the same again.”

“They say that nothing ever stays the same forever.”

“But you are my sister and we have always been together … we always should be.”

They could only cling together, weeping in their despair.

That day Mary wrote to Frances. She must find some means of coming to her, for she was so desolate that she thought her heart was breaking. She must talk of her trouble, for the most distressing calamity was about to fall upon her.

The King sent for his niece. Lady Frances Villiers was anxious because Mary was in no condition for such an occasion; hours of weeping had made her eyes red and swollen.

She was dazed as she was helped to dress. Elizabeth Villiers watched her in silence. What a child she was! thought Elizabeth. Hadn’t she considered that a girl in her position would be forced into marriage at an early age, and that all these matters were arranged for such as she was. Those like Elizabeth had to look out for themselves. How different she would have felt if a brilliant marriage were being arranged for her! Mary had always been a simpleton.

“My dear lady Mary,” mourned Lady Frances, “you look so wretched.”

Mary’s lower lip trembled and for a moment it seemed as though she would burst into further tears. “I am … wretched,” she stammered.

“You must not look like that or the King will be displeased.”

“I don’t think he will. I think he will understand.”

“Come,” said Lady Frances catching at a stool to steady herself, for her limbs felt as though they did not belong to her today. “You must not keep His Majesty waiting.”

Listlessly, Mary allowed herself to be conducted through the corridors of Whitehall to the royal closet. Those who accompanied her, Elizabeth Villiers among them, waited outside.

When Charles came into the closet his smile was kind.

“Why,” he said, “this is an important occasion for my little niece. But I no longer regard you as my niece, Mary my dear. From now on you are my daughter.”

Mary knew that she should have expressed gratitude for these gracious sentiments but when she opened her mouth to speak, her sobs prevented her.

Charles patted her shoulder, as the door of the closet was thrown open and William was brought in.

“Ah, nephew, you are indeed welcome,” said the King. “Now it is not good for man to live alone, so the Scriptures tell us, and even kings should not argue with them. Therefore I have a helpmate for you.”

The Princess Mary was brought forward and stood before her cousin, her eyes downcast, her mouth sullen.

William looked at her in astonishment. This was not the same girl who had talked animatedly to him at their last meeting. She was scarcely recognizable. Her lovely eyes were almost hidden by her swollen lids; her expression was forlorn, even sullen. He could not understand what had brought about the change.

“You two will be well matched, I doubt not,” said the King. “And remember this, nephew, love and war do not agree well together.”

The King turned to his brother. “The Duke wishes to give his consent to the marriage.” He nodded to James who murmured that he was willing to give his daughter into the care of the Prince of Orange.

“Then all is well,” said the King. “I doubt not that our lovers will wish to be together. They will have much to say to one another.”

He signed to Lady Frances to stay with them and all the others left the closet.

William’s puzzled gaze was on his bride-to-be.

He said: “Something has displeased you?”

“Yes.”

“There is something you want and cannot have?”

“Yes.”

“And you have been weeping because of this?”

She nodded and turned her head away.

“You were different at our last meeting.”

“I did not know then that I should be forced to marry you.”

He drew back as though her words were a lash which had cut into his flesh. He could not believe that he had heard her correctly.

There was a short silence; then the Lady Frances began to remonstrate with the Princess.

“You should remember to whom you speak, my lady.”

“I do not forget. I do not want to marry.”

The Prince was looking haughtily at Lady Frances, who said hastily: “Your Highness, you must understand that the Princess is very young. She had no notion that she was to be married and the idea has shocked her a little, but she will recover from the shock and realize her good fortune.”

“Good fortune!” cried Mary bitterly.

Lady Frances looked imploringly at the Prince. “Have I your permission to take the Princess to her apartments?”

The Prince inclined his head; and Lady Frances, greatly relieved, took Mary by the arm and led her away.

William looked after them; his cold expression was in contrast to the fierce anger which was burning in him. How dared she! Those red eyes, those sullen looks were there because she was to marry him! When he had last seen her, she had had no notion that she was to be betrothed to him, and therefore she had been gay and clearly happy. Then she had been told of her—as he believed—good fortune; and she had promptly wailed and moaned and, being completely undisciplined, had made it clear to all that she had no wish for the marriage.

What insolence! What childish tantrums! And this was the one they had given him for his wife!

He had an impulse to go at once to the King, to tell him that he had decided to return to Holland a bachelor. He wanted no reluctant bride.

Then he thought of those three crowns. To be King of Britain—well, was it not worth a little sacrifice.

Besides, she was a child; he would soon teach her the kind of conduct he expected in a wife. He must not jeopardize his future in a moment of pique over a spoilt child—especially as, after the marriage, he would have the whip hand.

No, he would marry this foolish child; and he would teach her who was master.

All the same his pride was hurt. She had made him see himself as he must appear to her—a man undersized, who stood awkwardly because his back had grown crooked, and wheezed a little because it was not always easy to breathe. Since the death of the de Wittes he had forgotten that image of himself. He had become a great leader, a man whom the King of England wished to please; he had ceased to think of himself as that pale young man who found it always necessary to assert himself.

She had brought back that image—that spoilt child!

He would show her.

Angrily he strode from the room and as he did so he almost collided with a young woman. He was brought up sharp and looked full into her face. She flushed and lowered her eyes, which he noticed were unusual; one seemed larger than the other and there was a cast in them. In his present mood the slight abnormality seemed to him attractive.

“I beg Your Highness’s gracious pardon,” she said.

The sound of her voice, humble, a little alarmed, soothed him.

“It is given,” he answered.

She lifted those strange eyes to his face and her look was one of recognizable adulation.

His lips moved slightly; it was not quite a smile, but then, he rarely smiled.

She passed on in one direction, he in another; then on impulse—strange with him—he turned to look after her at the very moment when she turned; for a second they gazed at each other; then she hurried away.

He found the memory of the girl with the unusual eyes coming between him and his anger with Mary. That girl had by a look and a few words restored a little of his lost pride. He wondered who she was; presumably she belonged to Mary’s suite; if so, he would see her again. He hoped so, for she had made quite an impression on him.

The Prince had made an impression on Elizabeth Villiers.

She knew what had taken place in the closet. How foolish Mary was! But Mary’s folly might well prove to the advantage of Elizabeth Villiers. She had been anxious. It was hardly likely that the Princess Mary would select her when she was in a position to choose her own household. Elizabeth Villiers would be no favored friend. But if not the friend of the Princess, why not the friend of the Prince?

Was she arriving at false conclusions, was she seeing life working out a certain way because that was what she wanted?

Well, that was a necessity which often occurred to an ambitious woman.

Mary, in her apartment, wept steadily throughout the day. Anne sat at her feet leaning her head against her sister’s knees crying with her.

Nothing could comfort either of them.

Elizabeth Villiers had been unexpectedly sympathetic to Mary; she did not attempt to persuade her to try to control her dislike of the marriage.

She was with her when, red-eyed, her body shaken by an occasional sob, Mary received the King’s Council and listened in silence to the congratulatory speeches.

The Prince of Orange was often present and although he gave no sign, he was very much aware of Elizabeth. In fact if she were not there he would have felt very angry but, by the very contrast to his betrothed, she made him feel less slighted by the insults Mary was giving him.

It was gratifying that through the country the news of the marriage was received with wild enthusiasm. The sky glowed with the reflection of hundreds of bonfires; although Mary Beatrice was pregnant and expected to give birth any day, not much hope was given to her producing a son and Mary was looked upon as the heiress to the throne. It was well, therefore, the people of England believed, that she was making a Protestant marriage.

The King was delighted with the people’s enthusiasm for the marriage. He told James that he should be, too.

“This is particularly important to you, James,” he reminded his brother. “You will see that people will not hate you quite so heartily when your daughter has married a Protestant. We’ll get this marriage made and consummated here on English soil before our bride and groom leave for Holland. You look ill-pleased.”

“I was thinking of Mary.”

Charles was momentarily downcast. “Poor Mary!” he said. “But peace, James … peace abroad and at home. Mary must do what is necessary for the sake of that.”

James was silent, thinking of his daughter’s unhappiness and the Prince of Orange whom he would never happily accept as a son-in-law.

The last day of freedom. A dull dreary day. Mist and cold outside the Palace of St. James; inside, dark foreboding.

Anne spent much of that day with her. Poor Anne, she was almost as wretched as her sister; and Mary tried to comfort her.

“We shall see each other often,” she told her.

“How?” asked Anne.

“You will come to Holland and I shall come to London.”

“Yes,” cried Anne. “We must. I could not bear it if we did not see each other very, very often.”

When they clung together Mary thought Anne seemed a little feverish. She mentioned this and Anne said: “It is because I am so unhappy at your leaving us, dear sister. And what shall I do while I am waiting to go to Holland and for you to come to England?”

“You will be at home,” Mary replied. “Think of me, far away in a strange land with a strange husband.”

And the thought of that calamity set the tears falling again.

Nine o’clock in the evening in the Palace of St. James. The hour of doom. In the bedchamber of the Princess Mary those who would participate in the ceremony had assembled. There was the bridegroom, pale and stern, gazing with distaste at the red eyes and swollen face of his bride. Henry Compton, the Bishop of London, had come to perform the ceremony and the Duke and Duchess of York had now entered with the King.

James’s eyes went at once to his daughter and he came to her side and embraced her.

“My dearest Mary,” he whispered, “my little one.”

“Father …?” she murmured and there was an appeal in her eyes.

“My dearest, if I could … I would.”

Mary saw that her stepmother, who was as round as a ball expecting as she was to end her pregnancy at any moment now, was trying not to weep.

“I shall miss you so much,” she whispered.

The King was approaching, and seeing the tears of the bride and her stepmother, the sullen looks of his brother, and the grim ones of the bridegroom, he was determined to make as merry an occasion of the wedding as was possible in the circumstances.

“Come now, Compton,” he said, “we are all impatient to be done with the necessary business.”

Charles laid a hand on Mary’s shoulder and pressed it affectionately. Poor child! he thought. But she would soon recover; she was a Stuart at heart and the Stuarts were gay by nature. Moreover, she was pretty enough to find herself someone who would please her as it was certain dour William would not.

He was sorry for her but he had long learned to feel emotions lightly, and while he was outwardly tender and kind to his sad little niece he was less concerned with her misery than anyone else at the melancholy wedding.

He looked slyly at William who, he knew, was hoping through this marriage to have the throne in time. An ambitious man, the bridegroom. Strange how big dreams often filled the hearts of little men.

“Come, Compton,” cried Charles, “make you haste or my dear sister the Duchess may give birth to a son before the ceremony is over and so disappoint the marriage!”

William’s expressions scarcely changed. He was becoming accustomed to his uncle’s sly witticisms.

William had placed a handful of gold and silver coins on the book as he promised to endow his bride with all his worldly goods. “Take it and put it into your pocket, niece,” whispered Charles, “for it is all clear gain.” The bridegroom had put the little ruby ring on her finger. The ceremony was over.

Mary stood shivering beside the man who was her husband. She was becoming more and more fearful, for the worst was yet to come.

The crowded room had been stifling hot in spite of the cold November air outside. Mary was bemused by the congratulations, the hot wine had gone to her head and she felt dizzy.

Queen Catherine, her stepmother and the Duchess of Monmouth were with her now; they had come to prepare her for bed.

They were kind, all of them, infinitely sorry for the fifteen-year-old child who was being forced into marriage. They tried to comfort her, but they could only do so by their gentleness; no words could help.

They led her to the bed. They had taken away her clothes; she and William were together and the King was there smiling at them. He had insisted that he would be the one to pull the bed curtains.

And now that moment had come.

He did not look at Mary; he could not face her pleading eyes. So he laughed and shouted: “Now, nephew, to your work. Hey! St. George for England!” as with a flourish he drew the bed curtains.

Alone in the darkness—alone with the grim dour man who was her husband.

Mary felt him grasp her shuddering body; and shutting her eyes tightly, although it was dark enclosed by the curtains, she gave herself up to … horror.

William had left her and Mary was being dressed by her attendants. She was dazed by the experiences of the previous night. Intimacy had not endeared William to her nor her to him. Her shuddering distaste had been an affront to his pride which he was going to find it hard to forgive. He was determined to subdue her to absolute obedience. As for Mary, she could only contemplate that the last night was but a prelude to her future life, that it would go on and on like that for as long as she would live; nor, very soon, would she wake to the familiar surroundings of St. James’s and Whitehall. She would be in a land of foreigners, with a strange dour Dutchman as her master.

“There is someone at the door,” said Sarah Jennings; and she gave the permission for whoever was there to come in, which it was not her right to do, but Sarah Jennings constantly assumed rights which were not hers, and Mary was too miserable to care about such trivialities now.

The arrival was Bentinck—the right-hand man of the Prince of Orange; he came, he said, with a gift from the Prince to the Princess of Orange.

The women were clustering around him, their eyes eager with anticipation. What had the Prince sent to his bride? He had not appeared to be the most generous of men. They could scarcely wait to see.

Bentinck came forward, bowed and put a box in Mary’s hands.

“Please thank the Prince,” she said listlessly.

Bentinck bowed and retired; and as soon as he had left, the girls implored Mary to relieve their curiosity and open the box. When she did so Mary drew out a row of pearls from among the ruby and diamond ornaments.

“They are magnificent,” said Elizabeth Villiers, her eyes sparkling with sudden excitement.

“I doubt not it is the Dutch custom to present these very jewels to each bride of Orange after her wedding night,” replied Mary.

“A pleasant morrowing gift,” said Anne Trelawny, holding a ruby emerald against Mary’s throat.

“Worth a fortune,” declared practical Sarah Jennings. “I’d say somewhere in the region of … thirty or forty thousand pounds. Just look at those pearls!”

Mary looked at them. I would rather have my freedom, she thought, than all the jewels in the world.

It was inevitable that there should be festivities to celebrate the wedding since it was the wish of the King. There must be a ballet, dancing, and revelry. The palaces were a little shabby, because the King was always in need of money and in no mood to forego other extravagant pleasures for the sake of refurbishing them. But his courtiers could be relied on to provide a witty entertainment.

The King liked to amuse himself, surrounded by the fair ladies whom he favored at the time; as he was far too kindhearted—and too lazy—to dismiss those who no longer excited him, there were always a gathering of beauties about the throne. Monmouth could be relied on to enliven the company.

Besides the banquets and balls which celebrated the Protestant marriage, there were revelries in the streets. This was a defeat for popery, said the people. God save the King and the Princess Mary!

But while the bridegroom glowered and made it clear that he was heartily sick of England, his perfidious uncle, his sullen father-in-law, and his constantly weeping bride, and while the bride could not restrain her distaste for her marriage and her repulsion for her bridegroom, the revelries went on.

The Duke of York was cool to the bridegroom and it was clear that he was longing to shatter his hopes by becoming the father of a son in the next few days. Mary Beatrice, hourly expecting, had yet time to feel sorry for her little stepdaughter who had been more like a sister to her.

And in her apartments the bride’s only comfort was in weeping, which she did so frequently that it was quite impossible to hide the fact, and when she was receiving ambassadors or other state officials who had come to congratulate her, the tears would start to flow.

Two or three days after the wedding William came to her apartments when she was alone. She started up when he entered, her hand to her throat. He frightened her because he always looked so contemptuous and severe.

“Weeping again?” he said, in his cold voice.

She did not answer and he went on: “It would seem I have cause for grief. You have a stepbrother.”

Mary stood up, her fear forgotten. “So … it has happened.”

“Your stepmother has given birth to a son and your father is jubilant.”

He was looking at her with disdain, and she knew what he meant. It was as her uncle had suggested it might be: the marriage was disappointed. Now that she had a stepbrother she had lost her place in the succession, and William was thinking that the marriage was no longer the desirable union it had been a few days ago. He was saddled with a foolish child who spent most of her time in tears, who was quite insensible of the honor he had done her, and had no longer a crown to bring him which would have compensated for all these failings.

“We depart for Holland at the earliest possible moment,” he said sharply, and left her.

There followed days of ceremony and waiting for inevitable doom during which the son of the Duke and Duchess of York was christened Charles after his uncle, and the King himself, with the Prince of Orange in attendance, acted as the boy’s sponsor, while Lady Frances Villiers stood as proxy for his fifteen-month-old sister Isabella.

Three days after the christening Mary was in her apartments being prepared for yet another ball when Sarah Jennings—always first with any news—burst in with her usual lack of ceremony.

“My lady,” she cried, “Lady Frances is very ill. There is great consternation throughout the palace because they are saying it is smallpox.”

Mary stood up, startled out of her grief. “You must not go to her, naturally,” said Sarah practically.

“But I must be assured that she is well looked after.”

“That is being taken care of. We are not to go near the sickroom. Those are firm orders.”

Mary stared at her reflection. The curls bunched on either side of her head gave a look of coquetry which was incongruous with that sad little face.

Lady Frances ill of the smallpox! Her secure and happy world was disintegrating. What next? she asked herself.

There was the unexpected joy of a visit from Frances Apsley. They embraced fervently.

“Oh, Frances, what shall I do? How can I endure this?”

“My dearest Mary-Clorine, you must endure it. It is cruel, but it had to be. You must write to me every day. We must comfort each other with our letters.”

“And not to see each other … ever!”

“We may be able to arrange meetings.”

“Oh, Frances, dearest husband, you say that to comfort me. Have you seen … him?”

“Yes, my dearest.”

“Then you know.”

“He looks stern. He looks as if he could be cruel. But you must remember you are a Princess, and he gains much by this marriage, a fact which you must not let him forget.”

“He terrifies me, Frances.”

“He is only a man, beloved—and not very old.”

“He is years older than I.”

“You think that because you are so young. You must not show your fear.”

“How can I hide it, dearest husband? How can I? Oh, Aurelia, beloved, it is you with whom I should be leaving the Court. Do you remember my dream of a cottage in the country?”

“I remember, my love, but it was a dream which we knew could never be a reality.”

“Aurelia, you will remember me always. You will never forget your poor Clorine who loves you more than she can express. You must never forget that only your letters will assure me of your fidelity. You must write to me … every day … every day …”

They could only assure each other of their undying love. They met and made their vows; but they knew that there could not be many more meetings.

Lady Frances Villiers was dying and the Princess Anne had taken the smallpox.

Mary was in desperation. She had been fond of Lady Frances and to contemplate her death made her very sad; but the fact that Anne was in danger, terrified her. Her distasteful marriage no longer filled her mind; if Anne could be well again she would be ready to accept anything, she told herself.

She wanted to go to her sister, to nurse her herself, but she must not even see Anne—and this when there was so little time left to them!

William came into her apartments and told her that she was to prepare at once to leave St. James’s Palace for Whitehall.

“Although I cannot visit my sister yet I wish to be close to her,” she answered.

“Do you not understand anything?” he asked coldly.

“I certainly do not understand what you mean,” she retorted.

“There is smallpox in this place and it is possible that you may catch it.”

“I wish to remain near my sister,” she said stubbornly.

“It is obvious that you have no conception of what this means—I begin to think you have little conception of anything!”

“I know that the smallpox is deadly. It is killing Lady Frances.” The tears came to her eyes again, and William turned away impatiently muttering: “Tears. Tears. Can she offer me nothing but tears?”

“She was my guardian … she was like a mother to me. And now that my darling Anne …” Her voice broke.

William said impatiently, “Prepare at once to leave for Whitehall.”

“No,” she retorted firmly.

He gave her a look which contained more than contempt. It might have been hatred; then he left her.

That she should openly defy him was something he found very hard to forgive. If they had been in Holland, he assured himself, he would have enforced obedience; it was not so easy here where she was surrounded by her family and friends. So she stayed at St. James’s—the little fool. What if she succumbed to the smallpox? She might die—as he almost had, and would have, but for his dear friend Bentinck. She might be disfigured; how could she hope to please him then? With her pretty delicate complexion and almond-shaped eyes she had pleased him—before she had known he was to be her husband, then her reluctance to accept him, her actual repugnance had so wounded him where he was most vulnerable, that he intended to make her very sorry for her actions. If she were disfigured by smallpox, if she failed to bring him the crown of England—of what use was she?

Had he been a more passionate man he would have hated her; as it was he merely disliked her.

But because she had humiliated him, he was determined to humiliate her.

Everyone noticed that at the ball which Charles had insisted should be given in spite of the smallpox being in St. James’s Palace, Mary’s husband ignored her completely; he would not dance with her nor sit with her if he could avoid it; but when he had to do so he showed his indifference by not addressing a single remark to her.

His conduct was noted.

What a sullen clown the Prince of Orange is! was the general comment, and many felt sorry then for the Princess Mary.

The Princess Anne was in a state of high fever.

“I must stay in England until my sister is better,” declared Mary.

“We shall sail as arranged,” William told her.

She looked at him pleadingly, but he pretended not to see her. She had refused to leave St. James’s for Whitehall when it was known that he had commanded her to; and he had in fact gone to Whitehall and left her at St. James’s—and everyone had noted that the bride and groom already had separate lodgings. He had shrugged aside her recalcitrance. Let her wait till she was without her family to support her. Then she would see who was the master and she would be forced to obey him.

They were to sail on the sixteenth of November and as the fifteenth was Queen Catherine’s birthday the King had said there should be a ball which would celebrate his wife’s birthday and at the same time be a farewell to the Prince and Princess of Orange. Since the newly married pair would be leaving on the next day, they should retire early and say good-bye to all their friends at the ball.

Mary was dressed in the jewels which he had given her, but their luster only called attention to her wretched appearance. So much crying had made her eyes swollen and she could not disguise her misery.

Anne was desperately ill; Mary did not know when she would see Frances Apsley again; and the next day she would say good-bye to her family and leave with William.

If only Anne or Frances could have accompanied her she felt she could have borne her wretchedness more easily. Frances could not come because her father was ill; and who should be her attendants had been settled by the King and her father. The Villiers were well represented. Barbara Castlemaine had seen to that; so Elizabeth and her sister Anne were to be in the suite in addition to a cousin of theirs—Margaret Boyle, who was Lady Inchiquin. Lady Inchiquin, being married and more mature than the others, had been given the post of head of the maids; she it was who would keep them in order and pay their salaries. Mary was delighted that her friend, Anne Trelawny, was coming with her and that her nurse, Mrs. Langford, would be there too. She believed she could have been almost happy if she could have substituted Frances Apsley and her sister Anne for Elizabeth Villiers.

But here she was on what would very likely be the very last night she would spend with her family; and instead of throwing herself on to her bed and giving vent to her misery, she must go down, receive congratulations, and try to smile while she accepted good wishes.

She would not have believed a few months ago that life could change so much.

In the ballroom a glittering company was assembled.

The King smiled kindly at his niece and led her in the dance.

“Would I were King of the winds, Mary,” he said, “instead of merely of these Islands. Do you know what I would do? Send forth my commands and there would be such a gale that no one—not even the Prince of Orange—would dare set sail.”

“If that were possible,” she sighed.

He pressed her hand. “Troubles come and go,” he said. “There was a time when I thought I should never return to England … but I did.”

“Your Majesty was a King … and a man. I, alas, am only a woman.”

“Do not say ‘only,’ my dear niece. In my opinion women are the most delightful of God’s creations. I cannot command that wind, Mary, but I might pray for it. Though perhaps the prayers of sinners are never answered. What think you? Or is one more likely to receive blessings because one rarely asks for them?”

He was trying to amuse her; she loved him; but her sad smile told him there was only one way of relieving her misery and that was to free her from this marriage.

When the dance was over the King took her to her father who smiled at her with pride and told her that she looked beautiful.

“Such jewels,” he said. “They become you well.”

She shook her head and he, fearing that the tears would start again, said quickly: “The Duchess and I will visit you in Holland. Dear child, you are not going to the other end of the world.”

“Anne …” she began.

Anne. He thought of his beloved daughter who lay desperately ill and his expression darkened. To lose one daughter to Orange and the other to death would be unbearable.

“Anne shall come with us,” he said. “You will see, Mary, that we shall take the first opportunity.”

She nodded. “I shall wait for that day,” she assured him.

“And your stepmother sends her love to you. She wishes that she might be with you … to comfort you. She says that she knows how unhappy you are. And she calls you her dear little Lemon—because you are paired with an Orange.”

Mary smiled. “Pray tell her I love her … and the little boy.”

“The little boy is frail, Mary, but we believe he will live.”

“I shall pray for him,” said Mary.

“Daughter, we shall pray for each other. We shall all remember, shall we not, that we are of one family. Although we are apart, that is something we shall remember till we die.”

Mary nodded. “And my dearest Anne …”

“She does not know that you are leaving England. We fear the news would make her very unhappy and she needs all her strength.”

“Oh, Father, how sad life can be!”

“Mary, I beg of you, do not weep here. You are watched, and tears do not please your husband.”

“There seem to be so many things about me that do not please him.”

James’s face hardened. “If he should be unkind to you, Mary … let me know.”

“Of what use?” she asked.

“I would find a way of saving you.”

“Would that you had thought of it before the marriage.”

“Oh, Mary, my dear, dear daughter, circumstances were too strong for us.”

She remembered those words later. Circumstances were too strong. She reflected then that it was a phrase used by those who wished to excuse their weakness.

The hands of the clocks were approaching eight—that hour when she must leave the ball, take off her satin gown and her jewels, and prepare herself for the journey.

All those who would accompany her were in her apartment, many of them chattering with eagerness, for the journey to Holland was for them an adventure. Even Anne Trelawny could not keep the excitement out of her eyes. The Duke of York had taken her aside and asked her (because he knew that of all her ladies his daughter loved her best) to take care of Mary and let him know if aught went wrong with her. Anne Trelawny believed she had a special mission. Lady Inchiquin could not hide the pleasure she found in her new authority. Jane Wroth, a pretty girl, was frankly looking forward to the adventure. Anne Villiers was heartbroken on account of the serious illness of her mother, but nevertheless glad to be going to new surroundings; then there was Elizabeth, subdued and different, so that Mary wondered whether she was capable of deeper feelings than she had imagined. Elizabeth had changed very much of late and Mary, who was always ready to forgive, now accepted the fact that their childish quarrels must be forgotten.

They took off her jewels and carefully put them away; they helped her change her dress.

Then the party set off for Gravesend.

There was after all a respite. Mary remembered the King’s words and wondered whether his prayers had been answered, for such a gale arose that it was impossible to sail and the party were forced to return to Whitehall where, said the King, they might have to reconcile themselves to a long stay.

As he said this he smiled at Mary and she thought then that her uncle would be one of those whom she would most sadly miss.

William was angry. His great desire now was to be back in his own country. He stood glowering at the windows watching the river and listening to the howling wind. The King said they should occupy themselves with a little amusement while they waited. There should be dancing or cards. What did his nephew think?

Neither, said William, were diversions which appealed to him. He preferred to watch and wait for a change in the wind.

It was two days and nights before there was a change; then William gave rapid orders. They were to set out at once before the wind changed again; the King smiled tolerantly and took barge with the Queen and Duke and Duchess of York, the Duke and Duchess of Monmouth, and the bride and groom.

Mary looked back at her home as they sailed along the river and exerted all her control that she might not distress and exasperate with further tears. But she was unable to restrain them. How could she sail along this beloved river without asking herself when she should see it again? How could she look back at St. James’s Palace without thinking of dearest Anne whom she might never see again, of Frances, the true husband to whom she had not even been able to say good-bye.

Queen Catherine was beside her. “My dear Mary,” she said in her quaint accent, “you will make yourself ill with so much crying. This is no worse than what happens to us all. Why, when I came to England I could not speak English and I had never even seen my husband.”

“Madam, you came into England,” replied Mary sadly. “I am going out of England.”

Those who heard those words knew there was nothing to be done to comfort her.

The Prince heard them and his expression was grim.

Good-bye! Good-bye!

The words seemed to go on repeating themselves in her brain. They had started on their journey at last, for although William had been told that it was unwise to set sail, he would not listen. He would wait no longer, and was determined to reach Holland without further delays.

He stood on deck, watching the louring clouds being harried across the sky.

“Your Highness.” The captain was at his elbow. “We should not go on. We must put into Sheerness, and wait there until the storm blows itself out.”

He was furious; but the expression on his pale face did not change.

“Very well,” he said, “to Sheerness.”

And he thought: Nothing will induce me to go back to Whitehall. I’ll have no more tearful farewells. I never knew a woman could shed so many tears. But when we are in Holland it will be different.

Wistfully he looked across the stormy sea. How he longed to shake the dust of England off his shoes forever … No, not forever. But until that time when he could come back—not as a Prince, but the King. For if this child did not live … and it was a sickly child … well, then, this humiliating ordeal, these tears of his silly little wife, would have been well worth the enduring.

The wind had dropped suddenly and the ship was becalmed; there was nothing to be done but to go ashore at Sheerness. Mary felt a faint relief because as yet she was still in her own country.

Sheerness had little hospitality to offer royal guests, so the Prince, his Princess, and some of their suite, took coach to Canterbury where they put up as ordinary travelers.

William was quick to sense the mood of the people and their approval of the Protestant marriage was obvious. They would have preferred the child which had been born recently to the Duke and Duchess of York not to have been a boy because it was very probable that he would be brought up as a Catholic; and if he came to the throne, which if he reached manhood he certainly would, there would be a Catholic monarch. Their attitude delighted William; it seemed to him that the birth was not quite the calamity he had thought it to be. He was anxious to ingratiate himself with the people and finding himself short of money with which to pay for the stay at the inn he asked the Corporation for a loan, letting it be thought that he had been reduced to this state by the meanness of his uncles. Although the Corporation would do nothing, Dr. Tillotson, the Dean of Canterbury, brought money and gold plate to the inn and begged the Prince to accept it.

William did so with expressions of gratitude which delighted Tillotson who was certain that if—and this was not exactly unlikely—the Princess Mary were ever Queen of England and William, her consort, King, they would remember the Dean of Canterbury.

The news of the royal party’s state spread through the neighborhood with the result that good things were constantly brought to the inn for the royal table.

The fact that messages were arriving on behalf of the King and the Duke of York, inviting the Prince and Princess to return to Whitehall, was not known to the people; and William felt that, after all, those days of idleness at Canterbury were not wasted.

It was while they were at Canterbury that news of the death of Lady Frances Villiers reached them. Mary felt more desolate than ever, and thought sadly of the past when Lady Frances had ruled her life. But there was little time for brooding.

On Sunday the twenty-fifth of November William and Mary attended a service in the Cathedral; the next day, when the party prepared to embark at Margate, the rain pelted down and the wind began to howl; Charles sent a message to his nephew reminding him of his warnings about weather and once more suggesting a return to Whitehall until a more clement season.

Mary, hearing of this, was hopeful, but William soon put an end to that.

“I will not be delayed much longer, even by wind or weather,” he declared.

A few days passed; then he decided. The wind would now be behind them, and would help to blow them across the sea.

They set out, carried along by the fierce wind; and all the ladies—with the exception of Mary—were seasick.

“As for me,” said Mary, “I am only sick at heart.”

The journey was not long, thanks to that violent wind, and on the morning of the twenty-ninth of November Mary had her first glimpse of her husband’s country as the Montague, the ship which had carried them safely across, arrived at the fishing village of Terheyde—not a great distance from The Hague.