Royal Sisters: The Story of the Daughters of James II (11 page)

Anne was soon
pregnant again and as little Mary was surviving happily, she let herself dream of the large family she would have.

This time, she told George, it should be a son.

They were happy days and Anne was able to indulge herself in all her favorite pastimes, to which one had been added: gossip—more than gossip, intrigue.

Wherever Sarah was, there was drama; and Anne found that her friend’s racy conversation and pungent criticisms of almost everyone about them were so diverting. The only people who were good and reasonable were Mr. and Mrs. Morley and Mr. and Mrs. Freeman. Others were perhaps misguided. Anne did not care to hear criticisms of her sister. But there was Caliban to be slandered. As for the King and Queen, Anne was already beginning to dislike her stepmother and see her through Sarah’s eyes as arrogant and dangerous on account of her religion. With regard to her father, Sarah had to tread warily, but Anne was forming a different picture of him. He was immoral; she had always known that; and all men should be like Mr. Morley and Mr. Freeman—moral. Perhaps before their marriages they had had their amours; but all the more credit to them that, being married to good wives, they should forsake their follies.

Anne was changing; she was as placid as ever, but she could be spiteful. The fact was she so enjoyed the scandalous conversations and Sarah was so amusing that sometimes Anne was quite helpless with laughter.

It was so comfortable, to be stretched out on a divan, a dish of sweets beside one, while the talk was all of intrigue and the day when Anne would be Queen. To adventure without stirring from the couch suited Anne.

What would she do without her dear Mrs. Freeman to divert her? She had no notion of the immense and driving purpose behind Mrs. Freeman’s discourse.

THE PRINCESS BEREAVED

t was May and the sun streamed into Windsor
Castle.

Anne lay in her bed, her new baby in her arms. The child had just been christened Anne Sophia and it had been such an impressive ceremony with Lady Roscommon and Lady Churchill as godmothers.

It was a healthy baby, but Anne was disturbed because little Mary was not progressing as she wished. The child was pale and listless and she was worried, for so many royal babies did not reach maturity. It was as though there was some blight on them from the day they were born. One could comfort oneself with hopes of a large family, but when a child had been lost and another seemed ailing, fear crept into the heart; and there were memories of Queens and Princesses in the past who had prayed for children—whose whole future depended on the ability to bear children—and who had failed.

Anne’s future did not depend on her children; but she had discovered that she was by nature a mother. She yearned for children as she did for nothing else. She wanted to see a whole brood of them, laughing and healthy about her fireside, with good, dear, dependable George loving them in his genial way as she did in hers.

Sarah bustled into the apartment and took the child from its mother’s arms; she rocked it with a gentleness rare in her, while Anne looked on smiling benignly.

“The next,” prophesied Sarah, “must be a boy.”

“I pray so,” answered Anne.

Sarah’s eyes narrowed. “A boy,” she said, “who will one day be our Sovereign Lord the King.”

Sarah noticed with pleasure that Anne’s eyes were shining with a determination she had never seen there before.

Anne was worried
. She had noticed that George had not seemed well during the passing weeks. He had lost his interest in food which could only mean that he was ill.

“My dearest,” she cried, taking his hand, “you have a fever.”

He did not deny it and she called his attendants to help him to his bed while she sent for the physicians.

George had a restless night and in the morning his condition appeared to have worsened.

The doctors shook their heads. “He is a little heavy, Madam,” they told Anne, “and he breathes with difficulty.”

Anne had not been so distressed since she had heard that Mary was leaving England; and an additional anxiety was her eldest daughter who was coughing and spitting blood. The sight of that blood terrified her. If her little girl was going to die and her kind George would not be well enough to comfort her, what would she do! She could only turn to her dear Mrs. Freeman, but in the meantime she must do all she could to save them.

She insisted on nursing her husband, and astonished everyone, for never had she exerted herself to such an extent before. He was very weak, but he lay quietly smiling at her and she knew that her presence comforted him.

Sarah was annoyed, but managed not to show it.

“Madam,” she said, for others were present, “I like not to see you wearing yourself out in this way. Any of your women could do what you are doing.”

“You are wrong, Lady Churchill,” was Anne’s answer. “He is comforted by my presence and there is no one but myself who could give him that comfort.”

Sarah withdrew angrily, but she managed to give Anne the impression that her anger was a sign of fear for her mistress’s health.

Anne could be stubborn on occasions, Sarah was discovering. Perhaps it was a warning that she should not take too much for granted. But Sarah was usually in too much of a hurry to heed warnings, too sure of herself to believe she could ever be wrong.

Meanwhile Anne sat by her husband’s bed while he held her hand and although he could not speak, his eyes told her how happy he was to have her there.

Anne was melancholy, for she, like everyone else, believed that he was going to die. She thought of the day they had met, of their immediate liking which had made both of them accept the marriage calmly. Rarely could strangers have contemplated marriage with such serenity. But they were serene people—both of them—perhaps that was why theirs was such a happy marriage.

From George’s bed, she went to that of her elder daughter. The child lay, panting for her breath, racked now and then by fits of coughing.

Anne wept, then hastily dried her eyes that she might go to her husband’s bedside with a smile.

Hourly she was
expecting the death of husband and daughter and never in her life had she been so unhappy. She had her baby; she would hold the child in her arms and wonder how long it would be before little Anne Sophia would be the only member of her family left to her.

She was sitting by her husband’s bed one day when Sarah came into the room. There was a closer bond between them because Sarah had a boy now whom she had christened John after her husband and as a mother Sarah could understand and sympathize with the anguish Anne was now enduring. Sarah had three healthy children. Lucky Sarah! Her successful motherhood endeared her to Anne. It seemed yet a further proof that Sarah would always be successful.

Now Sarah was subdued which was startling because it was so unlike her.

“Mary …?” whispered Anne.

Sarah drew her outside and put an arm about her.

“It is the little one,” she said.

The child was lying in its cradle; her face was scarlet, its limbs distorted.

“No!” cried Anne. “This is too much.”

She looked wildly about her, calling for the doctors; but there was nothing they could do.

Anne stood at
the window watching the snowflakes falling. She was not weeping; but her limbs felt heavy. She had lost her baby—little Mary was desperately ill and her dear George was sick with a fever.

It was Sarah who came to stand beside her, miraculousy silent for once, but conveying so much by that silence.

“How can I tell him, Sarah?” she asked.

Sarah took her hand and pressed it firmly and it seemed to Anne that Sarah’s strength and vitality flowed into her body.

“No matter what happens … there will always be you. You’ll never change.” She added: “Mrs. Freeman.”

“Mrs. Freeman will always be at hand to comfort her dear friend Mrs. Morley.”

One of the women approached them.

Anne took one look at her and flew to the bedside of her daughter Mary.

It was incredible; fate could not be so cruel. But it was so. Anne had lost both her children.

Strangely enough from
that day George began to improve.

They said that he saw he was needed to comfort his heartbroken wife. She would sit by his bed and hold his hand; and they often wept quietly together.

He told her that he had known all the time that she had been in the sickroom, and it was that knowledge and that alone, which had pulled him through.

“I cannot bear to see you unhappy,” he said.

“And it grieves me to see you sad.”

“Then, my dear wife, we must smile for the sake of each other.”

He was growing better every day. This was clear for when Anne brought delicacies to his bedside his eyes lit up at the sight of them.

“Try this, my love,” she would say.

And he would take a tidbit and put it into her mouth instead.

They would sample the food, discuss it; and talk of what they would eat tomorrow.

It was a return to the old life.

“Do not fret,” he said. “We have lost three but we shall have others.”