Royal Sisters: The Story of the Daughters of James II (34 page)

“We must be doubly alert now,” she said. “I trust that we are on the watch for a move which might come from France. Now that the King is away we should be very vulnerable.”

“The King in his wisdom has not taken all his best men, Your Majesty. We are few who remain but some of us do not lack experience.”

That was Mordaunt. She had never liked him, but thought him a little mad. He had visited William in Holland before the revolution and had declared himself willing to help rescue England from popery. He had put forward several plans for William to study. William had laughed at most of them and had said to Mary and Burnet: “This fellow wants to be at the heart of all the adventures which are planned not for the establishment of the Protestant religion in England but for the glorification of Mordaunt. Such a man would be setting himself up as King before long, I’ll swear.”

Marlborough was nodding approval of this speech. Marlborough, Sarah’s husband. The one she trusted least of all. How much was he in league with his wife to turn Anne against her and William? What was their idea? To rid themselves of William and Mary and set up Anne—as William and Mary had made away with James—that they might be the powers behind the throne?

He was a handsome man, this Marlborough—his features clearly cut; his eyes alert, his voice soft and gentle—very different from the somewhat strident tones of his wife—but of all these men who had been chosen for her councillors, Marlborough was the one of whom she must be most watchful.

“What we should look for,” said Marlborough, “is an attack from the French. They might well seize this opportunity while the King’s army is in Ireland.”

“Torrington will look after
them
,” said Nottingham complacently.

Mary glanced sharply at him. She was uncertain of Nottingham and had heard that he was a secret Jacobite. He certainly had a sinister look; was it because he was as dark as a Spaniard? He was aloof and his expression was melancholy; it was no wonder that he was nicknamed Don Dismallo.

“I believe the Earl of Torrington to be a good admiral and an experienced one, but I believe too that he is over-fond of soft living,” growled Danby.

Danby! thought Mary. He was growing old now; he looked almost like a corpse already; but he was experienced and he was one of the few around that table on whom she felt she could rely. Russell, Pembroke, and Lowther were decent men, she believed; but they were insignificant compared with eccentrics like Mordaunt and self-seekers like Marlborough.

“We will hope for a quick success in Ireland,” said Mary, “and a speedy return of the King. Now let us get to work.”

They were deep in discussion when a messenger arrived and because of the nature of the news he brought was taken immediately to the council chamber.

The French fleet had been sighted off Plymouth.

William on his
way to Ireland! The French Fleet on its way to attack! And all about her men whom she was not sure she could trust. Within a few hours of taking her place as ruler—which William had never allowed her to do before—Mary was confronted with this dangerous situation.

Whom could she trust among all these people around her? Yet she must succeed for William’s sake. She would never be able to face him if she failed now. She must be suspicious of everyone.

She heard that her uncle Charles’s widow, Catherine, had refused to allow prayers for William’s safety to be said in her chapel. Therefore Catherine, a Catholic from birth, was suspect. What plots went on in her apartments? Her Chamberlain Feversham was a Frenchman, and the French were enemies.

Feversham was reprimanded. Oh, how easy it was to strike terror into the hearts of these people! In tears he assured her that he planned no harm to her or to William.

“Yet you said no prayers for the King’s safety,” retorted Mary. “I might forgive you for your insults to me, but I cannot forgive those to the King, who has sacrificed his health for this country.”

Catherine herself came and made tender inquiries as to the swelling of Mary’s face; it was difficult to believe that this gentle lady was an intrigant. She was getting old now and she had never been a fighter.

Mary accepted her condolences; but gave orders that she should be closely watched.

Her uncle, the Earl of Clarendon, was sent to the Tower. He was less self-seeking than many, she knew, but he had never approved of the revolution. He was a stern Protestant; but he had made his vows to James and he was not a man to easily break vows. She knew that he was the man of honor; but men of honor were as ready as others to make trouble if they believed they were in the right.

She had no wish to send her uncle to the Tower; but she must act as William would act if he were here; always she must think of William and do that which would win his approval.

She wote to William, assuring him of her devotion telling him of the danger. She trusted that she was acting as he would wish, which it was her intention to do at all times.

The news grew more alarming. The French fleet, consisting of over two hundred ships, was lying off the south coast.

Arthur Herbert, Lord
Torrington, was dismayed. He was a man who, while a good sailor, loved his pleasure so much that in this age of parodying he had quickly earned the name of Lord Tarry-in-Town.

Some months before he had foreseen an attack by the French and believing himself inadequately prepared to meet it, had written to Nottingham begging for reinforcements, but Nottingham had merely replied that he need have no fear for he would be strong enough for the French.

He had replied then: “I am afraid now in winter while the danger may be remedied, and you will be afraid in summer when it is past remedy.”

Well now it was summer; and if Nottingham cared for the good of his country he must be taking Torrington’s words to heart.

The Battle of Bantry Bay had been a defeat; Torrington wanted at all costs to avoid another—and here were the French … waiting for the moment to open the battle.

“And here are we,” cried Torrington, “unprepared. I will not go into battle against them.”

But even as he made this declaration he received a note from the Queen, reminding him that he had a Dutch squadron at his disposal under Admiral Evertzen, and commanding him to go into action without delay.

Torrington disobeyed the order, because he believed to act on it would mean crushing defeat.

Around the Council
table Mary presided. She felt ill yet stimulated at the thought of danger; she was facing a great crisis and William was not near to advise. She must succeed.

Nottingham was saying that Torrington had deliberately ignored orders, and that the French were still off the south coast though the battle had not yet begun. Torrington had done nothing, in spite of orders.

“This is mutinous,” cried Mordaunt.

“He should be court-martialed,” growled Danby.

“At this stage,” Mary intervened, “we should only be adding to our danger by a court-martial in such a high quarter. How do we know what effect this might have!”

Marlborough supported her in this.

“I will go to Portsmouth,” suggested Mordaunt. “There I will board the flagship, arrest Torrington and myself lead the fleet.”

Mary looked at him with a hint of scorn. How like Mordaunt to plan an action with himself as the hero set for glory!

“Impossible,” she said coldly.

Nottingham put in: “Before he left, the King commanded me to take command if Torrington should prove unfit.”

Mordaunt glared at Nottingham.

“My lord, would that be wise?”

“And why should you believe that you could lead the fleet to victory and I fail?”

Heaven help me, thought Mary, they are vying with each other for power. What good will this do us? We must all stand together.

“The King gave me no instructions that you should leave for the fleet, my lord,” she told Nottingham. “And I could not allow it. You are needed too badly here.”

Nottingham was mollified and graciously thanked Her Majesty for her compliments.

“Who then should go?” asked Danby sharply; and she saw the gleam in his eyes. Is he too looking for naval glory, wondered Mary, at his time of life?

“I need you all here,” she said after a moment’s hesitation. “I shall send a dispatch to Lord Torrington immediately telling him that I
order
him to attack.”

She was exhausted
. If only William were here! It was not that she feared herself inadequate to deal with the situation, only that William might disapprove of what she had done. How could she know what he would do in similar circumstances?

Her women were helping her to bed and she was silent, which was unusual for her. Usually she liked to chat for, to her, talking was one of the pleasures of life and since she was never able to indulge in it to any great extent with William she did so whenever possible with everyone else.

“Your Majesty’s face is slightly less swollen,” said the Countess of Derby.

“Do you think so? I fancy it is less painful.”

Then silence. They were thinking of the change in her, for they had been hoping that once William was away there would be a little gaiety at Court. Dances perhaps, visits to the play; perhaps little jaunts to some of the houses in the bazaars.

But this was quite different. William’s absence had made of Mary a Queen with solemn duties.

Even at such an hour there was no respite. A messenger was at the door now with an urgent letter for the Queen.

Mary seized it and began to tremble as she read that the French were occupying the coast of the Isle of Wight.