Royal Sisters: The Story of the Daughters of James II (52 page)

I shall go mad if something does not happen soon, thought Sarah.

William returned in
November. The English received him sullenly. What sort of a King was this whose heart was clearly on the Continent. He had suffered many defeats, but he had inflicted great losses on the French and it was believed that they might be pleased to make peace.

William did not want peace. He was a soldier and his military skill had won him adulation abroad—if not in England. He had a greater interest in Holland than in England and chose Dutchmen for his friends.

He was more morose than ever on his return, having no time to be with Mary, nor to visit young Gloucester. He was brusque and showed no respect for his wife’s wishes. When her devoted friend John Tillotson, the Archbishop of Canterbury, died she had wanted to give the office to Dr. Stillingfleet who was most suited for it, but William had given it to Thomas Tenison, although previously it had been understood that she was to bestow such offices where she thought fit.

It was impossible to discuss anything with William. He became aloof and cold, or even sarcastic, when she tried to. So Mary shrugged the matter aside and accepted his rule.

But with the coming of the winter she was feeling depressed. Often she heard news of her sister’s household and she knew that slanderous stories about herself and William had their beginnings there; and although Sarah Churchill was her enemy, Anne was to blame for keeping her.

Information had reached William that the failure at Brest was partly due to betrayal on the part of the Marlboroughs, and he was furious, yet afraid; for the people chose to see in Anne a martyr and while she supported the Marlboroughs it was dangerous to attack them.

He summoned Marlborough and told him that he was deeply disturbed by what he believed had happened.

“Upon my honor,” cried Marlborough, “I never mentioned it but in confidence to my wife.”

“I never mention anything in confidence to mine,” murmured William.

“My wife must have mentioned it to her sister.”

William looked at him through narrowed eyes and thought of how he would have this man’s head … if he dared.

What a country! What was this crown worth? The men whom he would have chosen to have on his side, and Marlborough was one of them, were all against him. He was feeling weary and wished that he had allowed this ungrateful land to turn papist, to keep its King.

There were continual pinpricks, such as when the new coins were issued. The heads of William and Mary were to be engraved on these coins, and there had, in fact, been difficulty in getting them made because Philip Rotier, the artist who had worked for the crown, refused to do so for William and Mary, boldly stating that he did not consider them the true King and Queen. His son, Norbert, however, was less scrupulous and undertook the work.

When these were completed the head of William looked as though it belonged to a satyr. It was deliberate, and of the same pattern as the lampoons which were circulated daily. The people did not like Dutch William. They had not wanted papist James but they did not want William either. It was only Mary, he knew, who kept them on the throne. What he had always feared was, in a way, happening. It had been one of his nightmares that Mary would become Queen of England and he merely her consort. That had not happened; but again and again he was reminded that he was only accepted on her account.

The political situation
was dangerous, and William was constantly at Whitehall. Mary who was suffering from a cold which she could not throw off, remained at Kensington to take advantage of the purer air. Occasionally William would come there; but when he did he would be working all the time and rarely stayed long before he was called back to business in Whitehall.

Mary was melancholy; she worried about William’s health for the spitting of blood had started again and his asthma was worse. She heard through the gossip of his pages that he drank a great deal—always Holland’s gin—when he was with his Dutch friends, and although he never showed signs of intoxication he became irritable. He was working too hard, planning new campaigns, and was never at rest.

One day when she was at her toilet the ruby fell out of the ring which he had put on her finger when he married her. Of all the splendid jewelry she possessed this ruby ring was the most precious to her. Often she would remember the occasion when he had placed it on her finger, the horror in her heart, the ready tears; and all because she was marrying William whom, she assured herself, she had come to love more than she had believed it was possible to love anyone.

“The ruby!” she cried as it dropped to the floor.

Her women were on their hands and knees searching for it, and one of them, finding it, held it up.

“Your Majesty will have it reset.”

She was trembling. “I do not like that,” she said.

“Your Majesty has had it for many years. Stones do drop out now and then.”

“I am afraid,” she said, “that it is an omen.”

“Your Majesty is tired,” soothed Lady Derby. “Will you allow me to take the ring and have the stone put in?”

Mary handed it to her, but she could not shake off her melancholy, and when the ring was returned to her she did not wear it. She wrote an account of how William had slipped it on her finger, how she had always treasured it beyond all other jewelry, and then how frightened she had been when the stone had fallen out.

She put it on her finger while she wrote. Then she thought: I shall never feel it is safe. I shall always be afraid of losing it now.

So she put it into a box with what she had written about it and locked the box.

That gave her a feeling of security; as though she had taken precaution against fate.

Mary had felt
ill throughout the day; she had slept badly and in the morning was filled with such a sense of foreboding that she did not wait for her women to come to her. Instead she got up and examined her arms and shoulders. It was almost as though she had been expecting what she saw there. They were covered in a rash.

She went back to bed and lay there waiting.

There was one disease which all feared, for although some took it and survived, mostly it was fatal. If she were suffering from small pox she would have very little chance of recovery. She was only thirty-three, but she loved rich foods; her habit of drinking chocolate every night had made her put on a great deal of weight and she had heard that those whose blood was rich with a surfeit of food fared badly in the sickness.

When her women came to her she said: “Do not come too near me, but call Dr. Radcliffe.”

When Dr. Radcliffe came, he said she was suffering from the measles.

The news was quickly circulated that the Queen was sick.

At Berkeley House
Sarah felt as though new life was being pumped into her. The Queen sick. Measles, they said. But was it? Doctors who wanted to cheer the patient and not spread alarm sometimes said “Measles” when they meant “Small pox.”

If it were small pox, she couldn’t survive. She was not strong enough. She was too fat; and moreover she had suffered recently from the ague. She hadn’t a chance.

The great moment might be at hand, for if she died, would the people keep William? And if they would not, it was Anne’s turn.

Sarah went to her mistress who was lying on her couch. She frowned at her. Anne herself was in a poor state; She had suffered in the last year so badly from gout and dropsy that she could scarcely walk and had to be carried everywhere. She was enormous, and the fact that she was once more pregnant made her look larger than ever and feel more indisposed.

“Mrs. Morley has heard the news?”

Anne looked surprised, and as obviously she hadn’t, Sarah lost no time in telling her.

“Radcliffe says measles, but the man’s a fool. From what I hear it’s the pox.”

“The pox!”

Sarah clicked her tongue impatiently. “You know what this can mean, Mrs. Morley?”

Anne looked startled. Then she said: “Of course. Oh, dear, we must act quickly.”

“There is nothing much we can do at the moment, Mrs. Morley, except be patient for a while.”

But Anne was not listening. “My boy must leave Campden House at once. If there is small pox in Kensington he may be in danger.”

If Dr. Radcliffe
diagnosed measles, Dr. Millington could not agree with him.

The Queen was suffering from small pox, said Dr. Millington, and Mary believed him.

She assured them that she felt a little better and that night dismissed her women. “If I need you,” she said, “I shall call. If I do not call, I wish to be left in peace.”

When she was alone, she rose, and taking the boxes in which she kept her writings and correspondence she sat at her table. Many candles had been lighted at her command and piece by piece she destroyed what she had written in her journals, the letters she had received from William during his campaigns, those which she had received from her father and Frances Apsley; she wanted no one to pry into her life, for she had expressed herself too frankly in her journals about her relationships with others. She had always intended to destroy these things at the last moment; and she believed that moment had come.