Royal Sisters: The Story of the Daughters of James II (58 page)

“Then Your Highness won’t like that.”

“But I do like it, Lewis. I like it for now.”

He fell asleep quickly, wondering about the old lady.

There was little ceremony at Twickenham. The Princess Anne’s servants joined those belonging to the house; Anne, herself, spent much of her time in the rooms which had been allotted to her; and the little Duke liked to explore the house and grounds.

When he saw the old lady gathering fruit or herbs or sitting in her rocking chair he would go and stand by her, watching. She would smile at him, but not always speak. He found this refreshing; she seemed to understand that he did not always want to ask or be asked questions. Sometimes she would show him the herbs she was gathering and tell him what uses they could be put to, how they cured this and that. He listened intently and sometimes he himself would pick a leaf and hold it out to her. She always had something interesting to say about it.

He looked for her every day; and when he found her on her rocking chair he would sit at her feet.

Sometimes they would talk and sometimes be silent. He enjoyed both moods.

He asked her one day what it felt like to be so old, and she answered that it felt very much the same as being very young; the young thought highly of some things, the old of others.

“Like battles,” he said, “and gathering herbs.”

She nodded and went on rocking.

Then he told her about his soldiers and the wonderful battles they fought; and she told him how when she had been at Court his great-grandfather had been King.

“Tell me about him.”

“He quarreled with the Parliament and had to go away.”

“Where?”

“Far away where he could not come back.”

“My grandfather has gone far away where he can’t come back. At least not while William has the crown. But they are not supposed to tell me that.”

“Then how do you know?”

“I listen. I am always listening. You see, I always want to know … everything. Is that wrong?”

“I think it is good to want to know.”

“Well I want to know everything … except Scripture. I don’t want Scripture. I won’t listen when Mr. Pratt tries to teach me.”

“Why don’t you like it.”

“Because I don’t like going to church.”

“Oh,” said Mrs. Davies and was silent for a long time.

Soon it seemed
to Gloucester that he had always lived at Twickenham; it seemed that the sun shone every day and strangely enough he could always find something to do. His chief pleasure was the company of the old lady. The affection between them was noticed and it was remarked how strange it was that the very old woman should attract the young boy.

When she talked she told him of the Court of his great-grandfather who had been gentle and of his French great-grandmother who had been fiery; she told him of the wars between the King and Parliament; and he listened avidly.

She talked to him of the Bible and told him stories from it; he had never heard the stories told in such a way before. She could quote from the New Testament and she told him that she loved the Bible which had been a great comfort to her.

“It has never been a comfort to me,” he said. “I will tell you something: I do not like going to church and I have sworn never to say the psalms which I do not like.”

“But they are so beautiful.”

“Beautiful?”

“Yes,” she said. “Listen. ‘I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills, from whence cometh my help. My help cometh from the Lord which made Heaven and Earth.’ ”

“Go on,” said Gloucester.

He watched her mouth as she spoke the words; and although he had heard them before they had never seemed beautiful until then.

“It is you,” he said, “who make them beautiful.”

“I only repeat what is in the book.”

“You love them; you believe them and you make them good.”

“They comfort me. There is much in the book that comforts me.”

“It does not comfort me.”

“But it could.”

“You mean if I loved it … and believed it as you do?”

“You can. Say it with me.”

He did, and he found that the words were beautiful. He wanted to know them so well that he would be able to say them when he was alone without her to prompt him.

He learned quickly. Then he learned other psalms and to say the Lord’s Prayer.

And each day he was more and more with the old lady.

The Princess Anne
liked him to be present while she was at her toilette. She was delighted to see the fair skin, which he had inherited from his Danish father, tanned with the sun and air. There was a sprinkling of freckles across his nose; and his eyes seemed several shades more blue than before: but for the fact that his head was so large he would have been extremely handsome, for he had the Stuart features which matched up charmingly with his fairness of skin.

“So my boy is happy at Twickenham?” asked Anne.

He smiled. “Very, very happy, Mama.”

“Come here,” she said. He came and she kissed him and held him tightly for a moment. He endured the embrace with fortitude. He knew that out of many, he was the only child who had survived, and that made him very precious.

“Confound it, Mama!” he said. “You are not old like Mrs. Davies. You will have many children yet; then you will not have to watch over me with such care.”

Anne wanted to say that however many children she had he would always be infinitely precious to her, but to hide her emotion she said: “And pray where do you learn such language?”

“What language, Mama?”

“ ‘Confound it’, you said.”

“Oh, that is nothing. It is not like ‘God damn you to hell, sir.’ ”

Anne was truly shocked.

“I demand to know where you heard such talk,” she said.

“It was Lewis, I think …”

“Lewis! Then he shall be dismissed.”

“Oh, Mama, no … it was not Lewis. I am remembering now.”

“I want to know where you learned such talk.”

He hesitated then, “Why, Mama, I remember now. I invented it myself.”

He smiled at her disarmingly and once more she had to fight to resist the temptation to embrace him and cover him with kisses.

Anne sent for
her treasurer, Sir Benjamin Bathurst, the husband of her great friend, Frances Apsley, whom her sister Mary had loved so dearly. Frances had remained Anne’s dear friend and naturally Anne had wanted to honor her husband and this she did by bestowing on him the post of treasurer of her household.

“Sir Benjamin,” said Anne, “we have been here some four or five weeks and all this time we have enjoyed the hospitality of Mrs. Davies. I want you to pay her a hundred guineas, for although she is a wealthy woman, I and my son and our servants must have been a great drain on her.”

Sir Benjamin said that he would see to the matter without delay and the next day he returned to the house with a hundred gold guineas.

Gloucester was with the old lady when Bathurst came in and when he saw that the treasurer wished to speak to her he retired to a corner, and both seemed to forget that he was present.

“Her Highness wishes to recompense you for your hospitality during the last weeks,” began Sir Benjamin.

“To recompense me? I need no recompense.”

“Her Highness believes that to feed so many people must have been costly.”

“I am not in need. I have plenty here for my use and for that of my friends.”

“Still it is Her Highness’s wish that you should take a hundred guineas.”

“I pray you return to Her Highness and tell her that I have no intention of accepting payment.”

A hundred guineas, thought Gloucester. A great deal of money. How many muskets could one buy with it? Was the old lady wondering? But she would not want muskets, of course.

Sir Benjamin, believing that Mrs. Davies merely wished to be persuaded, emptied the bag of guineas into her lap.

“There,” he said, “with Her Highness’s thanks.”

Mrs. Davies stood up and the guineas rolled in all directions. Then she rose and walked from the room without even looking where they went.

Gloucester watched Sir Benjamin on his hands and knees gathering them up. Some had come close to him so he took them to Sir Benjamin.

“So Your Highness saw what happened?”

“She told you that she did not want it.”

“People say of money ‘Take it away. I won’t have it.’ But they are only waiting to be pressed.”

Gloucester considered this.

“But she is not people,” he said gravely. “She is Mrs. Davies.”

“Mama,” said Gloucester
, “may I come to church with you?” Anne opened her eyes very wide. “I thought my boy did not care to go to church.”

“I wish to go now,” he said.

“I am pleased.”

“She is pleased too.”

Anne knew that he meant Mrs. Davies.

“I can say ‘Our Father’ now. And I know the Commandments. She says them and I say them after her. The psalms too.”

“You once said that you would never say the psalms.”

His face puckered for a while. It was true. Then he smiled. “I shall have to sing them.”

Anne thought then how happy they had been at Twickenham. It was a strange little interlude in her life—perhaps it would be in his, too. To live quietly in the country, like an ordinary family, walking across the fields to church; and she felt so much better that she was able to walk that little distance. The fruit and vegetables had seemed to do them all good—and to be away from Court in this quiet house of an old lady who could not live much longer, away from bickering and strife, ambitious men and women, the ranting of Sarah.…

What was she thinking? She was longing to be back with her dear Mrs. Freeman. Heirs to thrones could not endure the quiet life forever.

“You must be eager to be back with your men,” she said to her son.

His expression was intent. He thought of his soldiers marching up and down in the Park, while he took the salute, and the excitement made him tremble.

Then he thought of sitting with the old lady and enjoying her talk or her silence.

He was unsure.