The Three Crowns epub (16 page)

They would have sons. He would have liked to see his dear Mary Queen of England, because of all his children she would always be his favorite; but it was better to have a boy. Mary would understand that. Yet never, he was sure, would he love a child as he loved Mary.

He wanted to share this joy with his beloved daughters. He could scarcely wait to tell them, so he went with all speed to the schoolroom, where he was delighted to find Mary alone with her sister Anne. His heart was full of love for them as he watched them for a second or so before they saw him. Purposely he had come unannounced because he wished this to be a very private meeting.

They were bending over a table drawing together and Mary was pointing out to Anne some fault in her work. What a pretty pair! Anne so placid with her rosy cheeks and light brown hair; Mary so dark and graceful, so serious—his darling best-beloved.

“My dearest daughters.”

They looked up and in that moment he felt he was the happiest of men. A lovely young girl for a bride … a girl not much older than this delightful daughter. Oh, the future was going to be good indeed.

They had both risen, but he would have no ceremony on such an occasion; he strode to them and putting one arm about each held them against him.

“My dearest girls!” he murmured.

“You are very happy,” said Mary, the perceptive one. “Something has happened to please you, Father.”

“It is something I am longing to tell you. I am providing you with a playfellow.”

Mary’s long dark eyes were clouded. Another girl, she thought, to invade the nursery, perhaps to be a friend rather to Elizabeth Villiers than to her. Was this a matter for such rejoicing?

“You will be so delighted with her,” went on James. “You too, Anne.”

Anne smiled a little vaguely, and her father went on: “My daughters, you will have more than a playfellow. You will have a mother.”

“But our mother is dead …” began Mary.

“Alas, alas! We have never been happy since then, have we? So I thought I should provide you with another. I have been married to a charming young girl—only a few years older than you are, Mary. Are you not pleased?”

“You said a playfellow,” said Mary slowly. “This is a stepmother.”

“She will be your friend, playfellow,
and
mother. My children, I see happy days ahead for us all.”

Mary smiled, only half convinced. She had already come to suspect change.

Now that the
marriage by proxy had been completed, Charles and James waited for the storms to rise.

They were not long in coming. The Earl of Shaftesbury asked for an audience with the King.

Charles studied his minister sardonically and as he asked his business was well aware that he had come to protest and what about.

“Your Majesty,” began Shaftesbury, “it is with great regret and misgiving that I hear of the plan to marry the Duke of York to the Princess of Modena. I beg Your Majesty not to proceed with this plan which I am convinced would not please the people.”

“Your request comes a little late, my lord. The alliance is completed and the Duke already married to the lady.”

Shaftesbury turned pale. “Your Majesty, then there is but one thing to be done. The marriage must never be consummated.”

“You cannot be asking me to deprive these two people of so much anticipated pleasure—and one my own brother!”

“Your Majesty, I fear the reaction of the people.”

“You must not be so fearful, my lord. This is a matter for the Duke. He is pleased with his marriage and a man of his kind needs a wife. Let him enjoy her.”

“A popish marriage will not please the people, Your Majesty,” insisted Shaftesbury. “But since it is an accomplished fact, should not the Duke of York retire from Court to live as a country gentleman?”

“I do not think this would be gracious welcome to his bride. I am also of the opinion that to ask the Duke of York to retire to the country would be an insult to the King’s brother.”

There was a gleam of rare anger in the King’s eyes which caused Shaftesbury to retire hastily.

The mist hung
on the trees in the gardens of Richmond Palace. It seeped into the apartments where Mary bent over her needlework. Very soon all the children would assemble in one of the gardens to see the burning of the effigy of Guy Fawkes, and the Pope, because this was the Fifth of November—the anniversary of that day when Mary’s great-grandfather and his Parliament might so easily have become victims of the Great Gunpowder Plot. It was celebrated each year, more some said because the people liked displays than because they felt any great regret for King James I.

Anne Trelawny was sitting close to Mary and as usual the Princess Anne was in a corner whispering to Sarah Jennings. Anne’s needlework was always neglected; she hated work of any sort and always made the excuse that she could not see, and because of this affliction of the eyes she was generally humored.

Elizabeth Villiers was primly stitching. She was smiling secretly as though she were well pleased.

“It’ll be fun when the bonfire starts,” she said. “This is a special Guy Fawkes day.”

“Why?” asked Anne Trelawny.

“Don’t you know?” Elizabeth was supercilious; she was looking at Mary.

“I don’t see why there should be anything special about it,” said Anne Trelawny.

“You don’t know much! It’s because the Lady Mary and the Lady Anne have a new stepmother.”

“Yes,” said Mary, turning to Anne Trelawny. “She is not much older than I and my father said she will be like a playfellow.”

“A stepmother,” said Elizabeth with a grimace,
“I
shouldn’t like a stepmother.”

“She won’t be like an ordinary stepmother,” suggested Anne Trelawny. “She’s so young. Perhaps she will be with us.”

Elizabeth looked scornful. “No matter how old she is, she’s a stepmother. And the people don’t like it. That’s why they are going to make this a special Gunpowder Plot day. I heard them in the streets this morning. They were shouting: ‘No popery.’ And you know what that means.”

Mary looked from one to the other, but Anne Trelawny tried to change the subject. “Last Fifth of November, one boy was burned to death in the palace bonfire.”

“There’ll be more burned to death tonight,” gloated Elizabeth. “They’ll all be shouting ‘No popery’ and letting everyone know they don’t like this popish wedding.”

“What nonsense you talk,” said Mary loftily.

Anne Trelawny smiled at her in agreement. Elizabeth bent over her needlework; it was pleasant, reflected Mary, to have Anne Trelawny as her ally.

The young bride
did not land at Dover until the twenty-first of November although the proxy marriage had taken place on the thirtieth of September. Desolate and frightened she had done everything she could to delay it. She was married, her mother had told her, and nothing could alter that; therefore she must reconcile herself to going to England and being a worthy Duchess of York. Mary Beatrice wept and pined; she ate so little and wept so often that her health began to suffer, and to reconcile her a little her mother agreed to go with her to England. This pacified her a little and when she knew that Signorina Molza, Signora de Montecuculi and Anna, and Signorina Turenie were to act as her personal attendants at the English Court she was even more cheered. But there were occasions when she considered what all this change in her life was going to mean to her; she was being torn from her home to live in a strange country; she would have to say good-bye to her brother who had been her friend all her life; she would have, eventually, to lose her mother, for although the Duchess would accompany her to England, naturally she would not stay there; and most terrifying of all, she must be a wife—and to an old man, yet one who had had many mistresses as well as a previous wife. The thought of physical contact with such a man horrified her.

She was in such a state of despair that she prayed every day for some calamity to occur—she believed she would have welcomed anything which would have prevented her arriving in England.

Preparations continued and at length the day fixed for her departure drew near, and with her mother, her friends and attendants she began the long journey through France. So desperate had she become that one morning when Anna Montecuculi came to waken her she found her delirious and suffering from a fever. This was the beginning of an illness which gave great alarm to everyone, for so distressed in mind was she that they feared for her reason. Her mother was at her bedside throughout the day and night; and as she sat there the Duchess wished that she had not been persuaded to agree to this marriage. However, it was done now; her daughter was married—albeit by proxy—to the Duke of York and nothing short of her death could prevent her going to England. It was two weeks before Mary Beatrice recovered and then Louis XIV invited her to rest awhile at his Court until she regained her strength. This put heart into Mary Beatrice because it was certainly going to mean some delay.

When Louis met her he was delighted with her beauty and charm, and she was fêted and honored by him and his Court; he told her that he would be delighted to have her with him forever. These were empty compliments, she was well aware, and now that she realized the inevitability of her fate she had accepted it, but her lovely face was marked with melancholy and those who loved her were very sad on her account.

She would never forget her despair as she saw the coast of France receding; she prayed for a storm which would destroy the vessel and then immediately thought of all the others who would suffer with her. That must not be, she knew. She wanted a storm in which she and she alone would lose her life.

A tragic way for a bride to come to her bridegroom.

A strong wind arose, but that seemed only to mock her, for it carried her vessel to Dover with greater speed than, said the sailors, could have been hoped for.

On the sands she found waiting for her—her husband. He was old—very old, she thought—and there were wrinkles about his eyes; and because she had imagined him to be an ogre he seemed to her like one. He took her hands and then embraced her, and assured her he was very happy to see her. She tried to smile but could not do so; and when he drew back to look at her, he said: “But you are beautiful … even more beautiful than they told me you were.”

His eyes, his warm and passionate eyes, took in each detail of her lovely face.

“Why, my little wife,” he went on, “you are going to be happy. We are going to be the happiest family in the world.”

She was aware of her husband’s attendants standing by; her mother was beside her, so was the Earl of Peterborough, whom she regarded as her enemy because she believed that if he had been less determined the marriage might never have taken place.