Виктория Холт: The Queen's Devotion: The Story of Queen Mary II

“Then if you do not want to play, why did you do so?” I asked.

“I am told it is expected of me and some of the company look very displeased when I show no enthusiasm for the game.”

“But it is amusing!” I cried. “I play now and then. Even my sister does. We like it very much.”

Mary Beatrice shook her head. But that was just a minor irritation.

DURING THE MONTHS that followed and as my father was revealed to Mary Beatrice as the considerate and kindly man he was, she grew to love him. The lazy manner of our court must have seemed a great contrast to that of her mother’s. She remained enchanted by the courteous attention paid to her by the King. And she was becoming a lighthearted girl of sixteen.

Of the four ladies she had brought with her from Modena two were young. One of these was Anna, the daughter of Madame Montecuculi, the lady who was in charge of them all; and the other was Madame Molza, who was only a little older than Mary Beatrice herself. The other lady was Madame Turenie, who had been with Mary Beatrice since she was a baby.

Through the veiled remarks of Elizabeth Villiers and the sophisticated comments of Sarah Jennings and some of the older girls, I was getting a deeper understanding of my father’s position.

There had been a time when he had enjoyed a popularity almost to rival that of the King. His dalliance with Arabella Churchill and involvement in the Sir John Denham affair were dismissed as romantic waywardness, to be expected in a man of the world; but what remained unforgiven was his adherence to the Catholic faith and now his marriage to a Catholic. The King and heir to the throne might be as lecherous as they pleased. Their religion was another matter. England had experienced Catholic Queen Mary, the bigoted daughter of King Henry VIII, and they were determined never to have another Catholic monarch on the throne if they could help it.

And as time was passing, it seemed more and more likely that my father would inherit the throne. Forgotten were the victorious naval battles which had made a hero of him. Now could be heard the first rumblings of the storm and I was to learn how significant that would prove to be.

There came a day when Mary Beatrice had some exciting news.

“I am going to have a baby,” she said, her beautiful eyes alight with happiness.

We were all very excited, particularly my father. He embraced me with the fervor he always showed at our meetings.

“I am so happy that you and your stepmother are such good friends,” he said. “Nothing could delight me more. And soon you will have a little brother ... or sister. That will be wonderful, will it not?”

I said it would, but I could not help thinking of those other little brothers who had lived a while in our nursery and caused great concern until they passed on.

I hoped this one would not be like them.

Our household was no longer at Richmond. It had been moved to St. James’s, that ancient palace which had once been a hospital for women suffering from leprosy. That was years ago, before the Norman Conquest, of course. It was dedicated to St. James and the name remained when it became a palace. Like Richmond, it was a place full of memories, and because of my growing awareness of all the murmurings about my father’s leanings toward Catholicism, I thought of my namesake, Mary, who had lived here when her husband, Philip II of Spain, had gone away. He had not been a very kind husband; he was obsessed by his religion and such people are often too busy doing their duty toward God to be over-concerned with people. Perhaps they felt people were not very important. However, in spite of the fact that nowadays I often thought of sad, cruel Queen Mary who had ordered people to be burned at the stake because they would not become Catholics, I was happy to be near my father and Mary Beatrice.

It was at this time that I first met Frances Apsley. Frances’s father was a friend of mine, and because of this she had been given a place at court.

From the moment I met her I was entranced. When she was presented to me I felt that I should have been the one to kiss her hand and do homage to her because of her excellence, which I could never match.

She was a few years older than I was and when she talked to me I was too bemused to take in what she had said. I did gather that her father was Sir Allen Apsley.

My father had been good to hers, she told me.

When she was about to leave, I said that we must meet again.

“I have my duties,” Frances told me.

“I shall write to you,” I said, and Frances replied that that would give her great pleasure.

I was so filled with admiration that I must have shown it, and when I met Mary Beatrice I spoke of Frances Apsley to her.

“Ah yes,” said my stepmother. “A very pleasant girl, and a beautiful one. Your father is friendly with her father. They were together during the long exile. Sir Allen was always loyal and worked hard to bring about the Restoration.”

It was the beginning of that passionate friendship which I shall remember all my life. I was very fond of Anne Trelawny; she was my confidante and had been from childhood — but this was different. Anne was to me just another girl, older than I, wiser in many ways, my very good friend. But Frances was like a goddess.

I thought of her a good deal and I decided I would write to tell her of my feelings. This I did and her response was immediate. She told me that she cared for me in the same way as I did for her and that we must meet whenever it could be contrived and when we could not we would write to each other.

So began our romantic correspondence. We would ask people to take our letters to each other. I prevailed on my drawing master, little Richard Gibson, to do it and he was eager to oblige. I noticed that people were very ready to please me nowadays. True, my stepmother was pregnant, and if she had a son my position would change immediately, but the son had not yet put in an appearance and royal babies had a habit of either being girls or not surviving.

Sarah Jennings was a good courier although I did not altogether trust her. I preferred to use my little dwarf.

Frances had given a new zest to the days. Each morning when I awoke, my first thoughts were of her. Should I see her that day? Would there be a letter from her? Life was wonderful. I loved and was loved.

I wrote to her and told her that I felt toward her as though she were my husband. My love for her was greater than I had ever felt for anyone before — even my father. I loved him dearly but he was just a father. This was different.

I was very young and totally innocent. I knew that this was how lovers talked to each other — in plays for instance. Unlike my sister Anne, I liked to read of romance and passion in those pieces where the lovers were a young man and woman, but I saw no reason why the lovers should not be of the same sex.

I gave Frances a new name. It was Aurelia, a character in one of Mr. Dryden’s comedies. In this, Aurelia was a delightful creature whom everyone loved. As for myself — I must have a special name, too. It was difficult to find anything that fitted myself. Beaumont and Fletcher had written of a young shepherdess named Clorine, who was faithful through all sorts of trials.

So we became Aurelia and Clorine. It gave a romantic secrecy to our correspondence.

One day my father came to see me.

He said: “You are growing up, daughter. Twelve years old, no less, and Anne coming on a little way behind. The King thinks it is time you made an appearance at court now and then. After all, you are my daughters.”

“What shall we have to do?”

“Well, he has an idea. He thought it would be rather interesting if you gave a performance. Some play ... something in which you could sing and dance to show the court you have not been idling all this time.”