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

“No one is that. Life is very rarely perfect and never for long. If you are going to savor the best of it, accept what cannot be changed and enjoy it while you are able. When you have learned to do that you have mastered as valued a lesson as ever Bishop Compton can teach you.”

My father came to see me. He wanted to be alone with me and I knew he had something of great importance to tell me.

“My dearest daughter,” he said. “I want to talk to you very seriously. I know you are young, but I want you to try to understand the position in which I find myself.”

I nestled closer to him. No matter what evil stories I heard about his relationships with women, I still loved him the same. To me he was always the tender loving father, and whatever he felt for those women did not touch us.

“You must know that the King cannot get children,” he began.

I wrinkled my brows. I had often heard that this woman or that was going to have the King’s child.

He noticed this and went on: “No child who could inherit the throne. The Queen, it seems, cannot produce one. Now this is of some significance to us. I am the King’s brother and, if he were to die ... Oh, do not look alarmed ... he is not going to die for a long time. He is hale and hearty. But there are those who say, yes, but suppose there was a riding accident ... some mishap. Who knows in this life? And if your uncle died tomorrow ... well, we must be prepared. I should be king then.”

“I know that,” I said.

“Well, I have two beautiful daughters and God knows I love them well, but the country looks for sons. People have this obsession for the masculine sex. That is a custom. They will take a woman, yes, but they would rather a man and they maintain that it is the duty of the heir to the throne to get sons if he possibly can.”

“My mother is dead now,” I said.

He looked mournful. “Alas,” he murmured. “But that is why they expect me . . .” He paused and, gripping my hand firmly, he went on: “to marry again.”

“To marry? Whom would you marry?”

“Ah! That is the question. The matter is being raised. Believe me, my love, there are many who would like to give birth to the heir of England. So I must needs put the past behind me. I must take a wife. I must show them that I will do my best to give them an heir.”

I could not help thinking: you will do that with ease. If Arabella Churchill, with the enticing legs, were your wife you could have several already. I did not say that. It would have wounded him deeply. He would not want me to know of such matters. But I kept thinking of my mother, with the pain in her face just before she died, and at that time he was Arabella Churchill’s lover.

These thoughts persisted, and I remembered what I had heard about the days when they were young and in exile at the court of the Princess of Orange, and how my father had fallen in love with my mother and proposed marriage to her. Then there came the Restoration and the Duke of York was no longer a wandering exile, and the marriage, which might have been acceptable when he had been, was no longer suitable for the brother of the King. There had been opposition, but my father had remained true to his word. I had liked that story. It fitted in with the image of him which I had created for myself.

And now he was going to marry again, so that he could get an heir to the throne because, although he already had my sister and me, boys were preferable.

“So you see, my dearest,” he was saying, “your father must do his duty. I hope you will like your new mother.”

“I could not have another mother,” I said. “I had one and I have lost her.”

He nodded and looked mournful again. Perhaps I was growing cynical, but I fancied he was not displeased at the prospect of having a new wife.

It might be that she would be young and beautiful, so that he would not have need of those others.

EVERYONE WAS TALKING about the proposed marriage of the Duke of York. It was freely discussed by the girls. There seemed to be no reason to be discreet about it, even though he was the father of Anne and me, since it was being spoken of throughout the court.

The Duchess of Guise was highly suitable. Would it be the Duchess? Then there was the Princess of Wirtemburg. There was also Mademoiselle de Rais.

“I wonder which one it will be,” said Elizabeth Villiers. I imagined she did not want it to be any of them. Or if there had to be a marriage that the bride would be ugly and barren. I imagined she was hoping that one day — some time ahead maybe — I was going to be Queen of England.

To me it seemed preposterous and I could not conceive its ever coming to pass. The idea filled me with dismay. But if my father married and there was a son, the household at Richmond would sink into insignificance.

Poor Elizabeth! How sad that would be for her!

Then there suddenly appeared another candidate for marriage into the House of York. This was Princess Mary Beatrice of Modena.

My father had sent the Earl of Peterborough to the Continent. It was said he was to spy on these ladies and to report secretly on them in such a way that none should know the true verdict but the Duke of York himself. But by some means we heard of the reports.

The Duchess of Guise was very short and not elegantly shaped; nor did she appear over-strong and it seemed unlikely that she would produce the much-desired heir. Mademoiselle de Rais? The Princess of Wirtemburg? Fair enough, but in the meantime my father had seen a portrait of the young Mary Beatrice of Modena.

I like to remember that when he made his choice he came first to me.

“She will be your companion,” he said. “Peterborough sent home such a report to me. She is of middle height, which is good, for although I would not choose one who was low in stature, I would not care to have a wife look down on me. Her eyes are gray and she moves with grace. She has a sweet innocence, for she is but a child yet. She is strong and very young. She would bear sons, this little lady. Peterbor-ough reports that, although she is gentle and of great modesty, yet she discourses with spirit. Methinks you will like my little bride from Modena.”

“It is not for me but for you to like her,” I said.

“You are right, but I should like to have my dearest daughter’s approval. She will give it, I know, when she knows that is what I wish. My dearest child, I am going to bring you a little playfellow.”

SHE WAS YOUNG and very frightened. I liked her from the moment we met. My father was proud of her and must have thought himself very lucky to have such a beautiful bride.

There was, of course, a faction who were against the match. They called it the Papist Marriage and tried to prevent its taking place; and when they heard it had actually been celebrated they suggested that my father should retire and lead the life of a country gentleman somewhere away from the court. This the King refused to take seriously.

I did not know at that time how intense the feeling against my father was becoming. If only he had not been so frank, so honest. If he had only been like the King, who leaned toward the Catholic faith but was wise enough not to let his subjects know this, how different everything might have been! But my father was no dissembler. To deny his faith would be a mortal sin to him.

At this time I could only be glad that he had acquired such a charming bride. I understood absolutely how he had been prevailed upon to marry; and although I could never forget my mother, I ceased to mourn for her so acutely and began to like my stepmother.

My father had said he was providing us with a playmate and this was true in a way. She was about the same age as Elizabeth Villiers and Sarah Jennings, but she seemed younger and, in spite of the fact that she was the daughter of a great house, she lacked the air of superiority which characterized those two. Fifteen was young to be married, particularly when the union brought with it two stepdaughters only four and six years younger than herself.