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

I sensed that she was very unhappy to have been taken away from her home and sent to a strange country and to a husband who must seem very old to her. My father was, in fact, twenty-five years her senior, but, I told myself, she would soon discover what a wonderful man he was — the best in the world — and when she did, she would cease to regret her marriage and would stop mourning because she had not become a nun, which was the life she would have chosen for herself.

Because of my understanding and the closeness of our ages, she began to confide in me.

“The thought of marriage was very unpleasant to me,” she told me in her musical voice with the quaint accent. “I had set my heart on going into a convent.”

I felt very sorry for her, putting myself in her place and imagining being forced to leave my father and go off to some foreign land.

When I learned a little more about her life, I thought it was not such a tragedy for her that she had come to us. Her childhood had not been as happy as mine had.

Poor Mary Beatrice, born to the illustrious House of Este, noted for its chivalry, its bravery, its encouragement of literature and all forms of art and civilization in general!

Unfortunately, her father Alfonso was a victim of crippling gout and depended on his forceful wife, the Duchess Laura, who ruled not only her household but the country. Mary Beatrice could scarcely remember her father, for he had died when she was very young. There were two children, Mary Beatrice and her brother, Francisco, two years her junior.

Her father’s brother, Rinaldo d’Este, was appointed guardian of the children on Alfonso’s death, but it was Duchess Laura who assumed command.

“My mother is a very good woman,” Mary Beatrice told me. “We did not always understand that when we were children. We thought she seemed very harsh, but it was because she was always concerned with what was best for us. You see, she thought we must never show weakness so that we might grow up strong.”

“So she was very severe with you.”

“For our own good,” insisted Mary Beatrice. “I hated soup. It made me sick once and ever after I did not want to take it. My mother said that was weakness. Soup was good and nourishing. I must overcome my petulance and folly. I must learn to like soup because it was good for me. So every day I must sit at table and take soup. There was always to be soup for me.”

I shivered and had a quick picture of my mother sitting on a chair with my sister Anne beside her, a bowl of sweetmeats beside them. I could hear my mother’s voice, laughing as she said: “You eat too many sweetmeats, child. I fear you are as partial to them as your mother is. So no more, eh? Let us be strong or the palace will not be big enough to hold us. Look at this plump little hand . . .” taking Anne’s hand and kissing it. And a few minutes later that plump little hand would be reaching for a sweetmeat and my mother, watching, would laugh and jokingly scold as she took one herself.

How different from ours Mary Beatrice’s mother must have been!

“I was not allowed to leave the table,” she went on, “until every drop of the soup had gone. But I did teach myself not to be sick. My mother is a very strong, good woman.”

“I should have hated to be forced to take what I did not want,” I said.

“The soup was usually well watered with my tears. She was right, of course. One has to learn to do things one does not like. It makes it easier to face the world.”

I wondered whether drinking soup she had hated had made it easier for her to come to England. I did not believe it had for a moment and I felt very critical of Duchess Laura and a fresh flood of sadness for the loss of our kind and clever mother.

“Our lessons were not easy either,” said Mary Beatrice. “Many times I was beaten because I could not remember a verse in one of the psalms. You see, my mother wanted the best for us. She wanted us to be clever, so that we were prepared for anything that might happen to us. It was all for our benefit. The doctors once said that my little brother was not strong enough to sit so long over his lessons. He should be more in the fresh air. But my mother replied that she would rather have no son at all than a dullard. So poor little Francisco had to persevere with his lessons.”

How different it had been with us! I remembered Anne, lolling indolently in her chair. “I shall not do lessons today. My eyes will hurt if I try to.” And everybody said she must not hurt her eyes. Lessons were there if we wanted them, but no one in the household should think of forcing the Lady Anne to learn if she did not want to.

Poor, poor Mary Beatrice — although it must be rather pleasant to have learned as much as she appeared to have done.

“You will find my father very kind,” I assured her. But I could see that she was unsure and uneasy, although she had already been charmed by the King.

I was a little piqued to realize that she wished my uncle had been her bridegroom instead of my father — and not because of his superior rank. I had heard it said so often that the charm of the King was unsurpassable. Kindliness was at the very essense of that charm and, because of her youth, and perhaps her beauty, he had made a very special point of showing affection and kindness to his new sister-in-law.

He appeared often at St. James’s Palace, which was my father’s official residence and, of course, with him would come the courtiers so there were some very lively gatherings.

My uncle obviously liked Mary Beatrice. He was always attracted by beauty such as hers, and I realize now that he made such a show of favoring her because of the unpopularity of the marriage. He wanted to soothe the people’s fears regarding it. But at the same time, he deplored my father’s preference for the Catholic faith — or rather his refusal to keep it a secret.

This show of favor had its effect on Mary Beatrice and she was no longer the melancholy girl she had been on her arrival.

The shock of meeting her husband who was so much older than she was had subsided a little. My father was making her see that he was not an ogre. In fact, I thought she was beginning to like him, but her uneasiness had not entirely disappeared.

Elizabeth Villiers talked of the great excitement there had been on Guy Fawkes Night, the fifth of November, just a short time before Mary Beatrice arrived in the country.

“The fires were bigger than ever this year,” said Elizabeth. “There were grotesque images of Guy Fawkes. Hideous, they were. Well, he did try to blow up the Houses of Parliament, so it is understandable that people remember. It was all due to the Papist Plot. It will never be forgotten while there are Catholics in the country.”

She began to chant,

Remember, remember the fifth of November

The gunpowder treason and plot

I see no reason,

The gunpowder treason

Should ever be forgot!

“That is what they sing!” Her eyes were wide with innocence. “Why did they make such a special occasion of it this year?” she asked.

This was Elizabeth stressing the unpopularity of my father’s marriage.

I was pleased when it became clear that Mary Beatrice was not afraid of my father as she had been at first. When I grew older I realized that, with his great experience of women, and his considerable charm — although some degrees less than that of the King — he had begun to win her affection. I noticed the smiles they exchanged and that the melancholy which she had not succeeded in hiding on her arrival was no longer there. There was an acceptance of her new life which grew firmer every day.

Card-playing was one of the most popular pastimes at court and Mary Beatrice was expected to join in. She told me that she disliked it and that she found no excitement when she won and she hated to lose.