Виктория Холт - Royal Sisters - The Story of the Daughters of James II

My father killed Jemmy. That was what she had to keep saying; and then a fierce anger destroyed her calmness and she knew that she would walk into the palace where her father and stepmother had recently lived and she could laugh and be gay and say to herself: He deserves his misery … for what he did to beautiful Jemmy.

“Your Highness, we should be preparing to land.”

Elizabeth Villiers stood beside her, smiling her discreet smile, those peculiar eyes, with what some called a squint, downcast.

Mary bowed her head and wondered whether when they stepped ashore William would be more aware of Elizabeth than of her. Oh, no, he would be watching his wife, making sure that her expression was what he had commanded it to be, that she gave no sign of uneasiness because she was coming to take her father’s crown. Matters of state would come before any mistress.

But Elizabeth was there and Mary believed in that moment that she always would be. Why? she asked herself passionately. What can she give that I cannot? But who could probe the strange powers of attraction?

A crowd was gathered at the landing stairs, but William was not among them. That was characteristic. He could make no gracious gestures. He would wait and receive her formally at the Palace of Whitehall, to remind her perhaps that although she was the Queen of England, he was the King.

Elizabeth had slipped the cloak from her shoulders and handed it to a page; it seemed to weigh the boy down so voluminous was it with its hanging sleeves and its vivid orange color. The people wanted to see her and she was a handsome sight, for she would have been a very beautiful woman had she not grown so fat. She removed her hood that they might see her face and she stood, tall, stately, and smiling. Her bodice, low cut partly exposing a magnificent bosom, was draped with fine muslin looped with pearls; beneath her purple velvet gown was an orange petticoat which, as she lifted her skirts, showed its flamboyantly symbolic color. Her dark hair was piled high and adorned with agraffes of pearls and ribbons in the same color as the petticoat. She was a magnificent sight: a queen in her glory. Those watching thought: She will be decorative enough to make up for dull William.

Formally she was greeted by the officials of the Court; then she was led to her waiting horse by her Master of Horse, Sir Edward Villiers, as young girls strewed flowers in her path.

A colorful homecoming.

Anne was waiting with Sarah at Greenwich Palace.

Anne was excited at the prospect of meeting her sister. Sarah was alert. Mary had already shown signs of animosity and Sarah felt she would need to be careful. Anne looked enormous, she was pregnant again, but quite attractive in her excitement apart from her bulk, and beside her was her husband, fat and genial.

Sarah was thinking that life would be more complicated now that the two sisters would be together.

As the Queen approached her eyes immediately sought her sister and when she did so, she could not restrain her pleasure.

There could be no ceremony at such a meeting. Mary dismounted and held out her arms and they embraced.

“My dearest Anne!”

“Oh … Your Majesty … you are that now, are you not, now that our father is gone …”

Mary said: “It is wonderful to see you. This meeting is something I have been anticipating for so long.”

“To think you will be home again! It is quite wonderful.”

“And you have been good, dear sister. William appreciates your goodness.”

“Does he?” said Anne vaguely; the mention of William’s name had curbed her exuberance temporarily; and Mary was reminded of her duties.

She received her brother-in-law and all those who were waiting to greet her and with Anne beside her they went into the Palace of Greenwich to refresh themselves before going on to Whitehall.

To Whitehall! There would be too many memories for comfort, thought Mary. She could not forget that a very short time ago her father and stepmother had held Court here. It was here that Mary Beatrice had very recently waited for her apartments at St. James’s to be made ready that she might give birth to a prince—or pretend to.

As yet Mary had not seen William; she believed that he would be waiting for her at Whitehall and together they would enter the Palace. She hoped so, for she would feel happier if he were at her side.

But when she reached Whitehall William was not there, and she must enter the Palace alone, knowing that everyone was watching her, asking themselves how a daughter would feel who had driven her father from his home.

She must forget she was James’s daughter and remember only that she was William’s wife. So she smiled gaily.

“Whitehall,” she said. “I have thought of it so often. But it does not bear comparison with some of our Dutch Palaces.”

“Your Majesty will wish to go to your apartments without delay.”

She agreed that she would.

To the royal apartment then. Here was the bedchamber in which Mary Beatrice had lain. It was prepared for her, Mary, now. There were the chairs on which her father had sat; his hands had touched those hangings.

Jemmy’s murderer, she murmured; then it was easier.

She laughed gaily.

“It is pleasant to be home in Whitehall,” she said.

She could not sleep that night—alone in the royal bed. There were too many memories. She dreamed of her father; she was a child and he had taken her on his knee and was looking at her with mournful reproachful eyes from which tears flowed. And there was Mary Beatrice crying: “I cannot believe it … not of our dear Lemon.”

“It had to be, it had to be.…” She was talking in her sleep. “William said so and William is always right. It was the Papists against the Protestants. It was your own fault, father. And there was Monmouth.… How could you. He called himself the King I know, but he was a King’s son, and he was your nephew. How could you?”

She awoke and heard herself say: “It had to be. It had to be.”

Where was she? In her room in the Palace in the Wood, waiting for William, who would not come because he was spending the night with Elizabeth Villiers? No. She was in Whitehall, in the bed which had been used by her father and stepmother.

This was nonsense. It had to be. He had brought this on himself. William had had no wish for it. It was only because it was his duty to come that he came.

In the morning she chatted gaily as she was dressed.

William would want to hear how she had behaved on her arrival and she must please William. Moreover, it was pleasant to chat. How she loved to gossip; and being back in England reminded her of those carefree gossiping days of childhood.

“I want to go into all the rooms,” she announced. “I want to see how much things have changed.”

So as soon as she was dressed she went from room to room, opening cupboard doors, turning down the quilts on the bed, laughing and chatting all the time.

Even her friends were a little shocked. They said: “She seems to be quite insensible of her father’s tragedy.”

Her enemies talked freely to each other. “What unbecoming conduct!” they said. “What an ungrateful daughter, for however misguided he was, he was always a good father to her .”

As for Mary, she was thinking of him all the time as she went from room to room; she was resisting with all her might the desire to burst into tears, to ask these men to help her plead with her husband to bring her father back. Let them rule together, let William modify James’s policy; surely that could have been done.

But William had said: “Smile and be gay. Show no remorse, for that would do ill to our cause.”