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

Sarah looked on, amused.

The day of William’s departure came.

Mary wept openly.

“You must take the greatest care of yourself,” she cried. “I fear the climate. They say it is very damp. It will be bad for your chest. I shall pray for you …”

“Pray rather for yourself,” suggested William. “You will need prayers, for you have a mighty task before you.”

“Oh, William, is it too late to beg you to stay behind?”

“Too late and quite foolish,” said William, but not unkindly for it pleased him to see her distress. “Going into a campaign is no unpleasant thing compared with governing this country, I do assure you. I pity you. Indeed I pity you.”

“William!” she threw herself into his arms and he kissed her almost gently.

He had an affection for her which increased as he grew older.

“Those who have some regard for you must help you all they can. I must speak to them … impress on them … the difficulties of your task.”

“William, I trust I shall act as you would have acted. That is what I shall try to do.”

“I am sure you will govern wisely.”

She was overcome with joy at such praise and almost immediately plunged into despair because of his departure.

“You will guard your dear person well, William. You will not expose yourself to danger. I trust that you … and my father … will never come face to face.”

“Pray for it,” he said.

In the morning after William’s departure Mary awoke with a swollen face.

She called for a mirror and looked at herself with dismay. Her expression was dismal; she had a feeling of foreboding. William gone and herself swollen-faced and inadequate without him! She lay back on her pillows carefully touching her face. She hoped it did not mean a return of the ague. She must not, however, brood on her affliction, but call a meeting of the Council at once; and she would have to impress them with her knowledge of affairs; William had been so kind lately and had talked to her so carefully that she had a good grasp of what was going on. Dear William, he had been really concerned on her behalf. People did not understand that beneath that rather harsh exterior was great kindliness.

He is a great good man, the best in the world, she assured herself. And I must be worthy of him. That was what alarmed her—consciousness of her own unworthiness.

She thought of her nine councillors and wished that Shrewsbury was among them. Charming Shrewsbury, with the gentle voice and the noble air, reminded her of Monmouth; not that they were alike, but Shrewsbury was attractive, as Jemmy had been, and there was not one of the nine councillors whom she could really like. Four of them were Whigs and five Tories. How clever of William to assure a good division!

She would speak to them earnestly and sincerely and she would pray that no situation arose which would be too difficult for her to handle.

When the Countess of Derby came to her she exclaimed with horror at the sight of the Queen’s face.

“But Your Majesty is ill.”

“It will pass,” replied Mary.

“I must call the doctors while you rest in bed.”

“My dear friend,” insisted Mary firmly, “I cannot lie abed now. The King is on his way to Ireland and I have the sole responsibility of ruling in his absence. Why do you not know that almost always he is in pain. Do you not know that he is fighting a battle for his breath most of the time, but does he stay in bed? Does he complain?”

The Countess did not reply.

“There is one thing I know I have to do,” went on Mary, “and that is follow his example. Then I cannot fail.”

“I am sure no one ever performed royal duties more graciously than Your Majesty.”

Mary smiled a little sadly. She understood the implication. It was most perverse of those about her continually to defend her against William.

“Graciousness is not a necessary part of greatness,” she reproved gently.

And the Countess of Derby in sudden affection kissed her hand. She wanted to say that it was an asset when a sovereign knew how to win the love of the people. Mary had that asset—William never could.

“The first thing I shall do is to pray for the King’s safety and success,” said Mary. “And then that I may have the help I shall surely need.”

The Council meeting was held in Nottingham’s apartments in Whitehall. Mary sat at the head of the table with the nine members of the Council about her; the five Tories were Marlborough, Danby, Nottingham, Pembroke, and Lowther; and the four Whigs Dorset and Devonshire, Mordaunt and Russell.

They expressed their concern at the Queen’s appearance and she replied that she believed the swelling to have little significance.

“The King worked with greater disadvantages,” she told them smiling.

The Earl of Devonshire said that the strain of the last days had been great, and if Her Majesty wished to retire to bed they would work without her and have sent to her bedchamber any important documents which she would wish to see.

His voice was caressing. Devonshire was a courtier for ladies, she mentally commented; she considered him weak and unfit for the post he now held.

“I shall remain,” she told him pleasantly, “and I pray you cease to think about this ailment, which I know to be trivial.”

There was a touch of command in her voice which they were quick to note; Mary without William was a different woman from Mary with him. She had become a Queen overnight—not merely William’s shadow.

“We must be doubly alert now,” she said. “I trust that we are on the watch for a move which might come from France. Now that the King is away we should be very vulnerable.”

“The King in his wisdom has not taken all his best men, Your Majesty. We are few who remain but some of us do not lack experience.”

That was Mordaunt. She had never liked him, but thought him a little mad. He had visited William in Holland before the revolution and had declared himself willing to help rescue England from popery. He had put forward several plans for William to study. William had laughed at most of them and had said to Mary and Burnet: “This fellow wants to be at the heart of all the adventures which are planned not for the establishment of the Protestant religion in England but for the glorification of Mordaunt. Such a man would be setting himself up as King before long, I’ll swear.”

Marlborough was nodding approval of this speech. Marlborough, Sarah’s husband. The one she trusted least of all. How much was he in league with his wife to turn Anne against her and William? What was their idea? To rid themselves of William and Mary and set up Anne—as William and Mary had made away with James—that they might be the powers behind the throne?

He was a handsome man, this Marlborough—his features clearly cut; his eyes alert, his voice soft and gentle—very different from the somewhat strident tones of his wife—but of all these men who had been chosen for her councillors, Marlborough was the one of whom she must be most watchful.

“What we should look for,” said Marlborough, “is an attack from the French. They might well seize this opportunity while the King’s army is in Ireland.”

“Torrington will look after them ,” said Nottingham complacently.

Mary glanced sharply at him. She was uncertain of Nottingham and had heard that he was a secret Jacobite. He certainly had a sinister look; was it because he was as dark as a Spaniard? He was aloof and his expression was melancholy; it was no wonder that he was nicknamed Don Dismallo.

“I believe the Earl of Torrington to be a good admiral and an experienced one, but I believe too that he is over-fond of soft living,” growled Danby.