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

There in the park it occurred to Sarah that momentous events were close. Greatness in people depended on their being a step or two ahead of others, in the right direction, just before it was apparent to everyone else that it was the right direction.

She had reached the streets. Very old people who remembered what it was like before the Restoration marveled at the streets of London as they were at this time. There was gaiety everywhere—if one could call painted women gay; they walked with their gallants, arms about each other, blatantly amorous. There was music from the river, drinking and dancing. How many bawdy houses were there along that short stretch of river? This was Restoration London. And how different it must have been under Cromwell and the Puritans! No theaters; no painted women; sombrely clad men; no fondling in the streets, for singing, dancing, and making love were crimes.

Change! thought Sarah. And all because the King had replaced the Protector.

She passed close to a group of people. A man was waving his arms and shouting: “No popery. Do you know what it means, my friends? You’ll smell the fires of Smithfield if we have the papists back.”

Sarah paused and listened, watching those grim determined faces.

“No popery!” It was a cry that one heard every day in the streets. The King was ailing. That was why the people so constantly shouted: “No popery!” They meant “No James!” No Catholic Duke of York should be their King.

If only one could peer into the future. It was not possible; one could only guess. But one could guess cleverly and shrewdly.

Already the Duke and his Duchess had been exiled. She thought of her beautiful dark-eyed royal mistress, Mary Beatrice of Modena with her foreign accent. She was clearly an Italian and Italians were papists.

As Sarah turned to the Palace she had made up her mind.

“Sarah,” said Anne, “you are not happy. Do not tell me you are for I know you too well.”

“I see it is no use hiding my fears from you, Madam.”

“John has been unfaithful.”

“No,” said Sarah. “Never.”

“He would not dare,” suggested Anne mischievously.

“He is too clever not to know what folly that would be.”

“Yes, he is very clever, your John; but you are not unhappy about that.”

“Oh, it is a matter which will not have occurred to you. But I have seen less of you lately.”

Anne’s face puckered into dismay. “My dearest Sarah, there has been so much to do. Being Princess of Denmark has meant so many more receptions, so many tiresome people to be received.”

“I understand that, and I know it is no fault of yours. But you noticed that I was unhappy and wanted the reason so I give it to you. I have my duties too. I must wait on the Duchess for I am after all attached to her household. How different it would be if I were attached to yours! Then … how happy I should be!”

“Sarah. But …”

Sarah took Anne’s hand and kissed it. “If I were serving you instead of the Duchess, I should always be in attendance … never far away. And now that you are reforming your household …”

“You must leave the Duchess, Sarah. You must come to me. I will confess that I had thought of it but I did not dare suggest it. For a place with the Duchess, I thought, would mean more to you than one with me.”

Sarah was almost angry in her reproaches. “You could think that, Madam! I confess I am surprised. I should have thought you would have known that there is no one I would want to serve save yourself.”

“Oh, Sarah, then it must be. I will speak to my father and stepmother. They know of the love between us two; I have no doubt that they will grant me what I ask.”

Sarah was certain now that she had acted with her usual wisdom. Every time Anne appeared in the streets the people cheered her. The Protestant marriage had endeared her to them. They were silent for the Duchess of York. Italian papist! Sarah was on the right side.

A few hours later Sarah received a letter from Anne.

“The Duke of York came in just as you were gone, and made no difficulties, but has promised me that I shall have you, which I assure you is a great joy to me. I should say a great deal for your kindness in offering it, but I am not good at compliments. I will only say that I do take it extremely kindly and shall be ready at any time to do you all the service that is in my power …”

Sarah folded the letter and put it away. She liked the terms in which it was written; they showed a proper modesty and appreciation.

Sarah swept through the apartments at the Cockpit like a cold wind. All those about the Princess Anne understood that if they wished to prosper they must placate Sarah Churchill because it was clear that, as had been the case for some time, she had more influence with the Princess than any other person. As for the Prince, he was easy enough, being completely contented with his marriage. Here he was, with an affectionate undemanding wife; all he had to do was sleep with her, a pleasant enough occupation, for he was a sensual man, but too lazy to want to hunt for his own quarry; he could eat and drink his fill, chat a little, play cards with his wife; oh, it was a pleasant life. It was true that the King dumbfounded him a little with his witty conversation, but most of this was unintelligible to Prince George and he made no attempt to understand it.

Charles said of him: “God’s fish, what have we here? I have tried him drunk and I’ve tried him sober but can make nothing of him, but the Princess Anne seems satisfied, so it may be she has been more fortunate than I.”

And when shortly after the marriage it was announced that the Princess was pregnant, Charles remarked that although his nephew by marriage seemed lacking in wit and political knowledge he had given proof of his abilities as a husband—which was all they need be concerned with.

As for Anne, she was pleased with the marriage; she grew more and more fond of George every day. He never argued with her and never made any demands on her intelligence; he was as excited by food as she was—and there were very few others who were quite so enthusiastic about it. He was teaching her how to improve the dishes by drinking the right wine; and when they went to bed, slightly intoxicated, she found marriage most enjoyable.

She assured herself that she was more sorry than ever for her poor dear Mary, and she wrote very frequently to her sister telling her of affairs in England and how she longed to visit The Hague or that Mary should come to England. Poor Mary, she had had two miscarriages and it did not seem now as though she would be pregnant again. Anne heard distressing reports from various sources in Holland. Caliban was impotent, some said; and yet from other sources came the news that he spent his nights with Elizabeth Villiers. Even so there was no news of Elizabeth’s giving birth to a royal bastard, so perhaps he was impotent after all.

Such a matter was not one to be discussed with anyone but Sarah; and as it happened it was a topic Sarah loved.

“I am indiscreet with you, Madam,” said Sarah, “though never with anyone else. And I tell you this: Caliban is incapable of begetting children. They say his asthma is terrible. I do not think he will live long. Then we hear these stories of your sister’s ague. An ailing sister, an asthmatical Orange—and let me tell you, Madam, that if your sister were to die, he would have to take a few steps back. And your father a papist! Madam, I believe that one day I shall have the honor of serving the Queen of England.”

“Oh, let be,” said Anne, “I am happy enough as I am.”

“Those who love you have ambitions for you, Madam.”