Plaidy, Jean - Royal Sisters - The Story of the Daughters of James II

Anne yawned faintly and Sarah noticed this. She must curb her frankness with the Princess, who was of course utterly spoiled by those around her and in particular her father.

“Well, we are together now and I shall see personally that my dear Mrs. Morley does not over-tax her strength, for I do believe that it was due to this that we have had this unfortunate tragedy.”

“Please, do not let us talk of it. Get the cards, Mrs. Freeman, and call Barbara Fitzharding—and whom shall we have for a fourth?”

Not that old aunt of yours, thought Sarah, hurrying away to summon Mrs. Danvers. And how dared she suggest cards when clearly Sarah wanted to talk.

But John was right, of course. She must go carefully.

So when she returned with the cards and the players she insisted on placing cushions about the Princess and setting a box of sweetmeats beside her.

Anne smiled at her contentedly and the game began.

And very shortly afterward Anne was pregnant.

THE KING IS DEAD

reat events were about to break over England , but none was aware of them on that February day. It was dusk and enormous fires were blazing in the royal apartments. Anne, now obviously pregnant, sat with her husband and some members of their suites playing basset. The stakes were high and Anne was smiling delightedly. Sarah, in attendance on her mistress, looking on at the game, was shocked because the bank contained at least two thousand pounds in gold. A wanton waste! she grumbled inwardly thinking of what the money would mean to the Churchills. Anne, knowing that she was far from rich, had given her several gifts of money; and these she had gratefully taken. This should continue, she decided; and she must find means of diverting more and more money into the Churchill purse. She would do so with a better conscience after having seen it wasted at the gaming table.

The King was sitting with three of his favorite women—the Duchesses of Portsmouth, Cleveland, and Mazarine. He looked ill and had eaten scarcely anything all day, but he was smiling and chatting with his usual affability; and now and then would caress one of the ladies.

Queen Catherine was not present—she was often absent from these occasions. Doubtless, it was supposed, because she did not care to see her husband with his mistresses; and, although he was kind to her in all other ways, this was one concession he would not grant her. It was the same with his brother the Duke of York; he was married to a beautiful wife, many years younger than himself and although she had hated him when she had first come to England she was now passionately in love with him and deeply resentful of his mistresses—yet he, though ready to do everything else she might ask, was not able to forgo this dalliance with women.

The Duchess of Portsmouth was leaning toward the King telling him that he was tired and she suggested a little supper in her apartments.

Cleveland and Mazarine were scowling at Portsmouth and Charles said that while he ever found supping in her apartments delightful, he had lost his appetite for the day.

Cleveland and Mazarine were smiling triumphantly, but Portsmouth replied: “I have had a special soup made for Your Majesty—very light but nourishing.”

Charles smiled and declared that he would taste it. He was anxious to leave the hall for he found the light trying and the noise from the basset table and the singer in the gallery gave him a headache.

In the company of the ladies and a few of his courtiers he left the hall; and no one knew then that it would never be quite the same again.

Charles spent a restless night and then in the morning when he left his bed for his closet his attendants noticed that he walked unsteadily. Later when he talked to them he seemed to forget what he was talking about and his speech was slurred.

It took a long time to dress and as he moved away from his bed he swayed and would have fallen had not his attendants steadied him.

Dr. King, one of his physicians, was in the palace and he came at once to the King’s bedside, but Charles was now clearly very ill indeed, for his face was purple and distorted and his power of speech had left him.

There was tension throughout the palace. The King was ill—more ill than he had ever been before.

They were sending for the Duke of York. What now?

The King was still alive, but there was anxiety throughout the kingdom. He had lived for his own pleasure; he had set the tone of immorality not only in the Court but throughout the country; unknown to his ministers he had made treaties with France; and he was said to be a secret Catholic; yet rarely had the English so sincerely mourned the passing of a King.

In the streets they were weeping openly. Many of them remembered his coming back to them twenty-five years ago—the flowers strewn over the cobbles; the music in the streets; the bonfires; wine and dancing and merriment. And if it had not turned out as wonderful as they had believed it was going to, at least it had been gay and lighthearted and different from the gloom of old Noll Cromwell’s day.

They loved him; they called him the merry Monarch; they remembered some of his sayings which had often been repeated because they were wise and witty. And now he was dying, and leaving them—James!

Under the sorrow there was low rumbling of “No popery!”

In his bedchamber the King lived on. It seemed he could not die. They had tried all the remedies they knew; they had opened his veins with a penknife; they had put a hot iron on his head; they had purged him; they had placed newly killed pigeons at his feet.

Under all these ministrations he rallied for a time and when the news was spread through the streets, the people shouted in their joy; they made bonfires and all the bells of London were ringing at once. He had been ill before and he was well again. All those who had seen him riding through his capital, sauntering through his parks in the company of his ladies with his spaniels at his heels, all those who had seen him throwing at pell mell were certain that he had the strength of ten men.

But the rejoicings were soon over. He could not live and although as he said—and apologized for it—he was a long time a-dying, he was dying all the same.

James was kneeling at his bedside, weeping, begging him to take the sacrament before he died.

Poor James! he was a sentimental man and they were brothers. Later he would think of what his brother’s passing meant to him, but at this time he could remember only the long years of intimacy, of struggle and endeavor, of exile and strife and, at last, the homecoming.

Charles tried to frame the words: “James, best of friends and best of brothers.…”

The tears ran down James’s cheeks, and Charles begged forgiveness for those exiles which had been a necessity, but he was sorry for them.

The Queen came to the bedside; she was a heartbroken woman; there were others too, women, who followed her into the bedchamber, to remind him that though she was his wife they were the ones who had shared his company.

The Queen was sobbing; she begged him to forgive her if she had ever offended him. “Alas, poor lady,” cried Charles, “she begs my pardon! I beg hers, with all my heart.”