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

“Not that odious woman!”

“Who else?”

“I loathe her. The airs! Really, my sister is a fool. How can she so far forget her royalty as to grovel at the feet of that woman.”

Mary felt a twinge of conscience. She had remembered suddenly the humble letters she used to write to Frances Apsley. Anne was no more humble to Sarah Churchill. She could well understand Anne’s devotion to Sarah as she had once entertained a similar feeling toward Frances. Perhaps Frances wondered now why she was never invited to see the Queen. Mary was determined not to become enslaved to a woman as Anne was to Sarah Churchill.

“These Churchills seem to have some unnatural power over her. We have to be rid of them. You must start. Try to persuade your sister to get rid of the woman.”

“But William, she never will.”

“You must talk to her. I want them out of Court.”

“You have only to order them to go.”

He looked at her in exasperation. How obtuse she could be! One of the more dangerous occupations of the Marlboroughs in recent weeks had been to increase the popularity of Anne. She had been appearing in public, smiling at the people, distributing alms, visiting the playhouse, laughing when the people laughed, being one of them.

In any case, of all the royal family she was the favorite; she was the mother of the heir to the throne and when she appeared with him in public, playing the fond mother to perfection—not that she had to act in that role; for she always had been devoted to her children—the people applauded her. They knew of her quarrels with her sister and brother-in-law and they were ready to believe the worst of Dutch William.

“Anne will refuse. Don’t you see that this time we cannot afford to upset Anne. She is too popular. We have to be wary. You must speak to Anne and try to make her see what harm this woman is doing. I will deal with Marlborough if you will deal with his wife.”

“I will do my best of course, William, but …”

“Do it then … and without delay.”

The two sisters faced each other. It was rarely that the Queen came to the Cockpit. She would visit her nephew frequently, take him toys and if she was prevented from visiting him, send to inquire for his health; but she was not on such good terms with his mother.

Mary looked with distaste at her sister who was growing so fat. Mary herself was a big woman and getting fatter every week, but Anne had had a start of her, and she was becoming enormous.

Mary’s eyes went to the dishes of sweetmeats in the apartments. Her own mouth watered for she dearly loved them; but what a temptation to have them always before one! She supposed Sarah Churchill encouraged the habit; the fatter Anne became, the more lazy she was—and therefore the more ready to do as she was told.

“Anne,” she said, “I want to talk seriously to you.”

Anne looked mildly interested.

“There is one woman in your suite who, I am sure, is a bad influence. I’m going to advise you to consider ridding yourself of her.”

“I know of no such woman.”

“You must be aware that Sarah Churchill attempts to govern your life.”

“Govern my life. How?”

“Does she not tell you what you must do and are you not inclined always to do it?”

“Sarah Churchill is my friend … my greatest friend … the friend I trust more than anyone in the world.”

“Then I am sorry for you.”

“I know of course that you hate her. You haven’t a great friend now, have you? I am sorry. You must have forgotten how once Frances Apsley was your great friend. She is still mine, but not such a great friend as Sarah, of course. I see no harm in having friends. Nor did you once. I suppose William has asked you to do this.”

“I am asking you because I believe you would be better without Sarah Churchill.”

“I think I should be allowed to choose my own household.”

“I am advising you.”

“I could advise you.”

“Do not be so foolish, Anne. If you are not careful I shall take away half of your income.”

“You couldn’t do it,” retorted Anne. “The Parliament has voted me my income … although I know you and William tried to deprive me of it.”

“And how much do you allow the Marlboroughs?”

“That is my own affair.”

“Anne! You forget …”

“That you are the Queen? I do not. You won’t allow me. You come to talk to me like a sister, you say, and then you are reminding me that you are the Queen. Well, I am the Princess Anne—our father’s daughter no less than you, and the heiress to the throne, for you and William have no children—nor ever will have. So I and my little Gloucester are entitled to some consideration.”

Mary interrupted her. “You give the Marlboroughs a thousand a year. That is ridiculous and extravagant. Why should they have this money. Are they not paid for their services … he in the Army and for his Court duties … she for her duties here at the Cockpit? Why these extravagant gifts? Shall I remind you that your income has to come out of the royal purse and if it is so large that you can afford to give rich gifts of one thousand a year—to those who don’t deserve them—then I think it high time your income was reconsidered.”

“This is monstrous,” cried Anne, wiping her eyes. “To think that you come here … and me in my present state …”

“I do not mean to upset you, merely to make you see a little good sense.”

“Which in your opinion is to rid myself of my best friends.”

“Your friends are the King and myself.”

“I have yet to see any signs of your friendship.”

“Oh, you are the most ungrateful wretch!”

“Should you talk of ingratitude?”

Anne’s lips were pursed together, for she was remembering the letter she had written to her father. How much happier she had felt since writing that! Mary had asked no forgiveness. How could she, tied as she was to Dutch William? The only way she could repent was to go back to Holland and take her Dutchman with her.

How much more pleasant for Anne; all she had to do was write her penitent letter and continue to live at the Cockpit with Gloucester nearby and perhaps another little one soon, and dear Sarah her constant companion.

Her constant companion—that was the point at issue.

“Sarah shall remain with me,” she said stubbornly. “No one shall take her away from me.”

The Earl of Marlborough, one of the lords of the bedchamber, arrived at the King’s apartment to perform his duties as usual.

William, wigless, in bed, was not a handsome sight; but all his attendants were accustomed to that by now.

The ceremony was never a very pleasant one. Charles II had made of it a very merry occasion, with his quips and jokes and the King’s wit was something worth listening to. James’s rising ceremony had not been amusing, but it had been dignified and there had been conversation, although it was almost always confined to horses and women. William’s was silent and was merely the grim purpose of dressing the King.

It was Marlborough’s duty to put on William’s shirt. He did this as usual, and if the King looked at him as though he did not exist, that was not unusual.

The duty over, Marlborough was leaving the apartment when Lord Nottingham approached him.

“My Lord Marlborough, a word with you.”

Marlborough and several of the bedchamber people halted to listen, for there was something grave—even ominous—in Nottingham’s tone.