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

His collarbone was fractured. It must be set and he must rest.

“Rest!” he cried. “With war imminent! I have to be at Kensington Palace this night to meet my Council!”

None dared dissuade him; and when he reached Kensington riding there in his carriage, the jolting he received had displaced the bones and they had to be reset. Moreover, his sickly body could not endure the strain and he was exhausted and forced to rest.

He lay tossing on his bed. He had no great desire to live, but this was not the time to die. There was so much to be done. War was threatening and he was a great war leader. He did not love England, nor did the English love him; but his destiny, so clear at his birth, was the possession and retention of three crowns and he was not a man to evade his fate.

He must not allow a broken bone or two to deter him.

They said this King was immortal. They had been expecting him to die for years; yet he had outlived his wife; he had outlived James; and although a few days ago he had been believed to be near death he was recovering.

In the taverns the “Jacks” were secretly drinking to the Little Gentleman in Black Velvet—the mole who had made that hill which had brought down Fenwick’s Sorrel. He had passed through many battles; he had been the victim of plots; he had faced death a hundred times and eluded it; could it be that the little mole had succeeded where his enemies had failed?

But it seemed as though it were not to be.

The Princess Anne and Prince George called on the King to congratulate him on his recovery and for a week or so William, although suffering more acutely than before, went about his business.

But it was true that the gentleman in black velvet had achieved what his enemies had failed to do.

The swollen legs grew larger; the asthma was worse; it was he himself who told those about his bed that the end had come.

Keppel was at his bedside; he was glad of that; but there was one other whom he wanted: Bentinck. The friend of the past. There must be one last touch of that once dearly beloved hand.

Bentinck came, sorrow in his eyes and in his heart.

The one who truly loved me, thought William—but there had been one other. There had been Mary.

On his arm was the bracelet of hair he had put there on her death. They would find it now and perhaps know that somewhere in his heart under the layers of ice there was a warmth for some. For loving Mary, for loyal Bentinck, for gay Keppel, for his dear Elizabeth.

He tried to speak to Bentinck. “I am near the end …” But there was no sound.

In her apartment Anne waited for news. Sarah was with her, too excited for speech.

To herself she spoke. It has come. This is the great day … the beginning of greatness. We shall be invincible. My entire dream is coming true.

She looked at the flaccid figure in the chair: the Queen of England.

Queen, thought Sarah, in name only. It shall be the Marlboroughs who rule.

People were coming into the apartment now. Oh, so respectful, so full of feigned sorrow, so full of suppressed excitement.

They knelt before Anne.

“Your Majesty,” they said. And then there was a cry in the apartment. “Long Live Queen Anne.”

Bibliography

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, with notes by the Earls of Dartmouth and Hardwicke and Speaker Onslow, to which are added the cursory remarks of Swift

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from the Accession of James II

TURN THE PAGE TO READ AN EXCERPT FROM

JEAN PLAIDY’S

SEVENTH AND FINAL BOOK IN

THE NOVELS OF THE STUARTS SERIES:

COURTING

HER HIGHNESS

978-0-307-71951-5

$16.00

ABIGAIL HILL

hen the attention of Lady Marlborough was called to her impecunious relations, the Hills, she looked upon the entire subject as a trivial inconvenience, although later—much later—she came to realize that it was one of the most—perhaps the most—important moments of her brilliant career.

In the first place it was meant to be an insult, but one which she had brushed aside as she would a tiresome gnat at a picnic party.

The occasion had been the birthday of the Princess Anne, and on that day Her Highness’s complete attention had been given to her son, the young Duke of Gloucester. Anne’s preoccupation with that boy, although understandable, for he was the only one of her children who had survived after countless pregnancies—at least Lady Marlborough had lost count, for there must have been a dozen to date—was a source of irritation. Before the boy’s birth, Sarah Churchill, Lady Marlborough, had become accustomed to demanding the whole of the Princess’s attention, and the friendship between them was the wonder and speculation of all at Court; when they were together Anne and Sarah were Mrs. Morley and Mrs. Freeman respectively, because Anne wished there to be no formality to mar their absolute intimacy. But since the boy had been born, although the friendship had not diminished, Anne’s first love was for her son, and when she went on and on about “my boy” Sarah felt as though she could scream.

Thus it had been at the birthday celebrations; the boy was to have a formal introduction to the Court, and for the occasion Anne had ordered that a special costume be made for him; and she had had the absurd idea of decking him out in her own jewels. Anne herself did not greatly care for ceremonial occasions; she was far more comfortable reclining on her couch, with a cup of chocolate in her hand or a dish of sweetmeats beside her, entertaining herself with the cards or gossip. But she wanted “my boy” as she, to Sarah’s exasperation, constantly referred to him, to look magnificent.