The Three Crowns epub (22 page)

“You are right, Frances. Oh how clever you are. Let us go to him at once.”

“You wish me to come?”

“Yes, I want to show him that I have a new friend. He will be so delighted that I have found you.”

Frances laughed. “I do not think so,” she said.

“But you are wrong. He wants me to be happy. He loves me very much and I …”

She frowned. She did love him; if only she did not have to imagine … what she had seen this night with Jemmy!

She hated it. It was degrading and humiliating. But she would not think of her father and Jemmy. She had a new friend—Frances Apsley—and
their
relationship would never be sullied by degrading actions.

“Let us find my father,” she said. “I will ask him, because I cannot bear that Margaret should be so unhappy.”

The Duke of York was in the company of a handsome woman but when he saw his daughter coming toward him he turned from her.

“Something is wrong, my dearest?” he said.

“Father, I wish to speak to you. Frances thinks you may be able to help us.”

James smiled at the young maid of honor whom he knew slightly, she curtsied and he led them out of the hall.

“Now, tell me what is wrong,” he said, when he had shut a door and they were in that anteroom which Frances and Mary had just left, and Mary explained how Margaret had been forced to act against her conscience and not only dance but borrow diamonds, one of which she had lost.

“And what sort of a diamond is this?” asked James.

“It is worth eighty pounds.”

James touched his daughter’s cheeks lightly with the tips of his fingers. “Well, sweetheart, that does not seem such a mighty sum. What if I promise to find a diamond to replace this one—that’s if it cannot be found.”

“You mean that you will give it to Margaret so that it need not be known that she has lost one?”

“If that would please you.”

“It pleases me very much.”

“Then so shall it be.”

Mary smiled shyly from her father to Frances Apsley. “This is a very happy night,” she said.

“That night,” wrote
Mary to her new friend, “was the most important in my life because in it I met you.”

Everything had changed. Not only were she and her sister frequently at Court, not only were they present at Court functions, but Mary was soon deep in a new and exciting friendship.

Frances filled her thoughts; when she was with Frances that seemed to her the greatest happiness in the world. She adored Frances—the way she walked, talked, looked. Life was suddenly full of pleasure for she had a friend such as she had never had before; and the love she felt for her sister Anne was a mild affection compared with the passionate devotion Frances inspired.

Everyone at Court was ready to be charming to the Princess Mary. The King had no legitimate heirs and until the Duke of York produced a son, Mary could well be the future Queen: it was known that the King had a special interest in his nieces and that meant that all those who were ambitious should share this.

The girls remained at Richmond Palace under the care of Lady Frances Villiers, but Henry Compton, whom the King had appointed as Governor of their studies, did not greatly care whether they studied or not. Mary, who since the days when she had wished to please her father had developed an interest in knowledge, continued to work hard, but Anne rarely looked at her books.

“My head aches,” she would say. “And my eyes are watering.”

Anne’s eyes were her excuse to be lazy. But she was so good tempered that no one minded; and she continued to use her affliction whenever she wanted to escape from something which bored her. The new life suited her admirably. To be petted, to be continually given presents of sweetmeats (for her weakness was now becoming well known) to be often at Court, to spend her evenings with the cards, a dish of sweets beside her, to be constantly in the company of her dear friend Sarah and sister Mary, what more could she ask from life?

Mary might study French with Pierre de Laine until she became proficient. Anne would listen to her sister reading in that language and clap her plump hands.

“My darling sister, you are so clever. It does me good to hear you. I wish I were more like you.”

“You could learn as easily.”

Anne laughed. “Oh, it would strain my eyes. And I could never be as clever as you, my dearest.”

“You are lazy,” Mary would say in the indulgent voice she had used to her sister when they were children; and Anne would merely laugh.

“One clever daughter is enough for Papa.”

Sometimes Anne would attempt to draw, for she had a certain talent. The Princess’s drawing teacher, Mr. Gibson, who was a dwarf, did all he could to encourage her; and often she would sit with her sister lightly sketching. Mrs. Gibson helped her husband in teaching art for she too was an artist; and together these little people were one of the wonders of the Court for they had produced nine ordinary sized children. Gibson had belonged to Queen Henrietta-Maria before his marriage and was a specially privileged person in the household.

A pleasant life, made wonderful for Mary by this deep friendship. When she was at Richmond she constantly longed to be at St. James’s because Frances lived there with her parents Sir Allen and Lady Apsley. Their friendship was unusual, Frances had said, because she was so much older than the Princess; and this gave it a piquant flavor. Yet the difference in their ages seemed unimportant for Frances was as attracted by Mary as Mary was by Frances.

There was always so much to talk about; and to sit close beside Frances, holding her hand, seemed to Mary complete happiness. Mary realized that this was how she had wanted to love her father and perhaps Jemmy; but she never could because between them was the shadow of some shame, not quite understood but ever present. Lampoons had been written about them; they were untrustworthy because of this; they were in a sense shameful and could never enjoy a relationship of idealistic love such as that which existed between Frances and Mary.

“Frances,” said Mary on one occasion, “I shall never marry. I could not bear to marry. I shall call you my husband and I shall be your wife, and perhaps one day we can leave the Court and have a little house together.”

Frances laughed and said it was because Mary was young that she talked in this way; but Mary shook her head, and when she next wrote to Frances she called her her husband and signed herself her loving wife.

She was sitting with her sister one day drawing with the Gibsons when Lady Frances came into the room. She was carrying a letter in her hand, and Mary started up in dismay for she recognized it as one which she had written to Frances Apsley.

Lady Frances dismissed the dwarfs and Princess Anne and when they had gone she put the letter on the table.

“My lady,” she said, “this is your handwriting?”

Mary admitted that it was.

“It is addressed to ‘my dear husband’ and signed ‘your wife Mary’.”

Mary did not answer.

“And addressed to Frances Apsley. What does it mean?”

“It means,” said Mary, “that she is my dear friend and … I wrote to her.”

“You seem very fond of her.”

“She is the dearest person in the world.”

“H’m,” said Lady Frances. She picked up the letter and tapped the table with it. “I do not think you are wise to write so extravagantly to this young woman.”

“But I say nothing that I do not mean.”

Lady Frances was faintly worried.

As soon as
Lady Frances had disappeared the Princess Anne came quietly to her sister who was sitting thoughtfully at the table—the letter which she had taken from Lady Frances still in her hand.

“What was wrong?” demanded Anne.

“I am accused of writing extravagantly to a friend.”

“What friend?”

“A very great friend.”

“Please tell me,” wheedled Anne, sidling up to her sister.

Mary wanted to talk of Frances Apsley and having begun found it difficult to stop. Frances was perfect, she explained, so good and unsullied, there was no one in the world as beautiful or as good as Frances and Mary loved her passionately.

Anne was interested.

“I have seen her,” she said. “I want to be her friend too.”

“You always wanted to copy me, Anne.”

“Not always,” her sister corrected her. “You eat like a little bird.”

“And you like a lion. Yes, that’s true.”

“But all the same,” said Anne, “if you have a dear friend, I must have one too.”

Mary Beatrice was
no longer the serious girl who had wanted to be a vestal virgin. She found great pleasure in the entertainments which were the fashion at her brother-in-law’s Court. No one had been more thrilled to see the pageant which had featured her husband against the Duke of Monmouth when they had reconstructed the siege of Maestricht for the amusement of the Court. How thrilled she had been to see James in action as a general, building trenches and giving orders and showing what a brilliant strategist he was. The King looked on with great amusement and many witty asides to his friends. Charles realized as fully as anyone present that there was more than play in the rivalry between his brother and his natural son. James wanted to show the Court that he was a better general than Jemmy could ever be, while Jemmy was burning with zeal to show them that youth, energy, and boldness were a better choice than age and experience.

Such a situation was bound to amuse Charles and his friends, but it was impossible to know whose side Charles was on. He doted on Jemmy, but he was never a fool where his affections were concerned and saw the loved one’s faults as clearly as the virtues. In any case, Charles was not a man to love for virtue. He knew that his handsome brash Jemmy was so fond of his father largely because of what he hoped to attain through him, and that his exasperating brother was a man of honor. He never forgot that James was the legitimate heir of England and that although the people deplored his religious views they would always remember that he was the legitimate son of a King.

So the siege of Maestricht played out on a stage was more than a pleasing pageant.

Mary Beatrice, watching it, was deeply conscious of her husband. She would not have believed it possible when she first came to England that she could have such strong feelings for that man. He was twenty-five years her senior; he was a sensual man; he made demands on her which she had never thought it would be a pleasure to fulfill; but how wrong she had been. Mary Beatrice, once longing for the virgin’s life, had now become a woman passionately in love with her husband.