The Three Crowns epub (36 page)

James was silent, thinking of his daughter’s unhappiness and the Prince of Orange whom he would never happily accept as a son-in-law.

The last day
of freedom. A dull dreary day. Mist and cold outside the Palace of St. James; inside, dark foreboding.

Anne spent much of that day with her. Poor Anne, she was almost as wretched as her sister; and Mary tried to comfort her.

“We shall see each other often,” she told her.

“How?” asked Anne.

“You will come to Holland and I shall come to London.”

“Yes,” cried Anne. “We must. I could not bear it if we did not see each other very, very often.”

When they clung together Mary thought Anne seemed a little feverish. She mentioned this and Anne said: “It is because I am so unhappy at your leaving us, dear sister. And what shall I do while I am waiting to go to Holland and for you to come to England?”

“You will be at home,” Mary replied. “Think of me, far away in a strange land with a strange husband.”

And the thought of that calamity set the tears falling again.

Nine o’clock in
the evening in the Palace of St. James. The hour of doom. In the bedchamber of the Princess Mary those who would participate in the ceremony had assembled. There was the bridegroom, pale and stern, gazing with distaste at the red eyes and swollen face of his bride. Henry Compton, the Bishop of London, had come to perform the ceremony and the Duke and Duchess of York had now entered with the King.

James’s eyes went at once to his daughter and he came to her side and embraced her.

“My dearest Mary,” he whispered, “my little one.”

“Father …?” she murmured and there was an appeal in her eyes.

“My dearest, if I could … I would.”

Mary saw that her stepmother, who was as round as a ball expecting as she was to end her pregnancy at any moment now, was trying not to weep.

“I shall miss you so much,” she whispered.

The King was approaching, and seeing the tears of the bride and her stepmother, the sullen looks of his brother, and the grim ones of the bridegroom, he was determined to make as merry an occasion of the wedding as was possible in the circumstances.

“Come now, Compton,” he said, “we are all impatient to be done with the necessary business.”

Charles laid a hand on Mary’s shoulder and pressed it affectionately. Poor child! he thought. But she would soon recover; she was a Stuart at heart and the Stuarts were gay by nature. Moreover, she was pretty enough to find herself someone who would please her as it was certain dour William would not.

He was sorry for her but he had long learned to feel emotions lightly, and while he was outwardly tender and kind to his sad little niece he was less concerned with her misery than anyone else at the melancholy wedding.

He looked slyly at William who, he knew, was hoping through this marriage to have the throne in time. An ambitious man, the bridegroom. Strange how big dreams often filled the hearts of little men.

“Come, Compton,” cried Charles, “make you haste or my dear sister the Duchess may give birth to a son before the ceremony is over and so disappoint the marriage!”

William’s expressions scarcely changed. He was becoming accustomed to his uncle’s sly witticisms.

William had placed a handful of gold and silver coins on the book as he promised to endow his bride with all his worldly goods. “Take it and put it into your pocket, niece,” whispered Charles, “for it is all clear gain.” The bridegroom had put the little ruby ring on her finger. The ceremony was over.

Mary stood shivering beside the man who was her husband. She was becoming more and more fearful, for the worst was yet to come.

The crowded room
had been stifling hot in spite of the cold November air outside. Mary was bemused by the congratulations, the hot wine had gone to her head and she felt dizzy.

Queen Catherine, her stepmother and the Duchess of Monmouth were with her now; they had come to prepare her for bed.

They were kind, all of them, infinitely sorry for the fifteen-year-old child who was being forced into marriage. They tried to comfort her, but they could only do so by their gentleness; no words could help.

They led her to the bed. They had taken away her clothes; she and William were together and the King was there smiling at them. He had insisted that he would be the one to pull the bed curtains.

And now that moment had come.

He did not look at Mary; he could not face her pleading eyes. So he laughed and shouted: “Now, nephew, to your work. Hey! St. George for England!” as with a flourish he drew the bed curtains.

Alone in the darkness—alone with the grim dour man who was her husband.

Mary felt him grasp her shuddering body; and shutting her eyes tightly, although it was dark enclosed by the curtains, she gave herself up to … horror.

William had left
her and Mary was being dressed by her attendants. She was dazed by the experiences of the previous night. Intimacy had not endeared William to her nor her to him. Her shuddering distaste had been an affront to his pride which he was going to find it hard to forgive. He was determined to subdue her to absolute obedience. As for Mary, she could only contemplate that the last night was but a prelude to her future life, that it would go on and on like that for as long as she would live; nor, very soon, would she wake to the familiar surroundings of St. James’s and Whitehall. She would be in a land of foreigners, with a strange dour Dutchman as her master.

“There is someone at the door,” said Sarah Jennings; and she gave the permission for whoever was there to come in, which it was not her right to do, but Sarah Jennings constantly assumed rights which were not hers, and Mary was too miserable to care about such trivialities now.

The arrival was Bentinck—the right-hand man of the Prince of Orange; he came, he said, with a gift from the Prince to the Princess of Orange.

The women were clustering around him, their eyes eager with anticipation. What had the Prince sent to his bride? He had not appeared to be the most generous of men. They could scarcely wait to see.

Bentinck came forward, bowed and put a box in Mary’s hands.

“Please thank the Prince,” she said listlessly.

Bentinck bowed and retired; and as soon as he had left, the girls implored Mary to relieve their curiosity and open the box. When she did so Mary drew out a row of pearls from among the ruby and diamond ornaments.

“They are magnificent,” said Elizabeth Villiers, her eyes sparkling with sudden excitement.

“I doubt not it is the Dutch custom to present these very jewels to each bride of Orange after her wedding night,” replied Mary.

“A pleasant morrowing gift,” said Anne Trelawny, holding a ruby emerald against Mary’s throat.

“Worth a fortune,” declared practical Sarah Jennings. “I’d say somewhere in the region of … thirty or forty thousand pounds. Just look at those pearls!”

Mary looked at them. I would rather have my freedom, she thought, than all the jewels in the world.

It was inevitable
that there should be festivities to celebrate the wedding since it was the wish of the King. There must be a ballet, dancing, and revelry. The palaces were a little shabby, because the King was always in need of money and in no mood to forego other extravagant pleasures for the sake of refurbishing them. But his courtiers could be relied on to provide a witty entertainment.

The King liked to amuse himself, surrounded by the fair ladies whom he favored at the time; as he was far too kindhearted—and too lazy—to dismiss those who no longer excited him, there were always a gathering of beauties about the throne. Monmouth could be relied on to enliven the company.

Besides the banquets and balls which celebrated the Protestant marriage, there were revelries in the streets. This was a defeat for popery, said the people. God save the King and the Princess Mary!

But while the bridegroom glowered and made it clear that he was heartily sick of England, his perfidious uncle, his sullen father-in-law, and his constantly weeping bride, and while the bride could not restrain her distaste for her marriage and her repulsion for her bridegroom, the revelries went on.

The Duke of York was cool to the bridegroom and it was clear that he was longing to shatter his hopes by becoming the father of a son in the next few days. Mary Beatrice, hourly expecting, had yet time to feel sorry for her little stepdaughter who had been more like a sister to her.

And in her apartments the bride’s only comfort was in weeping, which she did so frequently that it was quite impossible to hide the fact, and when she was receiving ambassadors or other state officials who had come to congratulate her, the tears would start to flow.

Two or three days after the wedding William came to her apartments when she was alone. She started up when he entered, her hand to her throat. He frightened her because he always looked so contemptuous and severe.

“Weeping again?” he said, in his cold voice.

She did not answer and he went on: “It would seem
I
have cause for grief. You have a stepbrother.”

Mary stood up, her fear forgotten. “So … it has happened.”

“Your stepmother has given birth to a son and your father is jubilant.”

He was looking at her with disdain, and she knew what he meant. It was as her uncle had suggested it might be: the marriage was disappointed. Now that she had a stepbrother she had lost her place in the succession, and William was thinking that the marriage was no longer the desirable union it had been a few days ago. He was saddled with a foolish child who spent most of her time in tears, who was quite insensible of the honor he had done her, and had no longer a crown to bring him which would have compensated for all these failings.

“We depart for Holland at the earliest possible moment,” he said sharply, and left her.

There followed days
of ceremony and waiting for inevitable doom during which the son of the Duke and Duchess of York was christened Charles after his uncle, and the King himself, with the Prince of Orange in attendance, acted as the boy’s sponsor, while Lady Frances Villiers stood as proxy for his fifteen-month-old sister Isabella.

Three days after the christening Mary was in her apartments being prepared for yet another ball when Sarah Jennings—always first with any news—burst in with her usual lack of ceremony.

“My lady,” she cried, “Lady Frances is very ill. There is great consternation throughout the palace because they are saying it is smallpox.”

Mary stood up, startled out of her grief. “You must not go to her, naturally,” said Sarah practically.