The Three Crowns epub (45 page)

Elizabeth … and William!

She did not know what to do. If she sent for Elizabeth and accused her of being a harlot, what would William say? He would despise her more than ever.

Something had happened during that illness. She had fallen in love with an ideal husband who did not exist and she had fallen out of childhood.

She must remember that she was a woman now; she was royal. Princesses and Queens did not make scenes with their husband’s mistresses unless of course they could banish them from Court, which she could not. She thought of poor little Mary Beatrice, who had been nothing more than a child when she had discovered that her husband still kept his mistresses. How she had wept and stormed! And what had James done? He had made vague promises which he had not kept; and he had avoided his wife because he hated scenes. William was different. She could picture the coldness with which he would receive her accusations.

She faced the truth. She was afraid of William—afraid of his coldness and anger. She had intended to melt that coldness with her own ardor; but Elizabeth Villiers had done that before her.

Strangely she did not weep.

She was grown up now; she had done with weeping; but she would keep herself under a rigid control; neither Anne Trelawny nor Elizabeth Villiers should know that she had overheard their words.

When Anne came into the apartment she found her mistress lying on the bed, her face pale but composed. Anne thought she looked exhausted and anxiously asked if she needed anything.

“To be left alone,” said Mary. “I am so tired.”

Mary was eighteen
and when she finally rose from her sickbed she seemed older. The change in her was noticed; she, who had always seemed young for her years, had become a woman.

She was composed and dignified, quiet and gentle. She did not betray by a gesture or look that she knew Elizabeth Villiers to be her husband’s mistress, even though Elizabeth was in constant attendance. William rarely visited her; she wondered whether he had come to the conclusion that she could not give him children or whether being Elizabeth’s lover demanded all he had to give in that way—his physical disabilities would make it difficult for him to play the constant lover.

She did not complain; she waited, praying for strength to bear whatever she must; and because she had built up an image of William which she had forced herself to love, she continued to love that image and to tell herself that indeed it was the true William.

Had she been as eager to escape from him as she was in the early days of marriage her life would have been easier; but she could not do this now.

She wanted to please William; she longed for his approval; she continued to hope that one day he would turn from Elizabeth to her and the ideal relationship for which she craved would begin.

But there were times when she was very unhappy; then she would take up her pen and write to Frances.

It was long since they had corresponded and now she upbraided Frances for her long silence.

It was soothing to scold a dear husband. She could think of them as one—William and Frances. Dear husband … dear faithless husband!

“I daresay you are grown cruel,” she wrote, “for it is long since you wrote to me. Oh, dearest, dearest husband, send me a letter. One kind word will give me ease. Have you forgotten me? Do you love someone else? I do not now mourn a dead lover but a false one. Daggers, darts, and poisoned arrows I could endure them all for one kind word from you.…”

Dear Frances, she said as she sealed the letter. Frances would understand. Perhaps she had heard. Rumors traveled quickly; and those in the center of a scandal were often the last to hear of it.

If she knew, Frances would understand that Mary had grown to love her stern William and had discovered that he was an unfaithful husband.

The cry of dear husband was not addressed to Frances … but to William.

W
hile William was away on one of his
various journeys Mary made another discovery. He had remained as aloof as ever and did not appear to have noticed the change in his wife. Others had, for when Mary rose from her sickbed although she still played cards and liked to dance, she was often serious and thoughtful. Only occasionally did she weep and that was always due to some harshness of William’s. Those about her complained of his treatment of her, in particular Dr. Kenn; and Betty Selbourne declared that his behavior, not only to his wife but to everyone (with the exception of Elizabeth Villiers and her sister Anne who had now married Bentinck) was enough to make one scream. Much as they loved the Princess, they all thought longingly of the English Court where everything was more lively.

William was quite indifferent to the impression he made. He was deep in political schemes; he was cultivating Monmouth as one Protestant to another who was deeply concerned to see England tottering toward Catholicism. The fact that Monmouth was illegitimate meant that he, William, had little to fear from him; William believed that if Charles died the people of England would not have James and would turn to Mary. He was anxious to show Mary that he was her master—and this fact, in conjunction with his guilty feelings about his
affaire
with Elizabeth Villiers, set up a barrier between them and made him avoid his wife’s company.

He had visited England to try to discover exactly what was going on; but other urgent matters claimed his attention. He was trying to find allies in the German states for he was in great need of help against the greatest of his enemies, Louis XIV of France, and it was during one of these absences when Mary came across her maid of honor. Jane Wroth was in great pain. She collapsed while Mary was being dressed one morning and was hurried to her bed by some of the other girls. When Mary went to visit her she had a suspicion of what was wrong with Jane, for it now occurred to her that she had seen a thickening of her body recently.

As she sat by Jane’s bed, the girl looked at her fearfully. “You had better tell me, Jane,” said Mary.

“I cannot, Your Highness.”

“You are with child are you not?”

“Yes, Your Highness.”

“That should not make you collapse as you did. Jane, you have not been trying to bring about a miscarriage?”

Jane was silent.

“That,” went on Mary, “is not only wicked, but foolish. You could kill both yourself and the child.”

“Your Highness,” retorted Jane bitterly, “that could prove a solution.”

“There is another. You could marry the father of the child.”

“It is impossible, Your Highness.”

“Did this man want you to bring about a miscarriage, did he help you in this?”

“Y … yes, Your Highness.”

“It is a wicked criminal act. He should be punished for it. Who is he?”

“Your Highness, I cannot tell.”

“Now, Jane, that is foolish. How am I going to command him to marry you if I do not know his name?”

“You cannot command him, Your Highness. He’s in too high a position.”

For a moment Mary felt sick with fear. William! Not Elizabeth Villiers
and
Jane Wroth!

“Your Highness, I have been a fool.”

“We all are when we are in love,” said Mary. She steeled herself. “You must tell me the name of the man without delay. Come, I command you, Jane.”

Jane said: “Your Highness, you can do nothing for me. It is better that you should not know.”

“I demand to know.”

Jane hesitated. Then she said: “It is William Zuylestein.”

Mary hid her relief. She could laugh at the foolish thought which had come to her. William with two mistresses! Impossible. He would never have time for more than one, nor a lover’s energy. Why, he had not time for a wife and a mistress—that was why he chose the mistress.

But almost immediately she was concerned. Zuylestein was a member of the House of Orange, although through an illegitimate connection. Jane was the daughter of an English country gentleman of no very grand background. Could the cousin of the Prince of Orange marry such a girl? In the circumstances, he must.

“He must marry you without delay,” said Mary.

“He will not do so, Your Highness. He says his family would not allow it. I should not be considered a suitable match.”

“He considered you suitable to get you with child.”

“Oh, Your Highness, I see nothing but disgrace. I shall be sent back to my father and I cannot bear it. I sometimes say to myself anything … anything is better than that.”

“Has Zuylestein spoken to the Prince?”

“Oh, no, Your Highness. He would not dare. The Prince has other ideas for him. He will arrange a grand marriage …”

“Not surely when he so clearly owes it to you to marry you. How could you have been so foolish as to submit to him, Jane?”

“I loved him, Your Highness.”

“Ah!” said Mary.

“And in the beginning he promised to marry me.”

“In that case I think he should be made to keep his promise.”

“The Prince, he says, will never consent to the marriage.”

“
I
believe that this marriage should take place. I would that you had come to me earlier, Jane.”

“Oh, Your Highness, so do I. You are so good and kind … so understanding. You have not once upbraided me.”

“Now Jane, I am not a child. I know what it means to love. I am sorry though that you should have let your feelings run away with you. But in these matters it is not for any of us to put blame on others.”

Jane kissed her hands and began to cry quietly.

“You are quite overwrought which I am sure is bad for the child. Go to your room and leave this to me.”

“Oh, Your Highness, how can I thank you.”

“Save your thanks until I have married you to your seducer. It may not be easy, but rest assured I shall do my best.”

Mary sat in
her apartments brooding on the difficulties of life. Poor Jane Wroth! One imagined her going back to her father’s house in the country to have her illegitimate child. The reproaches would very likely continue through her life, for it was improbable that she would find a husband since she was neither rich nor beautiful.

Years and years ago in Holland her mother had become pregnant and had believed that
her
seducer would not be allowed to marry her. She had heard the story many times and it had not pleased her; it was another of those unpleasant circumstances which had made her turn to Frances Apsley because men made unpleasant complications in life. Oh, for that cottage in the woods with Frances to care for and love for the rest of her days! No. That would not satisfy her now. She knew that her love for Frances was an escape from reality; she was not a natural lover of women. But she needed love though; she needed an ideal relationship; she needed William to be kind and loving.