The Three Crowns epub (47 page)

It did not come.

William was considering how best to treat his wife. If he gave up Elizabeth Villiers he could pay more attention to her, but he could not give up Elizabeth. She completely fascinated him, although he was not a man to be very interested in women. Elizabeth was the one woman he needed in his life and he was determined to keep her.

But he could not make up his mind how to treat Mary. He was determined to make her realize he was the master; she must remain cowed as she had been in the past. The tears in her eyes when he expressed his displeasure had exasperated him, but it was disturbing that he rarely saw them now.

He believed that her father might try to wean her from him. Several unfortunate possibilities occurred to him. What if she died? Then Anne would inherit the throne.

He must keep Mary healthy, and at the same time he must make her his slave. He had thought he had achieved the last until the Zuylestein affair.

That was a warning.

Perhaps he should take her into his confidence a little, pretend to discuss state affairs with her, turn her against her father, make her understand the importance of preserving Protestantism in England.

That was his difficulty. He had to take her into his confidence over state affairs and at the same time never let her lose sight of the fact that he was the master. He was not sure how to do this.

That was why during that time he scarcely saw her and she, conscious of the widening rift between them, was very sad.

Mary waited for
the letters from Frances. She wrote to her “beloved husband” as though she were writing to William. It was a fantasy she clung to.

Then one day there came a letter from Frances. She was to be married to Sir Benjamin Bathurst. It was a marriage desirable on all sides and as Frances was now twenty-nine it seemed to be time she married if she were ever going to.

Mary read and re-read that letter. It was long past the time when that dream of the cottage in the wood should have been forgotten. They would both be matrons now; how everyone would laugh if they knew they wrote to each other as dearest husband and beloved wife!

Frances wrote that she was very busy preparing for the wedding. She seemed very happy. Mary fervently hoped she would be and that they would be friends for the rest of their lives.

“I wish you nine months hence two boys,” wrote Mary, “for one is too common a wish.”

She was seeking ways of pleasing William now; when he talked to her she was delighted; he was building his new brick palace at Loo and if there was anything William could really grow excited about it was building and the construction of gardens. Over the Palace of Loo they grew more friendly. He showed her the plans of the suite of rooms which were to be allotted to her.

“I think,” she said, “I should like flower beds here.”

He considered this and replied: “Flower beds would be pleasant but I have decided you should have a fountain which you will find more agreeable.”

He was delighted with her response. “Yes, of course a fountain would be better.”

He would ask her opinion and then superimpose his own. But he was at least taking notice of her. He showed an interest in the poultry garden she had set up and explained to her that she could have aquatic species of fowls because the canals provided the necessary water.

Mary listened eagerly; William’s anxiety decreased. He was certain that he would know how to keep his wife in order.

She still wrote to Frances but the passionate love was missing from the letters. She wanted to hear all the news from London. What was being worn at the Court? There were certain materials which she could not procure in Holland. Would Frances get them for her?

Frances was quickly pregnant.

“Lucky Frances!” she wrote. “How I envy you!”

And she knew that Frances was now almost entirely preoccupied with her family.

She was turning to William, waiting on those days when he honored her with his company, seeking to please him. He had now begun to talk to her of the unsatisfactory state of affairs in her own country. A great shadow overhung the land: the shadow of Catholicism.

Mary was very unhappy because her father was responsible. She kept remembering how affectionate he had always been and how when she had been a child he had made no secret of the fact that she was his favorite daughter. It was sad to have this conflict between her father and husband; but as a staunch supporter of the English Reformed Church she believed that it would be a disaster if the Catholic Church replaced that of England.

Gradually William was making her see through his eyes; and with each passing week her opinion of her father began to change. She had always been distressed by his infidelity both to her mother and stepmother; but it seemed that he was guilty of even greater indiscretions.

He was actually William’s enemy—her William’s.

Her William was a noble prince of high ideals who served his country loyally, who was a great ruler and had brought Holland away from the disaster which once had threatened her and if he was unfaithful to his wife with Elizabeth Villiers, were not all men unfaithful? And William was but a man.

She assured herself that she loved William. He was stern and seemed unloving, but that was his nature, the same as her nature was to be affectionate and demonstrative.

As she walked by the pond in the Loo gardens, she let herself dream that one day he would dismiss Elizabeth Villiers and remove that sinister barrier which, she told herself, stood between that ideal relationship for which she longed so fiercely that she must believe it was possible.

E
ngland seemed far away. This was her home:
The Hague, the Palace in the Wood, the Palace of Loo, and William was at the center of her life. To others he was unattractive; those who thought highly of extravagant manners, of the courtesies which were practised at her uncle’s Court, considered William to be brusque and ungracious, harsh and stern. She had heard all those epithets in connection with him, but believed she had come to understand him, and understanding, to love. He was deeply religious; his concern for the future of England, she told herself, had nothing to do with his own hopes; he sincerely believed that for England to return to Rome would be a major tragedy. He suffered from ill health, which was a fact most people seemed not to understand. He was asthmatical and easily exhausted. Yet he ignored this and drove himself, so naturally he was impatient at times. She was beginning to see everything through his eyes.

There were times when she wanted to tell him that he need have no fear of her ever disobeying him because her greatest joy would be to show herself as his loving and obedient wife.

Her days were passed almost in seclusion; there were her needlework, her flowers, her fowls, her miniatures; and occasionally those treasured interviews with William. She had heard that her sister Anne had been involved in an unfortunate affair with Lord Mulgrave and for that reason it had been decided that a husband should be found for her without delay. Anne was now married to George of Denmark and wrote to Mary that she was very happy. Mary would always love her sister; she did not forget how close they had been; but even Anne seemed far away now. In her letters Mary caught glimpses of the somewhat frivolous life her sister led. She was pregnant and thrilled at the thought of becoming a mother; she wanted Mary to send her stuff for a bedgown because she had a notion that just what she wanted could be found in Holland; Anne was content with her dear George and her dearest Sarah whom she would never allow to be very far away from her.

Then life began to change with the arrival of the Duke of Monmouth at The Hague.

Jemmy was still
one of the most attractive men Mary had ever seen and now that she was older, now that she knew that even William was guilty of adultery, she viewed his peccadilloes less severely. Jemmy came with his mistress Henrietta Wentworth and he seemed a different man from that gay—and perhaps heartless youth—who had fascinated her a little in the past.

For one thing his love for Henrietta was so deep; or perhaps it was Henrietta herself who made something beautiful of that relationship. She, a great heiress in her own right, had sacrificed all hopes of a conventional and comfortable life for the sake of Monmouth. He was aware of this and did his best to return her devotion. Henrietta was naturally beautiful and her love for Monmouth transfigured her so that she could not enter a room without everyone’s being aware of her, but she herself was conscious only of her lover. Such a devotion could not but have its effect on Jemmy.

He was more serious; beneath his natural gaiety and great charm there burned a zeal. He wanted to mount the throne of England; he was the son of the King and because he could ensure the continuance of Protestantism in England he believed his cause was righteous.

William, whose great enemy was James, tentatively offered friendship to Monmouth, but he would only do this as long as Monmouth’s bastardy was recognized.

It was a delicate situation.

Moreover Jemmy was in Holland because of the discovery of the Rye House plot—the object of which had been the murder of Charles the King and his brother the Duke of York.

William and Monmouth were closeted together and Monmouth passionately explained that he had had no part in the plan to murder his father; he swore that that intention had been kept from him.

“It was to be a revolt against the threat of Catholicism, to bring back the liberties which my father took away when he installed the Tory sheriffs and confiscated the city charters. My father has always wanted to rule without the Parliament … as our grandfather did. My father has been lucky. He has enjoyed great popularity. Because he is the man he is, they have never tried to chop off his head as they did our grandfather’s. But the people of England do not want an absolute monarch. And this was the object of the plot.”

William regarded his cousin steadily. “And because of this you are sent in exile?”

“I was in the first plot but not the second. By God, William, you know my feelings for my father. Those near him love him and I am his son. I have had great affection from him; the only thing he has ever denied me is my legitimacy and if it rested with him …”

William nodded. Charles did dote on this handsome son who was more than a little like himself. William thanked God that Charles’s sense of rightness had prevented him from giving his beloved son his dearest wish.

“My father and uncle were to be waylaid coming from the Newmarket races … and murdered. It was kept from me. I swear it, William, you know I would never harm my father.”

“I know it,” answered William.

“Russell, Algernon Sidney, and Essex are dead—Sidney and Russell on the scaffold, Essex in his prison—some say by his own hand. They wanted me to give evidence against them and I could not. They were my friends, even though they had kept me in ignorance of the plot to murder my father and uncle. And it is due to my father that I did not share their lot, William. It is due to him that I am here.”

“And what do you propose to do now?”

“What can I do? I cannot return to England.”

“Do you claim that your mother was married to your father?”

Their eyes met and Monmouth flinched. “I make no such claim,” he said, “for my father has denied it.”

William’s lips curled in a half smile.

“Then you can take refuge here. You will understand that I could not shelter one who put my wife’s claim in jeopardy.”

Monmouth bowed his head; he understood that he could rely on a refuge in Holland, but Mary must be recognized as the heir who would follow her father (or perhaps her uncle) to the throne.

William visited his
wife in her apartments and at his approach her women, as always, promptly disappeared. Mary looked up eagerly and was dismayed to find herself comparing him with Monmouth. They were both her cousins—and how different they were! Monmouth, tall and dark with flashing eyes and gay smile. It was difficult to imagine William gay; his great wig seemed too cumbersome for his frail body and one had the impression that he would not be able to maintain its balance; his hooked nose, slightly twisted, seemed the more enormous because he was so small; he sat hunching his narrow shoulders, his small frail hands resting on the table.

“You realize the significance of Monmouth’s visit?” he asked coldly.

“Yes, William.”

Her face was alight with pleasure. She was always delighted when he discussed political matters with her.

“I think we must be watchful in our treatment of this young man.”

“You are as usual right, William.”

He bowed his head in assent. He was pleased with her; he was molding her the way he wanted her to go. She was beautiful too; her shortsighted eyes were soft and gentle; her features strong and good. He had always wanted a beautiful wife, but of course docility had counted more than beauty. In her he had both—or almost. When she stood up she towered over him; he could never quite forget her horror when she had learned she was to marry him; he could never forget his shuddering bride. He knew that she did not always agree with him but when she did not she bowed her head in tacit acceptance that it was a wife’s duty to obey her husband. On the other hand he must never forget the Zuylestein affair and that she was not the weak woman she sometimes gave the impression of being; on occasions she could be strong; and how could he ever be sure when one of those occasions would arise?