The Three Crowns epub (58 page)

And now she was one of those who were against him. He would know that. How would he bear it in the midst of all his troubles? Would he say: Once I dearly loved this ungrateful daughter?

She wanted to cry out: He is my father. I loved him once.

But William was looking at her coldly, and his eyes reminded her of her promise always to obey.

Mary Beatrice wrote
to her stepdaughter.

“I shall never believe that you are to come over with your husband, dear Lemon, for I know you to be too good that I don’t believe you could have such a thought against the worst of fathers, much less perform it against the best, that has always been kind to you and I believe has loved you best of all his children.”

How could she read such words dry-eyed?

Oh, God, she prayed, let it be happily settled. Let my father realize the folly of his ways, let him confess his wickedness, … and let William have the crown when my father has left this life.

She must not answer Mary Beatrice because she must always consider her loyalty to William. And William was exultant these days although he was coughing a great deal, even spitting blood, and she worried on account of his health.

Sad days! Oh for that happy time when dear Jemmy had danced and skated here at The Hague, and later when she had sat with Dr. Burnet and William and they had all talked pleasantly together. Dr. Burnet had now married a Dutch woman—very rich and comely—and he was happy; and was no doubt thinking of the time when William was King and she Queen and he would be recalled to his native land.

But her father haunted her dreams, his eyes appealing. “Have you forgotten, my favorite daughter, how I loved you?”

I must forget, she told herself, because I have a husband now.

She steeled herself to forget; she prayed continuously. There must be two idols in her life—her religion and her husband.

She must forget all else.

But it was
not easy to forget when she read the letters her father sent her.

He did not believe she was in the plot to depose him; he could not accept that.

“I have had no letter from you and I can easily believe that you may be embarrassed how to write to me now that the unjust design of the Prince of Orange to invade me is so public. And though I know you are a good wife, and ought to be so, yet for the same reason I must believe you still to be as good a daughter to a father that has always loved you so tenderly and that has never done the least thing to make you doubt it. I shall say no more and believe you very uneasy all this time for the concern you must have for a husband and a father. You shall find me kind to you if you desire it …”

Mary broke down when she read that letter.

“I cannot bear it,” she sobbed.

Why must there be this unhappiness for the sake of a crown. Three crowns—England, Scotland, Ireland. And so many to covet them!

She went to William, determined to fall on her knees and implore him to give up this design. But when she stood before him and saw the cold determination in his face, she knew that would be useless. As well ask him to give up his hope of the three crowns. As well ask him to give up Elizabeth Villiers.

And she had sworn always to obey; she
must
obey him. He was her husband and she had promised herself that hers should be an ideal marriage. It could only be so if she obeyed him absolutely.

She changed her plea. “William,” she said, “promise me that if my father should become your captive, he shall be unharmed.”

William had never been a violent man; it was easy to give that promise.

W
illiam was ready to leave for England
.

In spite of his ill health—that terrible cough which racked his body day and night and the ever-threatening asthma—he seemed to have grown younger during the last weeks. The dream was about to be realized; and he could scarcely wait for its fulfillment. Outwardly he was as calm as ever; but Mary sensed the inner excitement.

He looked at her intently and with more tenderness than he had ever shown her before. It might be that he understood her feelings, that he was appreciative of this immense loyalty to him which had forced her to turn her back on her father.

He had groomed her well and was pleased with her. Momentarily he thought of the shrinking girl who had been his bride. She was gone forever. She had turned into the docile wife and if he had the wish—or the potency—he could have made of her a passionate woman.

But such trivial dallyings were not for him. He had a destiny and he was about to grasp it in his frail, but nonetheless eager, hands.

“Mary,” he said, taking her hands, “pray God to bless and direct us.”

She bowed her head; this time the tears did not exasperate him.

“You have been a good wife to me. It is something I shall never forget.”

“And shall always be, William, in the years to come.”

“The years to come …” His expression darkened and he saw the fear leap into her eyes. Again he was satisfied.

“William, you frighten me.”

“We must be prepared for all eventualities,” he said. “I do not go in peace to your father’s kingdom. You must prepare yourself for that. And if it should please God that you should never see me again, it will be necessary for you to marry again.”

“Do not speak of it, William. Such words pierce me to the heart.”

“Then you must steel your heart, for you will be a Queen, Mary, if all goes as it must go for the sake of England and our Faith. I need not tell you that if you marry again your husband must not be a papist.”

He turned away as he spoke for the stricken expression in her eyes moved him as she had never been able to move him before.

“I give you pain by this plain speaking, I fear,” he said quietly. “But I do it only because of my strong convictions. Protestantism must be preserved in England.”

She nodded.

Then she went to him and clung to him; for some seconds he remained unresponsive then he put his arms about her and held her against him.

“I have never loved anyone but you, William,” she declared tearfully; and even as she spoke she saw the reproachful dark eyes of Frances that “dearest husband” who had remained a dear friend; she saw the jaunty ones of Jemmy and for a few revealing seconds she seemed to glimpse a different life, a life of gaiety and adventure which might have been hers if she had married him. She shut out these images. Dreams. Fantasies. Her life with William was the reality.

“William, William,” she cried, “all these years I have been married and have no child. If God does not see fit to bless me with children there would be no reason for my marrying again.”

She delighted him. This failure to produce a child she took upon herself; she did not hint as so many did that William was the one who had failed in that respect. She was a wonderful wife. Only now that he was leaving her did he realize how wonderful.

“I shall pray to God that I do not survive you, William. And if it does not please God to grant me a child by you I would not wish to have one by an angel!”

She was overflowing with her emotions, which on this occasion was pleasant.

“Your devotion pleases me, my dear wife,” said William; and Mary believed she saw a glint of tears in his eyes.

Again she clung to him and he did not resist. His kisses were warmer than they had ever been before.

“You must live, William,” she cried. “You cannot leave me now.”

“If it is God’s will,” he said, “victory will be mine. We will share the throne. God willing, there are good years ahead of us.”

They left the Honselaarsdijk Palace together and Mary accompanied him to the brink of the river and watched him embark.

Throughout Holland the
people fasted as they prayed for their Prince’s victory. There was consternation when no sooner had he set out than a tempest rose which scattered his fleet and forced it to return to port.

Mary was frantic with anxiety; her doctors implored her to consider her health; but it was necessary to bleed her and it was a letter from her husband asking her to come to Brill which revived her more than any remedies.

There William spent two hours with her. He told her that there was no real disaster to the fleet and the rumors were being greatly exaggerated in England; he was going to set out immediately but he had wanted to see her once more before he left.

“Oh, William,” she cried, “how happy I am that you should spare me this time … but it only makes the parting more bitter.”

“As soon as I have succeeded in my task I shall send for you.”

She shivered slightly. She saw herself going to England, but she could only go on the defeat of her father. Her exultation in William’s response to her affection had temporarily driven everything else from her mind; but she dreaded returning to the land of her birth, for how would she ever be able to forget her childhood?

“It will not be long, I trust. And should it go against me, you will know what to do.”

He kissed her tenderly once more; and left her.

She went to the top of a tower to see the last of the fleet. Tears blinded her eyes.

It does not matter now, she thought; I can weep my fill for he is not here to be offended by my tears.

“God Save William,” she prayed. “Bring him success.”

She went back to her apartments and shut herself in to pray; but as she prayed for her husband’s success she kept seeing images of her father, and her stepmother; she kept hearing the latter’s voice appealing to her “dear Lemon” to remember her father and all his goodness to her. And she thought too of the newly-born child.

She could settle
to nothing. She was continually on her knees. On waking she went to her private chapel and was again there at midday; at five o’clock she was back, and again at half past seven she attended a service.

Her prayers were all for William.

“But,” she cried to her chaplain, “what a severe and cruel necessity lies before me! I must forsake a father or forsake my husband, my country, character, and God himself. It is written Honor thy father.… But should not a wife cleave to her husband, forsaking all others?”

She wept. Never, she declared, was a woman confronted by such a cruel decision.

But her dreams came to her help. Why should not her father continue to wear the crown and William be set up as Regent? Thus her father would not be deposed; her husband would rule, and England be saved from popery.