Royal Sisters: The Story of the Daughters of James II (15 page)

Anne was shaking with dismay when she read that letter. She remembered all that she had said of her father to her sister; and she feared that if Mary and James met, too much would be revealed and he would be able to tell Mary that he had been maligned.

If Mary came to England now, if she talked with their father, if she pointed out to him the folly of his ways … which she might well do, for Anne did not believe that—although she would support William in everything—Mary wished to see her father deposed … there might be a reconciliation between them.

Anne was too stupid to be a subtle intriguer; Sarah was too hasty.

Here was an awkward situation. How were they going to extricate themselves?

Together they found the answer.

“If either of you should come,” wrote Anne, “I should be very glad to see you, but really if you or the Prince should come I should be frightened out of my wits for fear any harm should happen to either of you.”

Mary’s reply to that was that Anne must be present at the birth. She must make sure that the baby was in fact the son of her father and the Queen.

Anne, who had been rather alarmed by the turn of events and desperately disappointed at the possibility of being deprived of her ambition, and at the same time weakened in health by yet another miscarriage, developed a fever and was confined to her bed.

The King came
to visit her.

He sat by the bed and held her hand, and when she opened her eyes she recognized him and smiled, for she had forgotten all the trouble of the last months and thought she was a child again.

“Dear Father,” she murmured; and James’s eyes filled with tears.

“My beloved,” he said, “you must get well. You know what you mean to me. I could never be truly happy without you.”

She was aware of George on the other side of the bed; and the presence of these two comforted her.

Sarah, who found that her authority was weakened when Anne was not there to help her enforce it, was terrified that Anne was going to die. It was clearly brought home to her that Anne was necessary to her future—hers and John’s. If Anne were to die now, what would become of them? They would rise in the world, she was sure of that; but it would take them years to recover what they would lose with the removal of Anne.

Anne was of vital importance to them; Anne
must
live; and when she was recovered they must be closer than ever.

As soon as Sarah could get into the sickroom, she nursed Anne. She amazed everyone with her efficiency, for no one had thought she would make a good nurse; she was gentle with the patient, although fiercely authoritative with everyone else. As for Anne, she drew strength from Sarah and when Sarah said: “You
will
get well!” Anne believed her.

The King and Prince George had to be grateful to Sarah Churchill, although they could not like her, and under Sarah’s ministrations Anne recovered more speedily than was hoped.

As the time
for the Queen’s confinement drew nearer the excitement increased.

Mary Beatrice had said that she would lie in at Windsor.

Anne and Sarah smiled significantly when they heard this.

“Naturally,” said Sarah. “Why at Windsor it will not be so easy to summon those people who should be at her bedside. Can you not imagine it, Mrs. Morley? It will be: ‘My pains are beginning. Come quickly.’ And by the time all those who should witness the birth have arrived, there will be a bonny baby in the bed!”

“Oh, the wickedness!” cried Anne.

It may have been that some of the Queen’s friends were aware of this rumor, for shortly afterward she changed her mind and said that she would lie in at St. James’s.

“St. James’s!” said Anne. “Such a bustle there was about lying in at Windsor and now it is to be St. James’s. St. James’s is a better place to cheat in.”

It was surprising how she and Sarah made each other believe these spiteful observations. Both knew that St. James’s was the palace in which the Queens usually gave birth to their children, Whitehall being unsuitable since it was more or less a public place in which people could enter night and day. It was noisy; matters of state were dealt with there; and the apartments of the Queen looked straight on to the river along which there was constant traffic. St. James’s on the other hand was an intimate Palace; it had been the home of Mary Beatrice when she had first come to England and she felt sentimental toward it. Therefore naturally she was determined that this most important child should be born in this Palace.

Certain repairs were in progess on her apartments at St. James’s at this time and she gave instructions that they should be hastily finished and her bedroom made ready.

Every small action, every word she spoke, was seized on by her enemies, and made to seem full of significance. Still neither she nor James—least of all James—were aware of the dangers which were overshadowing them, and it never occurred to them that the danger was heightened by the Queen’s condition, for those who had been waiting for an opportunity to depose James saw that they could use the birth of a son for doing so. The cry was: “If there is a son, that son will be brought up as a Catholic. A Catholic King; a Catholic Queen; a Catholic Prince of Wales! There can be no doubt then what the fate of England would be. It must never be allowed to happen.”

There was a whisper in some circles that if a son was born to the King and Queen, William of Orange would come to England and make a bid to take the crown from him on behalf of his wife.

This was a time of tension and great danger—realized by all except the King.

James, with his penchant for falling into trouble just at the time when it could bring him most harm, sent the Archbishop of Canterbury and six bishops to the Tower for asking to be excused from ordering the reading of the Declaration of Indulgence in the churches. The country was filled with horror, and feeling against the King increased.

Anne was growing alarmed at the speed with which tension was rising. Her sister had said that she must be present at the birth and see for herself that the child was genuinely the Queen’s.

This was disturbing because secretly she knew that the Queen was pregnant, and if she were present at the birth how could she continue with this pleasant fantasy? She, who had never had any great desire for action, was becoming too deeply involved. What she liked was to lie on her couch, with Sarah sitting beside her, while she made the most fantastic accusations against anyone they cared to slander. That was quite different from taking an active part.

“I feel very unwell,” she told her father. “I think I shall go to Bath at once.”

He was immediately concerned. “You should be here for the birth,” he said, “but I do not wish you to run any risk of a return of your fever.”

“I fear I should if I remained.”

“Then, my dear, you must go. The Queen will be sorry, but I am sure she will understand.”

The Queen was not in the least sorry. When Anne told her of her decision to leave, Mary Beatrice looked at her coldly. They both remembered the incident of the glove.

“So I shall not be here when Your Majesty lies in,” said Anne demurely.

“It may be that you will have returned by then. I think my confinement will be after July.”

“Oh, Madam, I think you will be brought to bed before I return,” replied Anne.

The Queen did not answer and shortly afterward Anne left.

Repeating the conversation to Sarah, Anne explained: “You will see, the child will be born while I am away.”

“One less witness,” said Sarah. “You can depend upon it.”

This idea pleased them both and they refrained from reminding each other that there was no need for Anne to leave London and it was entirely her own wish that she should go to Bath.

Shortly after, Anne, with a few of her women including Sarah, left London.

The repairs to
the apartment in St. James’s Palace were not completed by June and the Queen was growing anxious.

“I am determined to lie in at St. James’s,” she said.

“Your Majesty, there is some work to be completed yet,” she was told.

“Please ask them to hurry,” she replied.

As the days passed she became more and more concerned, seeming to be very fearful of not being able to get to St. James’s in time. Her aversion to Whitehall was unnatural, said her enemies.

All during Saturday, the 9th of June, she was very restless, and she sent to St. James’s to ask how the work was progessing.

“It will be finished, Your Majesty, by the end of the day,” she was told.

“It must be,” she said, “for I believe my time is near and I am determined to lie at St. James’s tonight if I have to lie on the boards.”

Her remarks were noted and her enemies were ready to see deep meaning behind them. Before the Queen settled down to cards once more she sent to St. James’s and the reply came back that the work would be finished before night; her bed was being set up and word would be sent as soon as her apartment was ready.

The play was a little wild that night; the Queen’s eyes were on the door and the eyes of almost everyone else were on the Queen.

It was about ten o’clock when the message arrived breathlessly from St. James’s, to announce that the Queen’s apartments were ready now.

Mary Beatrice half rose in her chair; then she remembered that etiquette demanded the party should not be broken up until the game was completed. She sat impatiently while the play went on as though in fear that the child would be born before she had time to make the short journey from palace to palace.

Her relief was apparent when at eleven the game was completed and she declared her intention of leaving at once. Her sedan chair was brought and because of the solemnity of the occasion, when she was carried from Whitehall through the park to St. James’s, her Chamberlain, Sidney Godolphin, walked beside her chair. James joined the party and contentedly Mary Beatrice took possession of her apartments, there to await the birth which, before it was taking place, was causing more speculation throughout the country than any other had before.

On Trinity Sunday
, the 10th of June, the Queen awoke and remembered with relief that she was in her apartments in St. James’s Palace. She found that she was trembling; the child would be born today she was sure. It was not that she was afraid of the pains of birth; heaven knew she longed for the child to be born; but there were too many enemies about her, and those who should have been her friends were turning against her. Anne, her stepdaughter, had, in the last months, grown sly and secretive. What did Anne say of her when she was not there to defend herself? And there was Mary, she whom she had affectionately called her “dear Lemon” because she was married to William of Orange. Had she really detected a coldness in Mary’s letters? She called to one of her women.