Royal Sisters: The Story of the Daughters of James II (54 page)

Bentinck, so like himself in many ways, lacked his powers of endurance, his calmness in adversity, his great leadership, but, in place of this lack, possessed a charm and an ability to inspire affection.

He knew that he could trust Bentinck as he could no one else now that Mary had gone.

“Well Bentinck, what news?”

“Some mourn the Queen, some rejoice.”

William nodded.

He wanted the worst so Bentinck would not hesitate to give it.

“In some of the taverns, they are singing Jacobite songs. They are shouting: ‘No foreigners. No taxes!’ ”

“Do they want James back?” said William wearily. “They will say ‘No popery’ then. What’s it to be, foreigners and taxes to keep him out or popery to bring him in? They can make their choice.”

“They have made their choice. If he came back they would be shouting ‘No popery’ through the streets again.”

“And the lampoons?”

Bentinck nodded.

William held out his hand.

“Do you want to look. They are so silly.”

William took the paper and read:

Is Willy’s wife now dead and gone?

I’m sorry he is left alone

Oh, Blundering Death, I do thee ban
,

That took the wife and left the man!

Come, Atropos, come with thy knife
,

And take the man to his good wife;

And when thou’st rid us of the knave
,

A thousand thanks then thou shalt have
.

William screwed it up in his hands with a wry smile.

“So foolish,” murmured Bentinck.

“Yet in these outpourings we have an indication of public feeling. We should never shut our eyes to that, my friend.”

“And you have thought how best to act?”

William nodded. “I have been considering the Princess Anne. You know how I loathe the woman.” Bentinck nodded and William gave a sharp laugh. “As much as she loathes me. But this estrangement should end, of course. They will all be looking to her, for now there can be no doubt that she is the heir to the throne.”

Bentinck knew his master well enough to understand what was passing in his mind. What was his position now that Mary was dead? Would the people allow him to keep the crown? Would they remember that in the direct line of succession, Anne came before him.

If this were so, a continuance of the estrangement between them could make great trouble. There was enough conflict abroad; William must have peace with Anne. Therefore a reconciliation was essential.

Thomas Tenison, Archbishop
of Canterbury, was asking for an audience with the King on a matter of vital importance, and William ordered that he should be admitted without delay.

The Archbishop was surprised by the signs of grief in William’s face, for never before had he seen him betray any emotion. Never during his married life had he shown how much affection he had for his wife; and in view of the Archbishop’s mission the latter was doubly surprised.

“Your Majesty,” he said, “I come on an unpleasant duty and an indelicate mission. I pray you will forgive my frankness.”

William said coldly: “Pray proceed.”

“The Queen left me a casket which contains a letter addressed to you.”

“Left you a casket! With a letter for me! Why was it not left to me?”

“Because her late Majesty wished me to give this to you; there was also a letter for me in which she explains the contents of her letter to you. She wished me to remonstrate with you and to point out the evil of your conduct.”

William was startled out of his calm. “This seems to me both incredible and monstrous.”

The Archbishop’s eyes were as cold as those of the King. “Her Majesty suffered greatly from your infidelity and she fears that if you continue in your adultery you will not be received into heaven.”

“I do not understand how …”

The Archbishop held up a hand. William might be angry but Tenison was in command. The Queen had entrusted him with the saving of the King’s soul and he was going to perform his duty no matter how he offended him.

“The Queen was, of course, right to be anxious. You endanger your soul by continuing with this liaison.”

“I will be responsible for my soul,” retorted William.

“To God or to the Devil,” murmured the Archbishop. “I will leave the casket with you so that you may open your letter.”

“Pray do.”

“Then, Your Majesty, if there is anything you wish to discuss with me, if you wish my help in any way …”

“That is unlikely.”

The Archbishop bowed his head. “Then have I Your Majesty’s permission to broach a matter of a different nature, something which concerns the temporal position rather than the spiritual.”

William bowed his head.

“This concerns the Princess Anne. Your Majesty will be aware that many of those who have ignored her in the past are now flocking to pay their respects to her.”

“I know this.”

“And it is well that the people should know that she is recognized by Your Majesty as the heiress to the throne?”

“This is so.”

“The people would accept no other heir. Had you and her late Majesty been blessed with a child, that would have been different. But you were not.” The Archbishop looked reproachful as though suggesting that the barrenness of the late Queen was a punishment for her husband’s sins. It was an indication of how the people were feeling that the Archbishop should dare censure him in this way. He was now implying that if William married again and had issue, the child would not be accepted as heir to the throne.

He understood this, and of course Tenison was right.

“I propose,” went on the Archbishop, “that I speak to the Princess Anne and remind her of her duty. I believe that a reconciliation between Your Majesty and Her Highness should not be delayed.”

William answered: “Pray do this.” And in spite of the shock he had just received his spirits lifted a little. Tenison was an honest man. He disapproved of William’s relations with Elizabeth Villiers and said so; but at the same time he was anxious that there should be an end to the quarrel with Anne which was necessary if William’s reign was to continue in peace.

A good friend, this Archbishop, though an uncomfortable one. But William was wise enough to know that the best friends a King could have were often those who spoke their minds and made as little concession to royalty as possible.

He shut himself
into his cabinet and opened the letter. He read it and as he did so he could scarcely stop the tears falling from his eyes. He understood her now as he never had when she had lived. She had been so constantly aware of his infidelity; and yet she had rarely given a sign of it, outwardly accepting it, behaving as though it did not exist, when all the time it was souring her existence. Poor, foolish Mary! Courageous, clever Mary! He had thought her more simple than she was. He remembered how she had sat knotting her fringe, close to the candlelight, because her eyes troubled her so; he could see her looking up at him smiling tenderly, radiantly, giving him the homage and humility he had demanded. And all the time she was thinking of him with Elizabeth.

Again he read her letter. He must give up Elizabeth. His immortal soul was in danger. She implored him to do so. Marry again if he must, but marry someone worthy to be a consort of a great King.

She was gone; he had lost her, never to see her again, to see her start at his entrance and flutter her hands in that helpless way which had so often exasperated him; and yet he had been annoyed when she had seemed more composed. Never to be able to talk to her, to have her give him all her attention, to let him see in a hundred ways how she adored him.

He had lost the best wife he could have had; she was all that he had needed in a wife; and he had never appreciated that when she was here with him. He had never thought of what he would do without her; in fact he had never believed he would have to be without her. He had been the delicate one, he had been the invalid.

But now she had gone. Mary, whom he had never quite understood.

Oh, there was the subtlety of his emotion. She had wanted to save his soul and that was the reason why she had left this last letter. But why had she thought fit to write to the Archbishop of Canterbury on this very private matter? Would it not have been enough to write to him? Now he was wondering about her motives as he constantly had during her lifetime, and he realized that he could never be sure of Mary—no more in death than in life. Perhaps she had believed that if she had not sent him the letter through the Archbishop he would not have taken it seriously. Now the Archbishop would remonstrate with him, for that was what Mary had asked him to do.

It was surprising that now he must be unsure of her, even as he had in life.

He touched his cheek and it was wet. He, cold stern William, was weeping. He wanted her back with him; there were so many questions he wanted to ask her. He wanted to
know
what was going on in her mind. Suddenly a sense of desolation swept over him. He understood that he had loved Mary; and he had lost her: he would never be able to tell her that he had loved her—in his way. Why had he not, when she was alive? Perhaps he had not known it.

He shut himself in his closet and gave orders that he was not to be disturbed. He opened a drawer and took out a lock of her hair. She had given it to him before one of his departures in what he had considered to be an excess of unnecessary sentimentality, and he had thrust it into this drawer, exasperated by her action.

Now he took it out and looked at it. It was beautiful hair, and he wished that he had appreciated it during her lifetime.

How odd that he felt no resentment toward her for writing that letter to him and worse still writing to the Archbishop. He would never feel resentment toward her again, and wished with all his heart that she were with him now.

He made a bracelet of the hair and tied it about his arm with a piece of black ribbon.

No one would see it; only he would know it was there; but he would wear it, in memory of her, until he died.

There was someone
at the door of his cabinet. He cried out angrily: “Did I not say I did not wish to be disturbed?”

“The King will see me.”

He recognized the voice of the Archbishop and for the second time was too taken aback in the presence of this man to assert himself. The Archbishop shut the door and faced him.

“I see,” he said, “that Your Majesty suffers remorse. I come now to ask you for the promise as Her Majesty wished me to.”

“Promise?” demanded William.

“The promise that you will not see Elizabeth Villiers again.”

William was silent. The Archbishop had found him in the midst of his remorse; there were even traces of tears on his cheeks. Perhaps Tenison knew that what he felt today he would not feel next week: and that this was the time to complete the commission left to him by the dead Queen.

“It was her dying wish,” went on the Archbishop. “All her thoughts were for you. She died in fear that as an adulterer you would never enter the Kingdom of Heaven. Perhaps she is watching us now, waiting, praying for you to give the answer she wants.”