Royal Sisters: The Story of the Daughters of James II Page 20

  “You will guard your dear person well, William. You will not expose yourself to danger. I trust that you … and my father … will never come face to face.”

  “Pray for it,” he said.

  BEACHY HEAD AND THE BOYNE

  n the morning after William’s departure Mary awoke with a swollen face.

  She called for a mirror and looked at herself with dismay. Her expression was dismal; she had a feeling of foreboding. William gone and herself swollen-faced and inadequate without him! She lay back on her pillows carefully touching her face. She hoped it did not mean a return of the ague. She must not, however, brood on her affliction, but call a meeting of the Council at once; and she would have to impress them with her knowledge of affairs; William had been so kind lately and had talked to her so carefully that she had a good grasp of what was going on. Dear William, he had been really concerned on her behalf. People did not understand that beneath that rather harsh exterior was great kindliness.

  He is a great good man, the best in the world, she assured herself. And I must be worthy of him. That was what alarmed her—consciousness of her own unworthiness.

  She thought of her nine councillors and wished that Shrewsbury was among them. Charming Shrewsbury, with the gentle voice and the noble air, reminded her of Monmouth; not that they were alike, but Shrewsbury was attractive, as Jemmy had been, and there was not one of the nine councillors whom she could really like. Four of them were Whigs and five Tories. How clever of William to assure a good division!

  She would speak to them earnestly and sincerely and she would pray that no situation arose which would be too difficult for her to handle.

  When the Countess of Derby came to her she exclaimed with horror at the sight of the Queen’s face.

  “But Your Majesty is ill.”

  “It will pass,” replied Mary.

  “I must call the doctors while you rest in bed.”

  “My dear friend,” insisted Mary firmly, “I cannot lie abed now. The King is on his way to Ireland and I have the sole responsibility of ruling in his absence. Why do you not know that almost always he is in pain. Do you not know that he is fighting a battle for his breath most of the time, but does he stay in bed? Does he complain?”

  The Countess did not reply.

  “There is one thing I know I have to do,” went on Mary, “and that is follow his example. Then I cannot fail.”

  “I am sure no one ever performed royal duties more graciously than Your Majesty.”

  Mary smiled a little sadly. She understood the implication. It was most perverse of those about her continually to defend her against William.

  “Graciousness is not a necessary part of greatness,” she reproved gently.

  And the Countess of Derby in sudden affection kissed her hand. She wanted to say that it was an asset when a sovereign knew how to win the love of the people. Mary had that asset—William never could.

  “The first thing I shall do is to pray for the King’s safety and success,” said Mary. “And then that I may have the help I shall surely need.”

  The Council meeting was held in Nottingham’s apartments in Whitehall. Mary sat at the head of the table with the nine members of the Council about her; the five Tories were Marlborough, Danby, Nottingham, Pembroke, and Lowther; and the four Whigs Dorset and Devonshire, Mordaunt and Russell.

  They expressed their concern at the Queen’s appearance and she replied that she believed the swelling to have little significance.

  “The King worked with greater disadvantages,” she told them smiling.

  The Earl of Devonshire said that the strain of the last days had been great, and if Her Majesty wished to retire to bed they would work without her and have sent to her bedchamber any important documents which she would wish to see.

  His voice was caressing. Devonshire was a courtier for ladies, she mentally commented; she considered him weak and unfit for the post he now held.

  “I shall remain,” she told him pleasantly, “and I pray you cease to think about this ailment, which I know to be trivial.”

  There was a touch of command in her voice which they were quick to note; Mary without William was a different woman from Mary with him. She had become a Queen overnight—not merely William’s shadow.

  “We must be doubly alert now,” she said. “I trust that we are on the watch for a move which might come from France. Now that the King is away we should be very vulnerable.”

  “The King in his wisdom has not taken all his best men, Your Majesty. We are few who remain but some of us do not lack experience.”

  That was Mordaunt. She had never liked him, but thought him a little mad. He had visited William in Holland before the revolution and had declared himself willing to help rescue England from popery. He had put forward several plans for William to study. William had laughed at most of them and had said to Mary and Burnet: “This fellow wants to be at the heart of all the adventures which are planned not for the establishment of the Protestant religion in England but for the glorification of Mordaunt. Such a man would be setting himself up as King before long, I’ll swear.”

  Marlborough was nodding approval of this speech. Marlborough, Sarah’s husband. The one she trusted least of all. How much was he in league with his wife to turn Anne against her and William? What was their idea? To rid themselves of William and Mary and set up Anne—as William and Mary had made away with James—that they might be the powers behind the throne?

  He was a handsome man, this Marlborough—his features clearly cut; his eyes alert, his voice soft and gentle—very different from the somewhat strident tones of his wife—but of all these men who had been chosen for her councillors, Marlborough was the one of whom she must be most watchful.

  “What we should look for,” said Marlborough, “is an attack from the French. They might well seize this opportunity while the King’s army is in Ireland.”

  “Torrington will look after them,” said Nottingham complacently.

  Mary glanced sharply at him. She was uncertain of Nottingham and had heard that he was a secret Jacobite. He certainly had a sinister look; was it because he was as dark as a Spaniard? He was aloof and his expression was melancholy; it was no wonder that he was nicknamed Don Dismallo.

  “I believe the Earl of Torrington to be a good admiral and an experienced one, but I believe too that he is over-fond of soft living,” growled Danby.

  Danby! thought Mary. He was growing old now; he looked almost like a corpse already; but he was experienced and he was one of the few around that table on whom she felt she could rely. Russell, Pembroke, and Lowther were decent men, she believed; but they were insignificant compared with eccentrics like Mordaunt and self-seekers like Marlborough.

  “We will hope for a quick success in Ireland,” said Mary, “and a speedy return of the King. Now let us get to work.”

  They were deep in discussion when a messenger arrived and because of the nature of the news he brought was taken immediately to the council chamber.

  The French fleet had been sighted off Plymouth.

  William on his way to Ireland! The French Fleet on its way to attack! And all about her men whom she was not sure she could trust. Within a few hours of taking her place as ruler—which William had never allowed her to do before—Mary was confronted with this dangerous situation.

  Whom could she trust among all these people around her? Yet she must succeed for William’s sake. She would never be able to face him if she failed now. She must be suspicious of everyone.

  She heard that her uncle Charles’s widow, Catherine, had refused to allow prayers for William’s safety to be said in her chapel. Therefore Catherine, a Catholic from birth, was suspect. What plots went on in her apartments? Her Chamberlain Feversham was a Frenchman, and the French were enemies.

  Feversham was reprimanded. Oh, how easy it was to strike terror into the hearts of these people! In tears he assured her that he planned no harm to her or to William.

  “Yet y
ou said no prayers for the King’s safety,” retorted Mary. “I might forgive you for your insults to me, but I cannot forgive those to the King, who has sacrificed his health for this country.”

  Catherine herself came and made tender inquiries as to the swelling of Mary’s face; it was difficult to believe that this gentle lady was an intrigant. She was getting old now and she had never been a fighter.

  Mary accepted her condolences; but gave orders that she should be closely watched.

  Her uncle, the Earl of Clarendon, was sent to the Tower. He was less self-seeking than many, she knew, but he had never approved of the revolution. He was a stern Protestant; but he had made his vows to James and he was not a man to easily break vows. She knew that he was the man of honor; but men of honor were as ready as others to make trouble if they believed they were in the right.

  She had no wish to send her uncle to the Tower; but she must act as William would act if he were here; always she must think of William and do that which would win his approval.

  She wote to William, assuring him of her devotion telling him of the danger. She trusted that she was acting as he would wish, which it was her intention to do at all times.

  The news grew more alarming. The French fleet, consisting of over two hundred ships, was lying off the south coast.

  Arthur Herbert, Lord Torrington, was dismayed. He was a man who, while a good sailor, loved his pleasure so much that in this age of parodying he had quickly earned the name of Lord Tarry-in-Town.

  Some months before he had foreseen an attack by the French and believing himself inadequately prepared to meet it, had written to Nottingham begging for reinforcements, but Nottingham had merely replied that he need have no fear for he would be strong enough for the French.

  He had replied then: “I am afraid now in winter while the danger may be remedied, and you will be afraid in summer when it is past remedy.”

  Well now it was summer; and if Nottingham cared for the good of his country he must be taking Torrington’s words to heart.

  The Battle of Bantry Bay had been a defeat; Torrington wanted at all costs to avoid another—and here were the French … waiting for the moment to open the battle.

  “And here are we,” cried Torrington, “unprepared. I will not go into battle against them.”

  But even as he made this declaration he received a note from the Queen, reminding him that he had a Dutch squadron at his disposal under Admiral Evertzen, and commanding him to go into action without delay.

  Torrington disobeyed the order, because he believed to act on it would mean crushing defeat.

  Around the Council table Mary presided. She felt ill yet stimulated at the thought of danger; she was facing a great crisis and William was not near to advise. She must succeed.

  Nottingham was saying that Torrington had deliberately ignored orders, and that the French were still off the south coast though the battle had not yet begun. Torrington had done nothing, in spite of orders.

  “This is mutinous,” cried Mordaunt.

  “He should be court-martialed,” growled Danby.

  “At this stage,” Mary intervened, “we should only be adding to our danger by a court-martial in such a high quarter. How do we know what effect this might have!”

  Marlborough supported her in this.

  “I will go to Portsmouth,” suggested Mordaunt. “There I will board the flagship, arrest Torrington and myself lead the fleet.”

  Mary looked at him with a hint of scorn. How like Mordaunt to plan an action with himself as the hero set for glory!

  “Impossible,” she said coldly.

  Nottingham put in: “Before he left, the King commanded me to take command if Torrington should prove unfit.”

  Mordaunt glared at Nottingham.

  “My lord, would that be wise?”

  “And why should you believe that you could lead the fleet to victory and I fail?”

  Heaven help me, thought Mary, they are vying with each other for power. What good will this do us? We must all stand together.

  “The King gave me no instructions that you should leave for the fleet, my lord,” she told Nottingham. “And I could not allow it. You are needed too badly here.”

  Nottingham was mollified and graciously thanked Her Majesty for her compliments.

  “Who then should go?” asked Danby sharply; and she saw the gleam in his eyes. Is he too looking for naval glory, wondered Mary, at his time of life?

  “I need you all here,” she said after a moment’s hesitation. “I shall send a dispatch to Lord Torrington immediately telling him that I order him to attack.”

  She was exhausted. If only William were here! It was not that she feared herself inadequate to deal with the situation, only that William might disapprove of what she had done. How could she know what he would do in similar circumstances?

  Her women were helping her to bed and she was silent, which was unusual for her. Usually she liked to chat for, to her, talking was one of the pleasures of life and since she was never able to indulge in it to any great extent with William she did so whenever possible with everyone else.

  “Your Majesty’s face is slightly less swollen,” said the Countess of Derby.

  “Do you think so? I fancy it is less painful.”

  Then silence. They were thinking of the change in her, for they had been hoping that once William was away there would be a little gaiety at Court. Dances perhaps, visits to the play; perhaps little jaunts to some of the houses in the bazaars.

  But this was quite different. William’s absence had made of Mary a Queen with solemn duties.

  Even at such an hour there was no respite. A messenger was at the door now with an urgent letter for the Queen.

  Mary seized it and began to tremble as she read that the French were occupying the coast of the Isle of Wight.

  The Council meeting was stormy.

  What had Torrington done? Nothing! He ignored the Council in London, replying that his council upon the spot did not advise action as yet.

  Devonshire was demanding action. “Does Torrington realize that the fate of three kingdoms is in his hands? Torrington must be replaced.”

  “Make him a prisoner,” cried Russell.

  “No, no,” interjected Marlborough. “That would please the enemy too much and put heart into them.”

  Mordaunt said: “Let me go to him. I will engage the Frenchmen and drive them off … or die in the attempt.”

  That someone should go was finally agreed by the Council and Mordaunt and Russell left.

  In the privacy of her own apartment Mary awaited news with trepidation, feeling that disaster was very close indeed. She was unsure, and could only pray that the actions she took were the right ones.

  She did not trust Mordaunt and wondered what he would do when he reached Torrington. Russell was the most outspoken of the ministers; he was coarse and crude but she believed trustworthy; and trustworthiness was a very desirable quality at such a time.

  She could only find comfort in writing to William to tell him that she faced dire trouble at home as doubtless he did in Ireland. But she was far more anxious, she would have him know, for his dear person than for her own poor carcass.

  “I can say nothing, but pray to God for you, and my impatience for a letter from you is as great as my love, which will not end but with my life.”

  Before Mordaunt and Russell set out Mary had sent an order to Torrington to engage the enemy; and this he did, in his own way, before it was possible for the two ministers to reach him.

  He attacked; or at least commanded the Dutch to do so, and this they did valiantly, but were so outnumbered that they could not hope for success. Many ships were disabled and Torrington’s contribution was to leave the Dutch to the enemy while he towed the damaged ships to the Thames mouth in order to blockade it.

  There was utter defeat. The navy—Britain’s pride—had let her down shamefully; and England lay at the mercy of the invader. The French were at her coas
t. Torrington was locked up with the fleet in the estuary of the Thames; and while the King was in Ireland the Jacobites, who may well have been waiting for this opportunity, could now rise—and who knew who would support them?—and bring back James.

  Marlborough, thank God, was at hand. He could, better than any man, protect his country should an invasion be attempted—if he would. But what of Marlborough, who could, Mary was sure, jump this way and that with agility? It would depend of course on which attitude would best serve Marlborough.

  She felt that she had reached the very depth of despair, but two events, following closely on one another, brought fresh hope; and she believed them to be an answer to her prayer.

  She was in her apartments writing a letter to William—for her only solace was in writing to him—when the Countess of Derby came to tell her that the Earl of Shrewsbury was asking to see her.

  As Charles Talbot, Earl of Shrewsbury came into the room, Mary’s spirits lifted. He would have been extremely handsome—perhaps the handsomest man at Court, now Monmouth was gone—but for a blemish in one eye. Even so, he had been called “The King of Hearts”; it was said that women loved him on sight, but he had never taken advantage of that, being gentle and retiring. He would be faithful, Mary was sure, to a woman … or a cause.

  His character had begun to show in his face for he was almost thirty now; gentleness blended well with the features which could almost be called beautiful; delicacy was there; his enemies might call it nervousness.

  He did not enjoy good health, and this was the reason he had not been a member of the Council. Strange that an old man like Danby clung to office; and a young one like Shrewsbury pleaded ill health in order to stay out of it.

  They had been children together for he was only a few years older than Mary, but there was a stronger bond than age and similar environment between them. When Mary had been a child she had constantly heard scandals about her father’s affairs with women and there was one—the case of Margaret Denham whose husband had murdered her because of her association with James—which had shocked her deeply. Shrewsbury had suffered a similar shock when his mother’s lover, the Duke of Buckingham had killed his father in a duel because of his mother; and then created a scandal by living openly with her.