The Three Crowns epub Read online

  Charles raised his eyebrows. “Spoken like a good bridegroom,” he said. “One thing has occurred to me. The Parliament will do all in its power to stop this marriage. Your little lady is a Catholic and they will not care for that.”

  “We must make sure that the matter is settled before Parliament meets,” said James.

  “I had thought of that,” Charles told him slyly.

  He wanted to ask: And how is Susanna at this time? But he did not. He was kind at heart; and he was relieved that James had come out of that madness so easily.

  Henry Mordaunt, Earl of Peterborough, Groom of the Stole to the Duke of York, had a task to his liking. He was going to Italy to bring home Mary Beatrice Anne Margaret Isobel, Princess of Modena, and although his previous missions of this nature had ended in failure, he was determined this should not; he was secretly delighted because as soon as he had seen the portrait of this Princess he had made up his mind that she was the ideal choice for his master.

  Peterborough was devoted to the Duke of York; he was one of the few who preferred him to his brother; and since Mary of Modena was quite the loveliest girl—if her picture did not lie—that he had ever seen, he wanted to bring her to England as the new Duchess of York.

  James had pointed out to him the necessity for haste. “Because,” James had declared, “unless the marriage has been performed before the next session of Parliament, depend upon it they will make an issue of the fact that she is a Catholic and forbid it to take place.”

  Peterborough had therefore left England in secrecy; he was, he let it be thought, a private gentleman traveling abroad for his own business.

  When he reached Lyons after several days, and rested there for a night before proceeding, he was received with the attention bestowed on wealthy English travelers, but without that special interest and extra care which a messenger from the Duke of York to the Court of Modena would have received. He planned to be off early next morning that very soon he might be in Italy.

  While he was resting in his room a servant came to tell him that a messenger was below and would speak with him. Peterborough asked that the man be brought to his room, thinking that a dispatch had followed him from England. To his surprise it was an Italian who entered.

  “I come, my lord,” he said, “with a letter from Modena.”

  Peterborough was aghast. How did the writer of the letter know he was on his way to the Court. Who had betrayed his mission?

  He took the letter and the messenger retired while he read it, but the words seemed meaningless until he had done so several times.

  “The Duchess of Modena has heard of your intention to come here to negotiate a marriage for her daughter Mary Beatrice Anne Margaret Isobel, and wishes to warn you that her daughter has no inclination toward marriage, and that she has resolved to enter a convent and lead a religious life. I thought I must give you this warning, that you may convey to your Master His Majesty King Charles the Second and His Royal Highness the Duke of York, that while the house of Esté is very much aware of the honor done it, this marriage could never be.” This was signed “Nardi,” Secretary of State to the Duchess of Modena.

  Peterborough was bewildered. His secret mission known! And moreover the Duchess already declining the hand of the Duke of York for her daughter!

  And these messengers, what did they know of the contents of the letters? Was the project being discussed in Modena and throughout the countryside? Was this going to be yet another plan that failed?

  Peterborough was determined that this should not be.

  He asked that the messenger be sent to him and found that there were three of them. He offered them refreshment in his room.

  While they drank together, he said: “It is strange that the Duchess of Modena should think it necessary to write to me. I am only a traveler who is curious to see Italy.”

  But of course they did not believe him; and as soon as they had left him he sat down to write to Charles and James, to tell them of this incident.

  All the same, he lost no time in continuing with his journey, and in due course arrived at the town of Placentia, where he found Nardi, the writer of the letter, awaiting him.

  “I have come,” said Nardi, “to deliver to you a letter from the Duchess of Modena in which she herself will confirm all I wrote to you. Her object is, that such a great country as yours should not openly ask for that which cannot be granted. There are other Princesses in the family who might interest the Duke of York.”

  Peterborough replied, thanking the Duchess for her concern for him, but he was a private person.

  All the same he fancied that the Duchess, while telling him that Mary Beatrice was not available, was very eager for him to choose another member of her family. And why not? Alliance with Britain was a great honor done to the House of Esté, petty Dukes of a small territory. Peterborough did not believe in all this reluctance; and the more he thought about the matter, the more determined he became to bring back Mary Beatrice for his master.

  The reason for the Duchess’s attitude was the young girl herself, her fourteen-year-old daughter.

  The Duchess loved her daughter dearly. Her children, Mary Beatrice and Francisco, who was his sister’s junior by two years, had been left in her care when her husband Alphonso d’Esté had died. Laura Martinozzi, Duchess of Modena, was not of royal birth, although she belonged to a noble Roman family, but she had sufficient energy and wit to rule her little kingdom. She was a strong woman, determined to guard her children; and when Alphonso died—he had suffered from the gout for many years—she was determined to be both father and mother to them.

  She loved them with the force of a strong nature, but this love rarely showed itself in tenderness because she was determined to prepare them to face the world and for this reason she decreed that they should be most sternly brought up.

  Mary Beatrice loved her mother too, because it quickly became apparent to her that all the whippings and penances which were imposed on erring children were for their own good. If she could not repeat her Benedicite correctly she would receive a blow from her mother’s hand which sent her reeling across the room; when on fast days it was necessary to eat soupe maigre, a dish which revolted Mary Beatrice and made her feel absolutely sick, she was forced to eat it, because her mother explained, it was a religious duty. The little chimney sweeps with their black faces had frightened Mary Beatrice when she was very young for she thought they were wicked goblins come to carry her away; and the Duchess, hearing of this, forced her little daughter to go into a room where several little chimney sweeps had had orders to wait for her. There she was to talk to them, in order to learn that fears must be boldly faced. Little Francisco’s health suffered from bending too closely over his books and the doctors thought that he needed more exercise out of doors. “I would rather not have a son than have one who was a fool without learning,” was the Duchess’s answer.

  She was the sternest of parents, but in spite of this had so aroused her children’s respect and admiration that they loved her. No sentiment was allowed to show; there was only sternness; but each day the Duchess spent much time with her children; she supervised their lessons and was present at meals, and they could not imagine their lives without her. She was the all-powerful, benevolent, stern but strict guardian of their lives.

  When Mary Beatrice was nine years old her mother decided that she should go into a convent where she would be educated by the nuns. Here in this convent she found an aunt, some fifteen years older than herself, in whose charge she was put, and life flowered suddenly for Mary Beatrice. The affection of her aunt astonished and delighted her, because she had never been allowed to feel important to anyone before; she still admired her mother more than anyone in the world, but she loved her aunt; the nuns were kind too, kinder than her mother had been. If she made a little error there was no resounding box on the ears; and since she was not forced to eat soupe maigre, life in the convent was so delightful by comparison with that of the ducal palace
that Mary Beatrice decided that she would become a nun and spend the rest of her days there.

  This was the state of affairs when she was recalled from the convent to the ducal palace.

  Her mother received her with more warmth than was usual and Mary Beatrice knew that she was secretly pleased.

  “Sit down, my daughter,” said the Duchess. “I have news for you, which I think you will agree with me is excellent.”

  “Yes, Mother.”

  “The Duke of York will most certainly be the next King of England.”

  The Duchess paused. “You do not seem to understand.”

  “I am sorry, Madame, but I have never heard of the Duke of York nor of England.”

  “Your education is being neglected. What do you do in your convent?”

  “We pray, Madame. We meditate. We …”

  The Duchess waved an impatient hand. Religion was an important part of life, but it was necessary to learn something of the outside world. Never heard of England! What did this girl know of the politics of the world? Had it been a mistake to send her to a convent? Should she have been brought up in a more worldly manner? There was nothing to complain of in her religious education, but …

  “England is one of the most important countries in the world,” said the Duchess sharply. “I will see that you are instructed in its history—and its importance to Europe and ourselves—without delay. The King of England has no son or daughter who would inherit his crown; but he has a brother who is heir presumptive to the throne. This is the Duke of York; and he is asking for your hand in marriage.”

  The girl turned pale. “Marriage, Madame? That is impossible. I am to be a bride of Christ.”

  “I was not aware that I have been consulted, daughter.”

  “Madame, my life is in the convent. I belong in the convent.”

  “You are too young to make decisions affecting your future. You are not yet fifteen and—naturally—you will do as I say.”

  “Madame … the idea of marriage is repugnant to me.”

  “You know nothing of it. I shall decide.”

  The girl was suddenly rebellious. “I shall not marry,” she cried. “I shall not!” And she fell into such a passionate storm of weeping that even the Duchess could do nothing to restrain her.

  She looked at her daughter, that rippling jet black hair, that delicate skin, the dark firmly marked eyebrows, the heavy lashes, the perfect oval face and thought she was so beautiful that she must be one of the loveliest girls in the world.

  The Duchess imagined her daughter—fourteen years old, married to the Duke of York, twenty-five years older than herself, already a father; and his reputation, although not quite as bad as that of his brother, the King of England, was decidedly tarnished.

  Imagine this delicate—and surprisingly passionate—creature in his hands!

  For the first time in her life the Duchess wavered. The honor of union with England should not be missed, but for Mary Beatrice, no. It was too much.

  Perhaps the attention of the Duke of York could be diverted to one of the other princesses of Modena, someone older, more knowledgeable in the ways of the World.

  The Duchess would try it before she forced her innocent young daughter into the arms of the over-amorous and, by reputation, even lascivious Duke of York.

  During the next days Mary Beatrice grew so pale and despairing that her uncle Rinaldo d’Esté conferred with the Duchess concerning the proposed marriage, and when they called in the Duchess’s confessor, Father Garimbert, they all agreed that, while the immensely influential union could not be abandoned, they must try to find another bride for the Duke of York.

  “Twenty-five years her senior,” mused Rinaldo, shaking his head.

  “That will be less noticeable as she grows older,” put in the Duchess, “and he is more likely to cherish a young girl than an ageing woman.”

  “The Princess should never be allowed to mate outside her religion,” added Garimbert.

  “Nor would she,” was the Duchess’s answer, “for the Duke of York is known to be a Catholic.”

  “A secret Catholic. I like that not,” replied Garimbert, whose views always carried great weight with the Duchess. The outcome of these interviews was that the Earl of Peterborough should be invited to the Court; that he should be asked to suggest another Princess of Modena to his master; and that failing that Mary Beatrice might be persuaded to change her mind.

  Immediately Secretary of State Nardi was dispatched to the lodgings of the Earl of Peterborough to invite him to the Court.

  The Earl of Peterborough was delighted to receive an invitation from the Duchess and confidently set out for the Modena Palace. When he arrived he was taken at once to the presence of the Duchess who greeted him with warmth and respect, although it was obvious that she was a little uneasy.

  “My lord Earl,” she told him after the formal greeting, and when she had bade him sit down at his ease, “while being deeply conscious of the honor your great country does mine, I have to tell you that my daughter’s wish is to become a nun and that she has no desire for the married state.”

  “Your Highness, the Princess is young as yet. She can have little knowledge of the happiness this marriage could bring her. Nor, if I may say so, can she understand all that is entailed in the life of a recluse.”

  “You speak truth, my lord. But she is of a delicate constitution and I do not know how she would fare in a colder climate than that in which she has lived her life.”

  “Our climate is temperate, Your Highness; and although we do not enjoy great warmth neither do we suffer from excessive cold. It would be the desire of the Duke of York to give his wife every comfort.”

  “Of that I am sure. But then shall we say that the main objection to this marriage is the fact that although I am told the Duke of York is a Catholic, he has not openly declared his faith. Before this marriage could take place it would be necessary to procure a dispensation from the Pope.”

  “And, Your Highness, if this dispensation were procured, there would be no further obstacles to the marriage?”

  The Duchess hesitated. “As I told you, my daughter is very young. There are other members of my family who might be more suitable for His Grace of York.”

  “Madame, the Duke of York has set his heart on marriage with your daughter. This is the alliance which is acceptable to him.”

  The two regarded each other in silence for a few seconds; and during them the Duchess weighed up all that this alliance would mean to Modena; she knew also that it would be an alliance with Mary Beatrice or none at all.

  “Yes,” she said decisively, “if there is a dispensation, then I am of the opinion that the affair could be happily concluded.”

  “I should esteem it a favor if I might meet the Princess.”

  The Duchess bowed her head in assent.

  When the Duchess led her daughter to the Earl, he could scarcely hide the effect her beauty had upon him. She was startlingly lovely—even more than her picture had led him to believe, and in that moment he had decided that, however difficult this task, he was going to succeed and take this strikingly beautiful girl home to his master. Her jet black hair fell about her shoulders, simply dressed as was becoming to one so young; but her lovely dark eyes were deeply troubled and he wanted very much to reassure her that she would have nothing to fear from his master who was the kindest man he had ever met.

  The girl eyed him warily and it was clear that she, knowing his mission, was not very pleased to see him.

  “My lady Princess,” said the old Earl, when he had bowed over her hand, “I ask you to forgive me if I have in any way disturbed your tranquillity, but I have come to ask your hand for the Prince who is my master and to assure you that if you will consent to be his wife you will be one of the happiest women in the world, for he is a Prince of such geniality and kindness that you cannot fail to love him.”

  Mary Beatrice did not look at her mother as she began to speak quickly. “I
am obliged to the King of England and his brother for this great honor, but I wonder why they chose me when there are so many Princesses more worthy than I …”

  “There could be none more worthy.”

  She silenced him with an imperious wave of the hand. “If I am forced to accept this proposal when I have vowed myself to another sort of life, I do not see how I can ever be happy.”

  “Your Highness is mistaken. I who well know my master can assure you of that.”

  “You know him well and mayhap have influence with him. Then if you would be of service to me, I beg of you dissuade him from this marriage and beg him to look elsewhere.”

  The Earl was exasperated. Glancing at the girl’s mother and seeing the sadness in her stern face, he felt depressed. The girl had too much spirit. If he were not careful this attempt to bring her home to James was going to fail. And having seen her, having written to his master of her incomparable beauty, how was James going to content himself with any other?

  The interview was unsatisfactorily ended and the Earl continued in his despondency.

  Mary Beatrice was exultant when she heard the Pope had refused to grant the dispensation. She embraced her seventeen-year-old friend and attendant Senorina Molza, and declared herself happier than she had been since this horrible proposition was made to her.

  Senorina Molza, a little older and more experienced than the Princess, was more moderate in her joy. She had seen the comings and goings to the Duchess’s apartments and guessed that the matter would not be allowed to end there.

  The Duchess was being told how foolish she would be to pass over this chance of alliance with a great and powerful country. It would be pointed out to her that her daughter might well one day be the Queen of that country. All knew the value of these alliances.

  “They can do nothing … nothing since the Pope refuses,” declared Mary Beatrice. “Why are you so glum?”