Lord, the new Archbishop has just taken his leave, and I have desired my women to let me sit alone in my closet awhile, for although the Prince will wish to hear what was said, my heart is too full yet for me to speak a word aloud. It has come, this death, like a thief in the night – we could none of us have guessed the hour, or to which house . . . For I have been so unwell this year, and my poor boy, and all the world knows the King was never in good health – I could have believed that any of us might quit this world in an instant – but Mary? Never.
My comfort is that she always watched for your coming – even when we were children she never for one moment neglected to love or fear you. I know she will have been as prepared as any soul could be for you to receive her, and what the Archbishop told me of her conduct and conversation during her sickness convinces me that my sister died as a good Christian should: that when he told her that the end was coming, she said she thanked you that she had always carried this in her mind – that she had nothing then to do but to look up to you and submit to your will; then she took her final Communion, and bid her bishops pray for her when she could pray no more.
I cannot then doubt but that she has gone to a happier place, but I hope I may be allowed to grieve a little without your thinking me rebellious, for her sufferings in her last days were so dreadful; I who have seen with my own eyes my children die of that distemper cannot help but imagine with horror and pity all her agonies, and to think that she spent full ten days on that rack . . . I pray you will forgive me if I say that if you had to cut her down so young, I could wish that you had done the thing more cleanly. Of course that is a wicked thing to think, and I must beg your pardon for it. I know you must chastise me for it, as you have done for all my many faults.
But oh, it grieves me that I was not allowed to see her, that when I last saw her there was such a want of kindness between us, that there never was any real opportunity for us to mend matters. It is true that she hurt me, that she said and did things I still cannot help but think she should not have, but if I had by some chance been given foreknowledge of how little time there was, I hope I would have found some way to appease her, without . . . without giving her that impossible thing that she would insist upon.
I am sorry that in the midst of our quarrel I thought and said so many things of her that were unkind, and allowed myself almost to forget how much I loved her . . . now that she is gone I find it is as painful to me to recollect all those instances of kindness and affection and companionship as it is to recall our quarrel – no, more painful, because they make me all the more sensible of my want of charity to her, that can never now be mended. All I have to console myself with on that head, is that when I sent Lady Fitzharding to tell the Queen of my concern, she sent back her thanks – by then she could say no more.
The King wrote to me to tell me that I could see her when she was well enough . . . perhaps if she had recovered we could have reconciled – what a torment it is to imagine that now! As for the King, he has astonished everyone with how deeply he has been affected. I have been told by several people that during those ten days there were occasions when his reason was feared for, and even his life, he was so much disordered. I never imagined that man could feel so much, or how much he loved her – they say he could not support himself, but had to be carried almost to her bedside.
And now he has sent the Archbishop to say he would have me wait on him, so it seems I shall be received at Court again, and all the world must know it. There were even a few who did not wait until their Queen was dead before they sent their compliments – that was the clearest sign I had that there was no hope, so I could hardly rejoice at it. Then when she was gone my Lords Marlborough and Godolphin told me I should write him my condolences, and so I did though Lady Marlborough did not wish it, but I had to tell her I do not have the heart to prolong the quarrel more, and it seems he does not either . . .
So I will go and be received, when my health and my condition permit – for now I have both a bad hip and a great belly, I find I cannot walk at all, but I thank you now for softening his heart, even though I am mightily sorry for the cause of it – and if I say I am sorry, I do not mean that I do not submit to your will, for I do, and always shall.
Amen.
