There is nothing bearable in Whitehall. The air is injurious to George’s health. The Cockpit’s empty nursery is an open wound. The King has issued a Declaration of Indulgence, removing all impediments to office for all the Catholics he has already appointed, and to those he means to appoint. As long as Anne remains at the Cockpit, there can be no escape, from triumphant Catholics raised up and angry Hydes brought low, from the watchful eyes of Sunderlands, from the Queen’s often-expressed fellow feelings, from looks that pity or gloat, and are in either case insupportable. Anne makes a brief tour, incognito, of certain London churches and their anti-Papist preachers, for her own comfort, and for the benefit of those who have eyes to see her do it, and then the Denmarks retreat to Richmond.
There the red-brick walls, the oak furniture, her old chamber greet and hold her like a child restored. It is spring in the Park again, there is a tree there that still looks like a man, the red hinds are heavy with their fawns, and Anne finds herself with child again. One prayer answered, at least. If it were not for the lack of sure hands to deliver her true thoughts to Mary, she could find no fault in the place.
Without such a pair of hands, she has to write to Mary by the regular post, and can only write to her of the company she has had, the honour the King and Queen do her in coming to dine, the progress of George’s portrait, the latest Court dances, and whether or not Lords’ daughters might sit with her in the Chapel Closet. Naturally there are other, more pressing subjects on which she would prefer to speak her mind; before long her impatience proves stronger than her caution, and she agrees to a meeting with Dyckvelt. She will have Lord Churchill with them, and his Lady. Churchill is such a fine, well-favoured gentleman, so softly-spoken, so gentle in his manner – Anne finds him to be a reassuring, trustworthy presence. It is one opinion she shares with her father.
They take a stroll together, Anne and Dyckvelt, the Churchills walking a short distance behind. It is a beautiful day, a perfect opportunity to show Mr Dyckvelt the Park, and to speak out of earshot. At first sight, Anne is pleasantly surprised in him: she would not have expected such pretty manners in a Dutchman, and his English has only a slight trace of that most absurd of accents.
‘The Prince of Orange has charged me with offering you his sincere condolences on the loss of your children, Your Highness.’
‘Thank him from me. I have received several kind letters from the Princess too.’
‘He trusts, as a good Protestant, that you will find much comfort in the Word. They that sow in tears, shall reap in joy.’
Good English Scripture: how reassuring to hear it. She almost smiles.
‘I have had that very Psalm from both my chaplains, Sir, and from my Lord Compton – and at least two bedchamber women. And you may tell the Prince and Princess –’ she drops her voice, quite unnecessarily, but it is lately become a habit with her – ‘that I am with child again.’
‘Congratulations, Your Highness. We will all be praying that you and the Prince may see a happy outcome.’
‘Thank you. I do not think I have been so well since . . . since February, but the air here is doing me much good. And the Prince too – he is much recovered from his distemper.’
‘The Prince and Princess will be greatly relieved to hear of it. As your kin – and also, as your friends. Your Highness, I know that you have ventured to write to the Princess in very plain terms – I hope you will feel emboldened to talk plainly to me here. The Prince will always deal honestly with those he can look upon as friends, and what you say to me, you say to the Prince and Princess of Orange – and nobody else.’
They are halfway to the man-tree. Anne stops walking for a moment, and waits for the Churchills to catch up, that she might see their faces. She looks from one to the other: they smile and nod.
‘I am their friend, Sir. I am sure no-one could have more kindness for my sister – and for those she loves so sincerely – than I do.’
‘Or could express that kindness with such admirable simplicity, Your Highness. I must reassure you that the Prince and Princess have a kindness for you, and a great and sincere concern for your interests. Your sister, in particular, is most anxious to know whether you are well-treated here, in respect to your religion, and in other ways.’
‘For myself, I have nothing to complain of. The King and Queen always profess a great kindness for me, when I need funds they are granted, and it is true that they do not trouble me about my religion . . .’
‘But . . .?’
‘Last year I had a visit from Monseigneur de Bonrepaux.’
‘We would expect as much. What did he say?’
‘There is something he said that I cannot get out of my head, though I don’t quite believe it can be true – he did not talk in a straight way, for sure—’
‘These Catholic worthies do like to mystify their listeners,’ Sarah mutters, but loud enough to be heard.
‘He wanted me to understand that it was possible that the King – with the French King’s help of course – would seek to have my sister and me put out of the succession, in favour of his . . . natural Catholic sons.’
‘I am sorry to hear that, Madam, but not very much surprised. It is a very French tactic: King Louis believes that he has only to make a show of his might, and we will all bow before him. But he has been proved wrong in this more than once – and by my master. I would remind you that the Prince has risked his own life in defence of the United Provinces, and been successful in it. He would risk it again to check French ambition – in the Low Countries . . . or anywhere else.’
‘And if I may add something to that,’ says Lord Churchill, ‘I am certain that de Bonrepaux was only scaring you, for I do believe that the King has too much respect for the law and for the right succession to put you out in such a way. He would no more put his natural son on the throne than the late King would. The Princess of Orange will remain his heir apparent – that is why he is so anxious to convert her.’
‘Well, he shall not contrive to do it,’ Anne snaps. ‘My sister and I are of one mind – and you may reassure her, for my part, that I am quite resolved, by the assistance of God, to suffer all extremities, even to death itself, rather than be brought to change my religion.’
‘Do you fear any of these extremities?’
‘I do not know so . . . as I said, the King is not ungenerous to me, and the Queen always professes a great kindness for me, but then again he would not permit me to visit my sister, which would have been such a comfort to me who has been so afflicted, and . . .’
The party stops for moment, while Lady Churchill helps Anne to compose herself.
‘Forgive me, Sir. I think that where it comes to my religion, the King would always use fair means rather than foul, but I have writ treason already, and he has shown there is a coldness in him. You must know when my cousin Monmouth was captured, the King granted him an audience but then it was only to tell him to his face that he was condemned. I do not understand how he could do that – his own brother’s son . . .’
‘I have heard that story, Your Highness. It is a very terrible one.’
‘The King’s treatment of the rebels was altogether terrible,’ says Lady Churchill.
‘We all know that, my dear,’ her Lord says, ‘but the Duke must have known what was at stake, if he failed. And for the time being at least, we can say that the King’s relations with his other Protestant nephew are cordial enough – are they not, Mr Dyckvelt?’
‘Yes, my Lord. The King writes often to him of the weather in England.’
‘And is the Prince much interested in the weather?’ Anne asks.
‘The weather over the Channel, perhaps,’ says Lady Churchill. Her husband bids her hush, but she adds, somewhat sulkily, that the Princess knows perfectly well what they are about, and is every bit as capable as they of remaining discreet.
‘Let’s hope she’s more capable than you are, Sarah.’
‘Oh pish! We are all friends here.’
‘But their correspondence is not only about the weather?’
‘No, Your Highness, and I’m afraid it will be less cordial by and by: the Prince does not much like your father’s recent Declaration, or his choice of officers for the English troops in Holland.’
‘The same as his choices here, no doubt – first one Papist, then another, then a whole mob of them.’
‘Exactly. The Prince and Princess are very much of your opinion – as are many others, a good number of them within this Kingdom. Some of them are known to you – you may rely on them as friends, as you put it, “sure hands”. You will always be able to write freely to your sister – and she to you.’
‘But I cannot always find them – and then I am compelled to write my sister letters with nothing in them.’
‘We have thought of this. In such cases, you will need to use another name to stand for the King’s.’
Anne giggles. ‘We do that already a little: sometimes the Earl of Sunderland is “Roger”. It is a little like when we were girls in this place, and Lady Churchill used to deliver our secret letters – do you remember?’
‘Of course, Madam. Perhaps we can agree a name now, so that Mr Dyckvelt may carry it back to The Hague?’
‘Yes . . . the Duke of something?’
‘Better make him a plain “mister”, Your Highness, such as might work in the Palace,’ says Lord Churchill, ‘for he can’t know them all, there are so many of them.’
‘Mr . . . Brown?’
‘That sort of name, yes, but we could make it a little less, erm . . .’
‘. . . less of a likely sham,’ says his wife. ‘I have it: how about “Mr Mansell”?’
‘And who is this Mansell, my dear, on whom you plainly seek revenge?’
‘Mr Mansell from St Alban’s, who sold us pewter already cracked, and when the housekeeper complained of it, he blamed the kitchen maid, and accused ’em both of cooking up a scheme to cheat him! In the end I had to drive to his shop and deal with him myself.’
‘. . . and still he trembles. Your Highness, shall we take this knave’s name?’
‘I can remember “Mr Mansell”, Sir. Mr Dyckvelt, is that a suitable choice?’
‘Perfect, Your Highness.’
So now they have reached the man-tree, their business is done and it is time to go back.