It is January 1689, and Anne could almost think that nothing has changed: here she is back at home in the Cockpit, with another growing belly, being scolded by her uncle Clarendon.
‘. . . and I was disappointed to hear of your conduct when the news was brought you – most disappointed. I am told that when it would have most become you to show some remorse or some pity at least, instead you continued merry as ever – and called for cards! Cards, Madam!’
‘What would you have had me do, Sir? It has never been easy to me to dissemble.’
‘Is that so? Then what were you doing all these months past?’
‘I did only what I thought was best.’
‘And you did not think it best to tell me what your design was?’
Anne cannot think of an answer.
‘And so now you are gone silent again – that was ever your refuge, wasn’t it? With your father, with the Queen – and now with your own uncle. You have hurt us, Anne – the King more than anybody. I believe it was your defection that took the heart out of him – and I am not the only one who thinks so. Did you have no thought for his sufferings, that day, when you smiled and you called for your cards?’
‘I admit I was glad that day – but it was only that there was so little bloodshed. The King has fled, but he is alive; my sister’s husband and mine, are unharmed. Should I not be grateful for that, at least?’
‘So you have what you wanted: your father is defeated, your brother Orange is come. What do you suppose will happen now?’
‘Would you care for a comfit, Sir?’
‘No, I would not – I desire an answer.’
Anne would like a comfit. She takes one and crunches it as slowly as she can, looking at the floor as she does so. She feels very stupid, and ten years old.
‘I understood – I was assured that – I was assured . . .’
‘You were assured – of what?’
‘. . . that the Prince was coming here in defence of the Protestant religion, and the laws of England, which were in peril, and that when he came here there could be a free Parliament summoned – which is a thing we had not had for too long under the King.’
She looks at her uncle Clarendon: will he at last be satisfied?
No.
‘It is true that we have a Parliament, and now that the King has fled, they have decided to declare the throne vacant.’
‘I know that, Sir.’
‘Someone else must fill it.’
Anne thinks she knows the answer. For as long as she can remember, she has drawn comfort from the succession, and from her place in it. Like the Lord’s Prayer, the catechism, or the rules of precedence at Court, it is a thing that sticks securely in her memory, ready to be brought out and rehearsed in times of strain:
Charles [deceased]
James
Mary
Anne
Anne’s unborn child
‘Mary,’ she says.
‘No – or at least not alone.’
And Anne, who has only just bitten into her second comfit, nearly chokes.