The King and the Prince are home, the latter quite unharmed, and the former merely grazed upon the shoulder. The late King has suffered another nosebleed and fled once more to France, where he is safe – humiliated, but safe. Anne is relieved. So is her friend Lady Marlborough, recently delivered of a second son, who expects any day the return of her own victorious husband; the lady is also glad of the news that her sister, Lady Tyrconnell, wife of the late King’s General, has herself reached France unharmed.
There is so much to be thankful for, and the King has appointed Sunday, 19th October, as the day when everyone will show it. Anne’s visits to the Queen have grown ever more strained, and she is wondering whether she might not plead her condition in order to excuse herself from a Whitehall service, with all the ceremonies performed as Mary would have them; it is almost certain that the King and Queen will find a way to insult George again, either there or at dinner, and Anne fears she might show her displeasure somehow, in front of all the world, and then more harm will be done all round than if she had stayed away as she wishes to. On the Monday before the service she retires to Campden House to think about it, and very early on Tuesday morning, two months before time, the birth pains start.
It is not to be expected that a seven-months’ child will be strong, but some do live. The household prays, and the child, a daughter, is delivered alive. She is a little pale doll of a thing, with a feeble cry like a kitten. Anne has her chaplain sent for as soon as the navel-string is tied. Within the hour, she has been baptised Mary, after the Queen, and before the morning is out she is dead. God has seen fit to punish Anne by granting her wish: she will not be expected to give thanks at Whitehall.