The following January, the King departs for the Netherlands, to lead the English army against the French. Mary is alone again. Anne must wait on her every day. As for respect, she hopes she behaves towards her sister with as much as is possible. Lady Marlborough will keep chiding her for not being pleasant enough to the Queen, but the truth is, Anne says, that she does not have it in her to feign an affection she does not feel, and she cannot – no, not if it were to save her soul – make court to any lady she has no very great inclination for. The dissembling she had to do during her father’s reign was surely enough for a lifetime. She will not dissemble with her sister. Not with Mary.
But duty is duty, and they must be seen to be friends. Anne waits on her sister. They play every night together at comet or basset, at the Queen’s apartments, where Mary keeps the Bank. On Anne’s birthday, the Queen condescends to play cards at the Cockpit instead, and afterwards, in Anne’s honour, she holds a dance in her own drawing-room. All in all, they endeavour to give the Court as little as possible to whisper about, but all the world knows which lady it is takes first place in Anne’s heart, for she cannot hide that either. She offers Lady Marlborough her 1, 000 pounds a year, and after some discussion with Lord Godolphin, Lady Marlborough accepts.
The Queen may disapprove, but Anne thinks it must be out of jealousy, for Mary has no lady she might truly call a friend: it has been a long time since Lady Bathurst was her ‘husband’, her Aurelia, and her husband’s position in Anne’s household makes it impossible for the Queen to renew their former closeness; Lady Fitzharding moves easily between the sisters’ Courts, but is not quite trusted in either; her sister Anne, Lady Bentinck, died when she was still in Holland; her older sister, Betty, has never been any kind of friend to the Queen. Mary is fond of one of her Ladies of the Bedchamber, Lady Dorset, a sweet and conspicuously virtuous young matron, but otherwise, it seems to Anne, all of Mary’s real friends are bishops.
On the night of the fire at Whitehall, however, there are no bishops available – indeed, it seems that there are no gentlemen of any kind in the Palace, for when Anne and George find Mary by the Privy Garden sundial, where she is watching the Stone Gallery burning down, there are no men in sight. Lady Dorset stands at the Queen’s side; Lady Scarborough comes forward to greet them; Betty Villiers is there too, keeping herself at a tactful distance.
‘The Princess, Your Majesty,’ says Lady Scarborough.
Mary turns to see them. Her face is orange on one side, lit up by the blaze, and grey as death on the other.
‘It began in your boy’s lodgings,’ she says. ‘An accident, I’m told – a maid left a candle burning when she should not, but of course when I was told the news I must confess I did think about – other causes.’
‘O Good Lord! Well we must thank heaven he is safe at Campden House!’
‘I have heard no reports of anyone hurt,’ says Mary. ‘That is a great blessing, at least.’
‘You seem very calm, Sister.’
Mary shrugs.
‘You heard the blast – the men have blown up the Earl of Portland’s lodgings so the fire will not spread to the rest of the Palace. I have been heartily frighted, yes, but – all these lodgings burning there, you remember who lived in them? The Duchess of Portsmouth, all those other lewd creatures, and I always thought them ugly buildings, unhealthy – the King never liked them either – he will not grieve to hear they’ve been consumed.’
She laughs, a little uncertainly.
‘Portland will not be very pleased,’ says Anne, and smiles.
‘He’ll have new lodgings. So will your son. Did you keep much of value there? You’ll have lost it all.’
She says nothing about compensation.
‘Most of my boy’s possessions are with him at Campden. We did not keep much here.’
‘I’m glad to hear it.’
They stand there for a moment, the three of them – Mary, Anne, George – and watch as the old, lascivious, filthy Whitehall their uncle played in burns away. Then there is a shout of, ‘Her Majesty! There she is!’ and the guards that have been so noticeably absent find their Queen and run, belatedly, to defend her.
‘I am quite unharmed, as you see,’ she tells them. ‘My Ladies and I will be taking refuge at Arlington House till we’re told ’tis safe to return. And here is our escort—’
She breaks off, puts her hand over her mouth, and laughs, not halfheartedly this time, but wildly, as Anne has not heard her laugh for years. The escort is one Master Fuller, and he has just fallen face first into a patch of nettles. He recovers very gallantly, dusting off his coat, and making his compliment, even as his face is swelling up; it is an honour, he says, to have been the man who has made the Queen so pleasant.
Still laughing, the Queen takes her leave of Anne, and leaves for Arlington House, trailing ladies and guards behind her. George decides to accompany her part of the way, an offer she does not rebuff. When he comes back to the Cockpit he tells Anne that the Queen was pursued all the way through St James’s Park by Sir John Fenwick and Colonel Oglethorpe, the Jacobite knaves, shouting after her that the fire was but a forecast of just, eternal punishment.