Anne
The Hague, 1660
I expected the news to trickle down slowly. Instead, I woke one morning to find everything had changed. It was Utricia’s turn to dress the princess in her rooms, and she returned as I was dressing myself. I had taken pains to hide my growing girth, and as she flung the door open, I turned quickly so that she would not see. But it seemed there was no longer any need for concealment.
Utricia stood in the doorway, her eyes wide. ‘What have you done?’ She was panting, breathless from running through the corridors of the palace.
I did my best to feign innocence. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’
She pointed her finger at me accusingly. ‘You have been very busy, Anne! I cannot believe you didn’t tell me. I am your friend, the person who shares your room each night. I feel… betrayed.’ Before I could respond, she went on. ‘A secret engagement? A baby? To say I am shocked feels an extreme understatement.’
‘Who told you?’ I asked. ‘Who knows?’
Utricia snorted. ‘Everyone knows. Or they will within the hour. The princess is beside herself. She is so angry she could barely stand still long enough for me to dress her. She wants to see you immediately.’
‘She’s angry?’
Stupidly, I had thought she might be pleased. Her mother, I knew, would oppose the match, but the princess and I had a special relationship. I had been counting on her support.
I dressed quickly, not bothering to lace myself as tightly as usual since my secret was now out in the open. I hurried to the princess’s rooms.
When I entered, I found that the room was dim. The princess had half-drawn the curtains and returned to her bed. She was sitting propped up on white cushions, watching me through narrowed eyes.
‘You wished to see me, Your Highness?’ I sank into a curtsy.
‘Anne.’ Her voice was hard-edged. ‘Stand up.’
I stood slowly.
‘I cannot believe we are having this conversation,’ she said. ‘You have deceived me. You have made a complete mockery of my confidence in you. I thought you were happy here. Now I discover you have been playing games with my brother, corrupting him with your fancies about a future together. He has written to all of us, from the safety of England. I can only presume Charles supports him, for some preposterous reason, or he would not dare to show his face in the new court. My mother is ready to fling herself into the English Channel. We should be celebrating the restoration and now we find ourselves having to unravel this tangled mess you have made of things!’
‘Your Highness, I—’
‘Can’t you understand how hard it will be to explain to the other courtiers that James has fathered a child with a girl like you? Such an unorthodox coupling calls into question the integrity that lies at the very heart of the aristocracy. The nobility is set apart from the general population according to God’s decree. Did your parents teach you nothing? Kings marry queens. Princes marry princesses. Dukes marry duchesses. It is the natural way of things. What do you have to say for yourself?’
‘I’m sorry.’ I felt tears start in my eyes, but I blinked them back. Now was the time for courage, not weakness. ‘I never intended to cause harm to your family. I know this is a critical time for you. But your brother and I are in love. We are going to have a baby. Surely your family can find room in your hearts to forgive us for our bad timing. If I could meet with your mother in person, I might be able to explain it better. Your brother Charles clearly sees our union as a blessing. I look forward to bringing your niece or nephew into this beautiful, hopeful new world, showing them an England restored to her former glory.’
In the silence that followed, I dared to hope that my speech had affected the princess so greatly that she had forgiven me. But her next words sent a cold chill through my heart. ‘Get out.’
I stayed where I was, paralysed.
‘Did you not hear me?’ Her voice was icy now. ‘Gather your things and get out. You are not welcome here. You are nothing but a lying, ugly, scheming little whore who has entrapped my brother. But I will not stand for it and nor will my mother. If you dare to show your face at court again, whether here or in England or in France, you will find yourself arrested for treason. Now get out before I have the guards throw you out.’
Feeling as though I had been struck, I fled to my room, the princess’s curses still ringing in my ears. Utricia wasn’t there. She’d probably gone to spread the word of my disgrace to all the other ladies. I threw my belongings into leather coffret I’d brought with me from my mother’s house. I didn’t dare take anything of the little gifts the princess had bestowed on me over the years, the tokens of affection I had once been so proud to display. She might accuse me of stealing them. In her heightened emotional state, who knew what false memories she might fabricate in order to hurt me?
I left the palace hastily, shouldering my coffret, weeping for the way things had turned out. How had it all gone so terribly wrong?
Standing in the town square, I considered my options. My distress made it difficult to think clearly. I could not go to James. He was in England with his brother and I didn’t even know where he was staying. He was supposed to write to me soon at the palace; I shuddered to think of his letter falling into the princess’s hands. I could ask Giselle for help, but I did not know how to get to the province where she lived. I had some savings and James had given me a little money before he left. I could use them to stay in a nearby inn. Sooner or later, though, those funds would run out. There seemed to be no real choice except for me to return home.
The thought of confessing what I’d done to my mother filled me with horror. I’d decided to wait until I was safely in England and wed to James before writing to let her know. My mother wasn’t as formidable as Queen Henrietta Maria but she held traditional views about marriage and children, and the order in which they should happen. Even when I was a child, she had maintained a formal distance. Aunt Babs had been a much warmer presence, inviting me to confide in her. My mother saw herself mainly as a disciplinarian. She kept order over our small household and raised us to be polite and civil. My brothers were expected to be useful members of society; I was expected to marry well. If any of her plans went awry or if we behaved in a way she did not expect, she flew into a rage.
In time, I had realised I needed to give her time to process her feelings accordingly before she calmed down enough to listen. I had no doubt she would be ecstatic to find herself the grandmother of royal offspring, but the unorthodox nature of my courtship and the gossip surrounding my child’s conception would tarnish her excitement. I decided the best approach would be to stay at an inn in town and write to my mother to let her know what had transpired. I would advise her of my impending return, setting down the bare facts with as little emotion as possible. She could not then claim surprise.
With tears streaming down my face, I dragged my trunk through the palace grounds, and – with a few of my precious coins – persuaded a stableboy to find me a coach to help me escape from my shame and disappointment.
When I arrived home a few days later, after taking a barge and then a coach, I was met by my mother’s shouting. She didn’t even wait for the servants to leave the room before she began to accuse me of bad judgement, recklessness, stupidity and sinful behaviour. I had never seen her so enraged. I endured her stinging rebuke as long as I could. When I began to feel faint, I excused myself and trudged up the stairs to my old bedroom, where I sank onto my bed and fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.
I woke the next morning, confused and disorientated and suffering from a sore throat. I’d lived in the palace for so long, my old bedroom with its sweet furnishings and childish dolls no longer felt like home. A great sadness crept over me as I remembered where I was and what had happened. I was twenty-three, on the cusp of becoming a mother. Yet my own mother despised me, and I’d brought shame upon my family with my impulsive and selfish actions. Even if the duke stood by me, my relationship with the princess had been damaged beyond repair. I was no longer welcome at court. Any court. From the moment he was born, my child would have to fight for his or her place in the world.
I did the only thing I could think to do in such difficult circumstances. I sank to my knees and prayed for guidance. When I was finished, I felt calmer. Through my bedroom window, I spied a mother robin warming her clutch of eggs. Her mate arrived and perched on a nearby branch, his beak full of nourishing worms to sustain her through the long hours of waiting. Moved by the robin’s tender care for his nesting partner, I realised that the prejudices of the royal family could not be allowed to dictate how James and I planned to live our lives. We had a child to think of now. I pushed away the small, cruel voice of doubt that whispered to me at night, insisting that James would turn his back on me now that things had become so complicated. What if he found a more suitable match in England – a young woman with lands and title? What if he forgot about me, about our plans, about our child? But to think of such things made me wretched with worry. It was not good for the child. I had to believe that James would keep his promise and send for me soon.
I spent the next month at my mother’s house in Breda. The first week after my arrival were marked by nausea and fatigue. I slept for hours in the grip of a mild fever, waking only to sip the cold broth left by my mother’s servants. The physician my mother paid to examine me said my weak condition was caused by a combination of exhaustion, stress and the pregnancy. He asked me questions I refused to answer. Although his motivations were probably sincere, I was afraid to say more than I should and feed the town rumour mill, which would by now be churning out stories of my scandalous return.
Eventually, frustrated by my silence, the doctor administered some drops to ease my fever and took his leave. Once alone, my dreams and delusions fused together and I imagined I was back in my room in the princess’s palace in The Hague, dressing for supper while I chatted to Giselle. The room spun. Suddenly, I was in Peter Lely’s art studio in Amsterdam, listening to him give a lecture about painting the female form. Another turn delivered me to James’s candlelit bedchamber where he, stripped of his clothes and filmed with sweat, pinned me to the bed. He nuzzled my neck as an arc of pleasure raced along my spine. Over James’s shoulder, I spied the princess standing in the doorway, watching us. Her expression of mingled horror and disgust caused panic to course through my body. I tried to warn James but he was in such a frenzy of lust-filled desire, he didn’t hear my shouting. More people joined the princess, crowding around her at the doorway, gawking shamelessly at our coupling, jeering and hurling insults until my head was ringing with them fit to burst…
The sound of my own screaming woke me. It took me some moments to work out where I was. Through the window, I could see dawn breaking over the horizon. A candle guttered low on the desk nearby. Although my joints still ached, my head felt clearer. I forced myself to hobble over to the desk and drew forth a sheet of paper, ink and quill. Wetting the nib, I wrote to Utricia, begging her to let the duke know I was staying at my mother’s house. I apologised for keeping my pregnancy a secret and asked her to forgive me for my deception. I had always considered her a true friend, I wrote, and hadn’t wanted to burden her with my problems. If she could pass on my address to the duke, I would owe her a debt of thanks. I promised to repay her kindness in full, adding that it would be prudent to keep our correspondence a secret from the princess, for her own protection as well as my own. I finished off by wishing her good health. Then, sealing the letter and addressing it on the opposite side, I left it outside the door so a servant would see it when it was light and arrange its delivery. Utricia would not miss me, but I hoped she would see some advantage in being owed a favour by the woman carrying the Duke of York’s child.
Another three weeks passed before a letter from the duke arrived. My mother came to find me in the parlour where I was squashed into a chair, pretending to embroider a psalm on a cushion.
‘This came. It is addressed to you.’ Her voice held the last traces of disapproval. She’d mostly overcome her initial outrage and disappointment and resigned herself to the reality of the situation. I’d heard her speaking to her maid, asking her opinion on the best furnishings for an infant’s nursery. I was yet to learn how my father felt about the matter. My mother must have written to him of my disgrace. He had not yet replied. I feared his disapproval less than I did my mother’s. He had never been involved in my personal life and it was unlikely he would take much of an interest now. Accepting the proffered letter, I thanked my mother and excused myself, hurrying up the stairs to my bedroom where I could read it in private. Seeing the duke’s familiar handwriting caused tears to blur my vision. I expelled a long sigh which contained within it all the fear and disappointment I had been harbouring after the recent turn of events in The Hague. Until that moment, I hadn’t realised I had needed to hear from James so badly, to be reassured that he still loved and cared for me and would seek me out, no matter how far the distance. He would not disappoint me, would he? I could trust him to do what he had promised. His letter was full of anguished longing and concern for my health. He apologised for his sister’s behaviour.
I never imagined she could be capable of such cruelty, he wrote. I knew she’d disapprove but I didn’t think she would dismiss you so callously, banishing you from her court as if you were some common serving girl! I have written to let her know of my displeasure. My mother did not raise us to be philistines. If my sister could not be happy for us, she should at least have acted in a civilised manner, offering her assistance to ensure you reached home. If your friend hadn’t written to tell me where you were staying and that you were safe, I would have left England straight away and travelled back to Holland to search for you. I hope the strain has not harmed you or our child. I have arranged for an escort to collect you from your mother’s house and bring you to England. I think it would be best if you stayed in London where I can visit you often. Once we are wed, we will live together. We must wait a little longer though, and give my family time to get used to the idea of us. Things might seem difficult for the next little while but take heart in the knowledge that the challenges we face now will be worth the sacrifice. I’ll look after you, Anne. I haven’t forgotten my promise. I’m a man of my word.
I lowered the letter. James’s words inspired in me a curious mix of emotions – sadness at our separation, relief that he had not abandoned me, frustration at the way his family had reacted to the news of our engagement. I had not forgotten the promise I’d made either, when I saw the little family of birds outside my window the morning after I arrived home. I could not falter now. I would need to be strong and brave if I wanted to attain the happing ending I desired.
A week later, one of the duke’s attendants arrived in a coach to escort me to the docks where a ship waited to bring me to England. The crossing, thankfully, was smooth. As I watched the waves disappear beneath the prow of the boat, I reflected on my bittersweet parting with my mother. Although she had not entirely forgiven me for soiling my family’s name and reputation, she was eager to meet her grandchild and had been busily embroidering christening outfits in anticipation of the baby’s arrival. Her face had fallen when I informed her I was leaving for England, but she cheered up when I told her she could come and visit when whenever she felt ready. It had occurred to me to ask her to accompany me to England, but I suspected she would refuse. Not everyone was ready to embrace the old way of life.
Although eighteen years had passed since war was declared, the terror of fleeing London under the shadow of darkness, hearing the hoofbeats of Cromwell’s mounted soldiers as they pursued you down crowded alleyways, was still fresh in some people’s memories. I wondered how I would feel myself. I’d come to think of England as a kind of mythical paradise. It was the homeland of Alfred the Great, the Saxon king who fought off Viking invasions and King Arthur, whose heroic knights began the tradition of romantic chivalry and courtly love. It was where Shakespeare had penned his wildly popular plays, where Hans Holbein the Younger had painted the troubled King Henry Tudor, capturing him in oil paint before his remarkable decision to divorce his wife and marry young Anne Boleyn.
Holland was a watery place, built on land reclaimed from the sea. What was England built on? Would the trees seem different? The soil? The light? And where would I fit in?
We reached England on a cold May morning. As the ship neared the shoreline, I stood on the deck, watching the mist roll onto a sandy beach fringed with green hills. A copse of trees darkened the skyline. Glimpsed through the mist, they appeared to guard the passage to London. Were these shadowy omens friend or foe? Did they signify my future happiness or impending ruin?
The duke’s attendant was waiting at my side. A plank was lowered and he helped me ashore. My first steps back on my native land were unsteady. Thanks to days spent navigating the rollicking deck, I could not stride confidently across the beach as I had planned but had to adopt the stumbling gait of a newborn colt. This graceless advance might have made me laugh, if I had been with my dear James. But his attendant was a serious man. He handed me over to a driver waiting nearby with a coach. The man loaded up my belongings, climbed up into the raised seat and flicked the horse’s reins. The interior of the coach was chilly, but a heated brick wrapped in flannel had been left to warm my feet and a folded blanket waited for me on the seat. Comfortable at last, I fell into a doze and did not wake until we pulled up outside the Rose and Thorn, the inn near Whitehall where the duke had arranged for me to stay until better accommodation could be found.
The taproom of the inn was noisy and crowded. The coronation celebrations were over, but the good mood lingered. People drank too much and broke into spontaneous song, praising the king’s health and vitality. I crept up to my rooms, exhausted, and waited there until at last there was a knock at my door, and the duke was announced.
James held out his arms when he saw me, and I fell into them.
‘I have missed you so much,’ I said, my voice on the edge of breaking. ‘I was afraid I’d never see you again.’
‘That is ridiculous. How could I stay away from you? It was only a matter of time until we were reunited.’ James looked emotional, too, despite his stoic sentiments. His lashes were wet. It made him look even more handsome than I remembered. He stroked my hair tenderly. I shut my eyes and breathed deeply, inhaling his familiar scent and basking in the warm sense of security and safety which always overcame me in his presence.
After a long embrace, I pulled back and let him inspect my belly.
‘Your son missed you, too,’ I said. My bulging stomach had not grown much more since our last meeting, but I wanted to remind James that his child existed, and of the promise he had made to care for us, even if doing so went against his family’s wishes.
Before the restoration, when he was just another exile, the duke had not possessed much to recommend him beyond his looks and his kind nature. Now his position and titles had been returned, the women at this new English court would view him as a prize catch. There would be interest from abroad, too. Many French and Spanish royals and courtiers would be delighted to see their daughters marry the second in line to the English throne. I was competing against them all – and still we remained unmarried.
Taking my lover by the hand, I led him into my bedchamber, where the boisterous shouts of the merry patrons downstairs could not disturb us. Our physical reunion was bittersweet. Lying in his arms, I felt safe and protected, as if nothing could harm me. But this knowledge was tinged with the painful awareness that time was slipping by and we could not keep the world at bay forever. I needed to dress and wash my face and make myself presentable. The duke had arranged for us to meet the king that very day in secret. The king had promised to support us and we would need his help if we wished to overcome the myriad obstacles standing in our path.
We made our way to Whitehall Palace. The palace reminded me a little of Biennenhof, being situated near the water and seemingly patched together from designs that betrayed the varied tastes of former monarchs. We passed by the banqueting hall. Ceremonial banners celebrating the new king’s coronation still hung from the parapets. Charles had arranged for the coronation procession to finish at Whitehall to remind people of the horrific event that had taken place there years earlier – the murder of his father, King Charles I. The public must never be allowed to forget the Divine Right of Kings to rule. This unshakeable mandate protected the royal family and ensured their survival. We did not enter through the banqueting hall, but by a door hidden in the side of the palace. This entrance, leading to the king’s private reception rooms and his bedchamber, was guarded by a short man with curling silver hair who introduced himself as William Chaffinch, the page of the backstairs. ‘I am the man who stands between the public and His Royal Highness,’ he told me, as he unlocked an unmarked door and ushered us through. ‘I keep a list of everyone admitted to this passage, and see to it that the king’s favourite women never chance to meet each other and cause a scene. Can you imagine what a disaster that would be, my lady?’
I hurried past him without answering, not wishing to be reminded of the many lovers the king now entertained. I could only hope that James would remain faithful to me, the mother of his future child.
The king looked very different from the man I’d seen a year before, when he was a monarch without a kingdom to rule over. He looked years younger. He had grown a moustache and his dark hair fell to his narrow shoulders in luxurious waves. His clothing sparkled, the sleeves of his red frockcoat richly trimmed with French lace, gold thread glimmering in every stitch. I sank into a curtsy, bowing so low my forehead almost touched the floor.
Smiling at my deference, he bid me rise. ‘Welcome to Whitehall, Miss Hyde. How strange and wonderful to be meeting you here. How do you find this new England? Did you ever think you would stand on her shores again?’
‘I am so pleased to be here, Sire. I never gave up hoping.’
‘Nor I,’ said James. Taking my arm, he held me to his side. ‘Thank you for granting us an audience.’
‘How could I refuse you, brother?’ the king said. ‘You’ve been a constant fixture in my life since the injustice occurred. You propped me up when I thought all hope was lost, comforted me when I despaired of ever reclaiming what was rightfully mine. You will always have my loyalty and support, James. I will forever and always be on your side.’ He gestured at my stomach. ‘And I hear I am soon to become an uncle?’
‘If it is a boy, we plan to call him Charles, in your honour,’ I said.
‘I hope that he will enjoy a long and remarkable life,’ the king said. ‘He could not ask for better parents. However, his impending birth presents a difficulty. I know you wish to marry, and I am happy to give you my blessing. My mother, however, has her reservations. My sister, too, is concerned about the potential impact such an unorthodox coupling might have on our reign during this delicate time. It’s vital for the public to see our family as strong and united. We cannot risk any scandal.’
Despair clawed at me. ‘Then how can the duke and I ever hope to be together?’
‘Patience,’ the king said. ‘You must trust my judgement. What I need from you both is time.’
‘How much time?’
‘A few months, at least. The Queen Mother arrives at court tomorrow, my sister the following week. Give me a chance to acclimatise them to the notion of admitting you to court again. There will be some vigorous negotiation. You may need to prove your worth by winning over the other courtiers and the public. Then, when the time is right, you can be wed.’
I looked up at my future husband. A few months. Could we wait that long? The king seemed so sure his plan would work. But what if the duke found someone else in the meantime? What if the situation became too much for him, the sacrifices too hard to bear?
Sensing my doubt, the duke kissed my forehead tenderly. ‘I want only you,’ he said. ‘I’m willing to do whatever it takes. We can wait. We must wait. We have no choice.’
The king arranged for me to take up residence in a private apartment near Whitehall. The duke was able to visit me there whenever he was not occupied with his duties or waiting on his mother. At first, Henrietta Maria refused to forgive him, addressing him only when necessary and complaining loudly to her other children about ‘ungrateful offspring’. It took the king weeks of persuasion, of reminding her how lucky she was to be back in England with her royal brood all together, for her to finally relent and welcome the duke back into the fold.
Her willingness to accept her son back into her good graces, however, did not soften her attitude towards me or her unborn grandchild, and James reported that his sister would not even tolerate my name being spoken in her presence. If someone mentioned me, she excused herself or pretended she had not heard. I was a ghost in their lives, a mistake best forgotten. I did not exist.
Once again, it was necessary for me to exert patience. Over the next month, I occupied myself training the two small greyhound puppies James had bought me and by wandering around London with a chaperone the duke had hired, a widowed gentlewoman called Sarah Miller. Sarah had lived in London her whole life. She had seen the city change under successive governments, had witnessed the closing down of the inns during Cromwell’s reign, had seen young boys whipped for playing football and actors turned out of their homes for hosting illegal performances in attics and basements. The Puritans considered Sundays to be sacred. Anyone caught working could be put in the stocks. Often it was widows and homeless women without husbands to support them who were so desperate for money they felt they had no choice but to take the risk. Sarah had seen an elderly woman imprisoned for so long in the unrelenting summer heat that she fainted and could not be revived.
As we passed an elevated platform on our way to market, the puppies straining on their leashes, Sarah told me that although the wooden pillory had been dismantled, the platform had been left behind as a reminder of Cromwell’s cruel treatment of the English people. Through Sarah’s eyes, I experienced the evolution of a city that had desired change but was unprepared for the alternative. Cromwell had been no better than his unpopular predecessor. Sarah was overjoyed that the king had returned and restored some sense of normality. She was not the only one.
Through James, I learned that Jermyn had returned to London. His wife had died giving birth to their second child, who had not survived. Spencer had left his first son with the Duartes so that he could return to England and start a new life. The king had given him an earldom in recognition of his service abroad. Armed with his wife’s inheritance and his new title, he seemed destined for greatness. It was as if he’d never married at all.
One day when I was resting by the window in my rooms, I felt my baby kick for the first time. I asked Sarah to send someone to fetch the duke. He laughed in delight and wonder at the strange convulsions rippling my flesh. Overcome with emotion, he surprised me by revealing that the king had at last granted permission for us to be wed. The news would need to be kept secret. We were also required to keep our Catholicism hidden. The English public were nervous about the prospect of a Catholic successor, and the king had not yet fathered any official heirs. At the king’s suggestion, the duke and I had begun to attend Protestant services at the small chapel in the grounds of Whitehall. We reasoned that it was a small price to pay for our future happiness.
‘Father Morley can marry us,’ the duke said. ‘He’s on his way back to England as we speak; I had a premonition we might need him. When he arrives, we will give him a day to recover then ask him to marry us privately. I can wait no longer and this little one deserves better than to be born out of wedlock. We can be married again, publicly, in the Church of England.’
Relief swept through me. Marrying the man I loved in a private ceremony was not how I had pictured my wedding when I was a girl daydreaming in the manor house in Breda, but the years had taught me that outward appearances were not as important as I had once imagined. I was almost ashamed to think of how I’d behaved with Jermyn, not because his actions had been ugly but because I had not valued myself enough to walk away with dignity when he ended our affair. I now saw that he viewed women as mere ornaments put on earth for him to use and discard. People like Jermyn would never be satisfied because they were always looking for others to reflect their own worth back to them. I no longer regretted meeting him for I had learned that beauty was able to do more than merely exist for decorative purposes. It could be used to comfort, to teach, to express understanding, to celebrate the complex traits that were inherent in every person God had chosen to place upon the earth, the things that made them special and unique. That was beauty’s gift.
James and I exchanged our wedding vows on a warm evening in the privacy of my rooms. Sarah Miller and the king himself were our only witnesses. That night I slept better than I had in months, untroubled by fears of James reneging on his promises and of his family’s censure. With the king on our side, how could we fail?
More good news arrived a few weeks later, when the king’s mother sent word that she was at last prepared to receive me. The princess, who had already returned home to The Hague, would not be present. Unlike the Queen Mother, she refused to temper her feelings or give our marriage her blessing. The duke had warned me that I should not expect a reconciliation. Even with the passing of time, he believed, her feelings were unlikely to change.
I met Queen Henrietta Maria in her old apartments at Whitehall. The apartments, left to languish during Cromwell’s occupation, had been hastily redecorated to reflect the current mood and flavour of French interior design. Complex tapestries and expensive artworks covered the walls, and flowers strewn artfully across the glossy parquet floors gave off a sweet heady aroma that made you feel as if you were walking into an enchanted meadow. The queen herself, dressed in green satin, occupied an ornately carved throne studded with pearls and swagged with silk curtains. Eagle-shaped jewels pinned to her bodice blazed like fiery beacons and her hair was arranged in tiny ringlets that fell in perfect corkscrews down her back. Despite her age and her small stature, she was a forbidding and imposing figure, as beautiful as a marble statue and just as cold. As I approached her throne, I was grateful for the long skirts which hid my trembling legs. After performing an awkward curtsy, I let the queen assess me. The old Anne might have dropped her gaze, hoping to melt away into the background and become invisible. Instead, remembering the king’s advice, I held my chin high and did not flinch as the queen circled me, finally coming to rest in front of me with her hands clasped behind her back. I met her hard gaze with one of cool detachment.
She sniffed. ‘So, you are hatching a little chicklet in there.’ Her breath was faintly spiced and powdery, as if she’d been sucking on dry cloves. ‘You’re lucky my son is an honourable man who is prepared to fulfil his paternal obligations and isn’t too proud to propose marriage to a low-born girl.’ When I didn’t rise to the bait, she said, ‘Your dress is very elegant. Who made it?’
I gave her the name of the French tailor.
‘Jean-Pierre designed that gown? I shouldn’t be surprised. He favours loose sleeves and ribboned hems and a tight stomacher. The blue silk looks well on you. Almost the same shade as the Virgin’s mantle – though of course you cannot claim to possess the same distinction.’ She laughed at her own observation. ‘Jean-Pierre must think highly of you. He usually refuses to dress anyone lower than a baroness. How did you convince him?’
I smiled sweetly and, I hoped, mysteriously. ‘He was very kind, Your Highness.’
In truth, the French tailor owed my new husband a favour. He had agreed to design the dress using the measurements I sent, so that we might avoid my pregnancy becoming the talk of every fitting room and atelier in Europe. Sarah had altered the dress for me when it arrived, letting out any too-tight seams and sewing up loose material so the gown would fit. I had never worn such an expensive or finely made garment. Pinned into it, I exuded a power and confidence that always seemed to escape me in social settings.
It appeared to have impressed the queen. Inviting me to walk with her, she explained the meanings behind the paintings she’d chosen to adorn the walls of her private galleries. Predominantly religious, her favourite artworks had been painted in the Baroque style by Italian masters. A few large family portraits were displayed side by side on the wall opposite her throne.
‘To remind me what’s important,’ she said. ‘Faith and family. You know, when I first came to court, everyone hated me. The English people saw me as their enemy simply because I was a Catholic. I know how it feels to be an outsider.’ She paused to glance up at a portrait of herself, painted years ago. ‘How quickly life passes. You’ll understand when you become a mother yourself. James informs me you are a Catholic, too. I’m glad. I would not want him to experience the loneliness I endured when I was a newlywed, living in the English court far away from my family.’ She paused for a moment, observing her portrait as if assessing her reflection in the mirror. ‘I hope you will be happy together. It won’t be easy. You’ll have to win the hearts of the people. I can’t advise you there; it’s something I could never do. I am, however, looking forward to holding my grandson. Perhaps the antidote to so much death and tragedy is new life.’
At the king’s invitation, I rejoined the English court the following month. Plans for a wedding announcement were being discussed by the king’s advisers. People would see plainly that my advanced condition was the result of an earlier liaison, but this would matter less now that we were officially married. The king had recommended we make some public appearances together.
‘People must gain a sense of who you are, Anne,’ he’d said, the last time we met. ‘You could attend church together or take a stroll around the park. Let people adjust to the sight of you in each other’s company. Public opinion is valuable currency, as I know better than anyone. Let the English populace fall in love with you. Let them feel they know you as well as they know their own sisters, mothers, daughters, wives.’
On the day of my first appearance at the English court, the duke himself escorted me to Whitehall. This time we did not use the back stairs but swept into the banqueting hall via the main entrance. I wore a navy taffeta gown, deliberately oversized so as to conceal my stomach. Talk stopped as we entered. People turned to look. I tried to still my racing pulse and take courage in my husband’s reassuring presence. ‘Nobody can harm you as long as we’re together,’ he’d said before we set off. ‘You are safe with me.’ I repeated his words to myself as I allowed the duke to lead me to a quiet corner of the room. My husband asked me some questions on frivolous topics and I answered as calmly as I could, ignoring the curious glances of the other courtiers. Talk slowly resumed. The king had not yet arrived, so the atmosphere was of barely suppressed anticipation. People glanced in the direction of the door leading to his private chambers.
‘They’re all hoping for a glimpse of my brother’s new mistress,’ the duke said quietly. ‘Her name is Barbara Palmer. Her husband Roger has just been made a baron in recognition of his wife’s services.’
‘I suppose I should thank her for creating a suitable distraction.’
‘I don’t think she needs your gratitude. My brother is completely smitten. He plans on making her a duchess.’
As he was speaking, the door to the chamber opened and the king emerged. On his arm was a woman more beautiful than any creature I’d ever seen. She was everything I wished I could be – slim with high cheekbones and full lips, and a regal expression that spoke of noble blood. She already looked like a duchess.
The hushed silence that followed the herald’s announcement was quickly broken by furious whispers. The king, ignoring them, led his beautiful companion towards us. After introductions were made, the duke asked the king for his opinion about some distant war, leaving me alone with Barbara. Despite her intimidating good looks, I found her warm and charming. We spoke of life in exile and the return to England, gowns and entertainments, the wonders of this new age in which we found ourselves.
‘It feels like a fresh beginning,’ I said.
‘In more ways than one.’ Barbara’s gaze slid slyly towards my stomach. I felt my cheeks grow hot. ‘Don’t worry,’ she continued. ‘Your secret is safe with me. I, too, am carrying a secret. And this secret does not belong to my husband.’ She winked.
The king, I noticed, never let his gaze stray from Barbara’s face. He watched her hungrily, as if he might starve to death should she disappear. Some passing courtiers curtsied to Barbara, ignoring me; I might as well have been a piece of furniture. One of the women exclaimed over Barbara’s outfit, admiring her dress and the way she had curled her hair. Barbara accepted their compliments graciously. As she turned away, I saw the women exchange covert glances, their lips drawn back in sneers of disapproval. Barbara appeared not to have noticed.
When the women had melted back into the crowd, she said, ‘Some of these vipers will never accept me. I’ve given up trying. Why should I care for their opinions, anyway? They don’t know the king as I do, will never experience the kind of passion we share. They think that my appearance is all there is to me. If I were old and decrepit, or had a scar running from one side of my face to the other, they would pity me. Well, I desire neither pity nor fake compliments. I only want to be valued for my true worth, which is more than that of any high-born princess. It’s not for the public to decide what a woman’s value is.’ The king returned then to take her away before we could speak any further. As we parted, she took my hand and squeezed my fingertips.
When James asked me later what we’d talked about, I only told him of the trivial part of our conversation. I was beginning to understand that the roles women had to play in order to survive and thrive in the public arena were vastly different from the roles played by men. I could complain to James about the way others treated me, but he would never understand. How could he? I was alone in my quest to win over public opinion. I would have to rely on myself.
I set about arranging social visits with anyone who would accept my invitation. Barons, earls, lords and ladies, admirals and generals, seamstresses, jewellers, actors and artists – anyone with an ounce of influence or talent was welcome in my new apartments in Whitehall. Those who accepted came bearing warm congratulations on my upcoming nuptials. I entertained as lavishly as I could, ordering French champagne and bottles of Rhenish, stocking my larder with cakes and pastries from the palace kitchens. Musicians played graceful airs while guests danced or sipped their wine, perched on cushioned lounges scattered around the parlour. I paid a well-known perfumer to create a unique fragrance for me, which he called ‘The Duchess’. Tiny bottles of the sweet perfume composed of musk and orange blossom were given to every person who attended my soirees as a reminder of how much I esteemed their friendship. Not everyone accepted my advances. Some still turned away when they saw me coming at court or in the street, my greetings falling on deaf ears.
Although designed to wound, these snubs only strengthened my determination to succeed. If my efforts to charm the public were not reaching the right people, I must set my sights higher. My chief targets were a pair of sisters, Carolyn and Frances Radcliffe, married to a viscount and a marquess respectively. An invitation to one of their gatherings was prized beyond any other, except perhaps an invitation from the king himself. Whenever Carolyn debuted a new dress in public, a dozen copies of the same gown appeared the following week, modelled by court women. One word from Frances could elevate a newcomer from nobody to somebody. Since I knew no one who could grant me an introduction, I was determined to put myself in their orbit. If I wanted to succeed at public life, smoothing the way for my child and ensuring his future prosperity, I needed the Radcliffe sisters on my side.
I determined that Hyde Park would be where I made my approach. People who desired to be seen and admired walked there at seven every morning, which was when the king took his daily constitutional. The Radcliffe sisters were no exception. They walked their dogs there each day, stopping often to chat to their numerous acquaintances. Their love of dogs was as well known as their taste for high fashion. They even bred their own hounds at the country manor owned by their parents and gave them as gifts to their friends. I decided to use this knowledge to my advantage. The greyhound puppies James had brought me had already grown as tall as my waist. I’d named them Hera and Artemis, after the Greek goddesses. They were sweet things, with soft fur, long snouts and sad eyes that followed me everywhere. If I put them in the Radcliffe sister’s path, they might smooth the way for an introduction.
One warm morning, I had Sarah help me set out an elaborate picnic near the path and waited for the sisters to pass by. Catching sight of their gaudy cloaks, I signalled to Sarah, who loosened the harness leashing the greyhounds together. The puppies took off, heading straight towards the dogs the sisters were walking. The two women exclaimed in delight, scooping them up and laughing. When they saw me coming, their smiles turned wary. I gathered my courage. They didn’t know me, I reminded myself, but I would change that.
‘Are these yours?’ Frances said. She was cradling Hera in her arms, protecting her from the furious attention of her own dogs, who pawed at her skirts.
I curtsied. ‘They are, my lady. I apologise for their wild behaviour – they’re still being trained.’
‘Don’t apologise. They are such dear little things.’ Frances held the creature up to her face. The puppy’s tongue darted out, leaving a glossy smear on her cheek. ‘How quickly they grow up! Suddenly they are monstrously big and seem to take up all the space in a room. They require so much walking, too. Best enjoy them while they’re young.’
She handed the animal back and Caroline did the same with Artemis.
‘I’ll take your advice, my lady, with thanks,’ I said. ‘I don’t believe we’ve met. I am—’
‘I know who you are,’ Caroline interrupted. To Frances she said, ‘This is the duke’s new bride, Lady Anne Hyde.’
Frances fixed me with a sharp look. ‘Is that so?’
‘We are not married yet.’
Caroline’s gaze strayed to my bulging stomach. ‘And yet you and the duke seem to be very intimately acquainted.’
I felt a prickling of fear. My throat was dry and hot. I had to clear it before I spoke again. ‘The wedding takes place a week from now.’
‘We wish you and the duke every happiness,’ Caroline said. The women made as if to turn away. Seeing my chance slipping, I said hurriedly, ‘I was hoping to invite you both to the wedding feast. The king has promised to be there. I would welcome the chance to get to know you better, now that we will be moving within the same circles.’
It was a bold move. I had laid down my cards, set my neck upon the chopping block.
The sisters exchanged a look. The puppies wriggled in my arms, restless. I set them down and they raced back to Sarah, waiting amid the spread of tarts and pies laid out on the picnic rug.
‘A hundred apologies,’ Caroline said. ‘But we will be occupied elsewhere.’
‘I haven’t yet told you the date,’ I said.
She lifted a shoulder, still smiling. ‘It matters not. We could not attend, even if we knew you better.’
A sense of frustration coursed through me. ‘Why ever not?’ I looked at Frances, who had spoken so kindly before she knew who I was.
She now regarded me coldly, all trace of goodwill gone. Leaning close, she said in a low voice, ‘Do you think our husbands would approve of us mixing with someone like you? An immoral woman of inferior birth, a climber of the worst sort? We know the duke was not your first lover. That might not even be his child you’re carrying.’
‘Who told you that?’ I demanded hotly.
Frances glanced at her sister. Almost imperceptibly, Caroline inclined her head. ‘Spencer Jermyn told us last night over supper that you were involved in a long… intrigue while you both lived abroad. I shall not repeat the exact nature of his report, for it disturbed us very much. An unwedded woman should not give in to such base desires, madam, no matter how she might long to fulfil them. We do not wish to be associated with someone who acts so impulsively, indulging every man who declares his love for her. Can’t you understand why this might be so?’
I was too shocked to reply. My pulse raced, my heart pumped blood all through my body, flushing my cheeks and filling me with a sudden burning shame. I thought I might faint. Somehow, I stood my ground, the need to defend myself greater than the strong desire to run away. When I spoke, my voice shook. ‘I have not seen Spencer Jermyn for months.’
The sisters shared a smile. ‘So he says. But one night only is needed to seed a child. You don’t deny there was an understanding?’
‘I deny everything,’ I said passionately. ‘Everything he told you is a lie. I was not born into the nobility, it’s true, but I am a proper and faithful woman. When I met the duke, my virtue was entirely pure and intact. He is the only man I have ever loved in any sense of the word. How can you believe Spencer Jermyn’s word over mine? Surely you know how men exaggerate.’
‘If it were only one man, perhaps we would have cause to believe you,’ Caroline said.
My heart sank. Was it possible others had spread similar lies? ‘Who else?’ I asked hoarsely.
‘Anthony Sidney said he had you in the gallery at Honslaerdyk. He said you complained of feeling faint at supper, so he followed you to private chamber where he cut your laces and… consoled you. William Talbot claims he met you for a secret assignation at a closet built over a lake near the palace owned by Her Majesty, the Princess Mary of Orange. He says three or four swans witnessed your happiness together and that the place was a favourite haunt of yours. You’d brought men there before. Should I continue, madam?’
I closed my eyes. ‘No. Please don’t. I’ve heard enough.’
I could not breathe, could not think. It was so much worse than I imagined. I knew the names of the other men who had falsely accused me. All were friends of Spencer Jermyn.
After a long moment, the sisters excused themselves and moved off, taking their hounds with them. The animals had begun to whine and scrabble at the leads that bound them to the sisters, longing for their freedom. I knew exactly how they felt.