Here, James, the journal loses its thread as, I think, did its writer. There are some papers which are so blotched with blood and ink that they can only be deciphered here and there. They cover the years in which I came home and took up my post as royal gardener. I imagine the Madwoman was struggling to show rationality while in public. The condition of the papers indicates that she was losing the battle when she was alone. I have done my best to render them coherent and continuous.
We are nearly there, my love.
After my exorcism by Rachel at Southwark, I returned to tell the queen that my journey to Ipswich had been successful. Not only had I found Mary Read’s relatives, I said, but I had discovered the child born to Anne Bard after her marriage to the Pretender.
‘A child?’
I nodded. ‘Your Majesty, it appears that Anne Bard was carrying when she came to England. I imagine she hoped for a kind reception from yourself where the baby’s birth could be attested. Instead, the boy was born in an Ipswich cottage with only Mary Read and her mother to deliver him.’
The queen groaned, whether with pleasure or dismay I couldn’t tell. ‘A royal Stuart. Can it be?’
‘Only you can decide, madam.’ I went on, ‘Mrs Read has no doubt that Anne was kidnapped on her return to London, though she does not know by whom. Her daughter Mary determined to go off in pursuit of her friend, leaving the baby in Mr and Mrs Read’s care. When Mary also did not return, they took charge of the child. They are simple, kindly folk.’
The puffy royal hand took mine. ‘Does he thrive? Did you see him? What is his appearance?’
I nodded. ‘A handsome little boy. Dark. Very long-lashed eyes of a strong blue.’
She said, ‘My father had long lashes and strong blue eyes.’
I rummaged in my pocket and brought out a paper that might have been a page in a church register. A forgery, of course, but very well done. ‘Anne had the boy baptized at once by an Ipswich priest who entered its name in his book. I was naughty, ma’am, I fear. I tore it out for you when the parson’s back was turned.’
Queen Ant hunched her great shoulders in wicked approval; we are partners in secrecy. I put her spectacles on her nose so that she might scan it. The child is registered as James Rupert Dudley Stuart. The mother’s name Anne Bard. The father’s James Francis Stuart.
If necessary I can produce the priest as well as Mr and Mrs Read, all members of the Brotherhood who would swear they were Joseph, Mary and the Holy Ghost if I paid them. And be believed.
I sheered away then, content to leave her to mull it over. The queen is not quick. Her mind vacillates like a windvane at the best of times and loathes to make a decision. But once she has settled on a conviction, as well try to push over Gibraltar as to change her. If, given time, she concludes that this baby is her half-nephew we are home.
But have we time? Though I have been absent for only just over two weeks, I am shocked by her deterioration; the fat of her face does not cling to the bones but falls away into folds, like a hound’s.
Oh Lord, let the queen live a little while more.
St John caught me as I went off duty and hauled me off to the garden. ‘Where have you been, damn you? I needed you.’
‘You surprise me, my lord. I thought Lady Masham has become your mouthpiece in the bedchamber.’
‘Abigail’s proved a broken fucking reed,’ he said, ‘Have you found Anne Bard yet?’
‘Are we still on that tack? Haven’t you yet persuaded the Pretender to become a Protestant?’
‘Yes, we bloody are. And no, I bloody haven’t. A fine fucking Pretender that can’t even pretend. That’s all he’s got to do; abjure the Pope for five fucking minutes and I’d have him on the throne. Will he do it? No. Merely promises to safeguard the Church of England when he becomes king. I tell him the English would rather have the Grand Turk as king than a Roman Catholic. God, how I abhor men of principle.’
He has deteriorated. The fine bones of his face stand out sharp. The hand which plucked at my sleeve had a tremor, as well it might; it feels the future eluding its grasp. If German George becomes king, St John will suffer the same fate as his enemy, Marlborough. In fact, he will be fortunate if it is merely exile; I’ve heard Whigs swear they will have his head.
In his panic, he is trying to pack every part of the country’s government with Tories so that he is in such a position of power that he can negotiate with Hanover. Whig army officers, Whig board members, Whig committees and, for all I know, Whig night-soil men are being replaced by Tories.
To deflect him from the subject of Anne Bard, I said, ‘I think Her Majesty might love you better, my lord, if your wife were less unhappy.’ His wife, Frances – he calls her ‘Frank’ – is a long-suffering woman and Queen Ant is distressed by his desertion of her.
‘Would she? Would she?’ It seemed to come as a surprise to him. ‘Then I shall become a model husband. Frank shall come back to court to show how happy she is. In any case, the Schism Act will demonstrate to the queen and all the other backwoodsmen what a good churchman I am.’
The Schism Act is one that he hopes will gather the High Tories behind him. It is to persecute Dissenters. The Act will take their children’s education out of their hands and put it in the hands of Church of England schoolmasters. This is desperate boat-burning – if the Whigs gain power after this, they will surely have his head.
Of course, in this he is also tilting at Harley, his esteemed cabinet colleague. The war between the allies and Louis XIV was not conducted with more hatred than the feud between these fellow Tories. Harley is a Dissenter himself; his wife and children regularly attend a Presbyterian church. He will be affected by the Act.
‘What will the Earl of Oxford do against that, poor thing?’ I asked. As far as I can see, Harley does nothing except drink. There have been times lately when he’s been drunk while attending Her Majesty. His face appears as composed as usual but his enunciation is almost unintelligible, while the whiff of port from his breath has mingled with the whiff of brandy from hers.
‘Harley’s trying to find Anne Bard,’ said St John. ‘There’s still time to present her to the nation as the only solution to civil war. My spies tell me he’s sent to Jamaica to fetch some trollop back to England. He appears to think she can identify our Stuart princess.’
Bratchet.
‘When? When did he send?’
‘Good God, woman, keep your voice down. These are high secrets I’m telling you.’
I fought to be quiet, though the creature howled so loud I could barely hear myself speak. ‘When did he send, my lord?’
St John shrugged. ‘A while ago.’ My agitation calmed his and he smiled at it. ‘Worries you, doesn’t it? And so it should. If Harley finds her before I do, there’ll be no reward for little Miss Bedchamber, whereas I will fill your pockets with gold and your slippers with champagne. Have you discovered nobody who fits the bill?’
‘I shall redouble my efforts, my lord.’
He nodded. ‘And I shall redouble mine. If necessary, I’ll kidnap this Jamaican hussy the moment she sets foot on English soil and parade every female at court in front of her.’
I don’t know what he said after that. I broke away from him as soon as I could and went to my room, the creature lumbering around me like a whale dancing.
Bratchet.
I should have killed you that night in Puddle Court. I strangled Effie, why not you?
I pitied you, of course. So small and weak you were. So small and weak, you have pursued us like Nemesis. Every step we took, you have taken. Even to Jamaica. Were you led to Nannytown? Did you stand beside the fireless cauldron as we did? Have you fathomed our revenge?
But of course, it wasn’t Bratchet I should have killed. It was that insignificant, low-born soldier who has watched over her every move. It was Martin Millet. If we’d had a Martin Millet on our side, you and I, my dear one, would have escaped the press boat and England’s history would have changed.
He is here.
They shipped him back from Jamaica to sniff me out. They made him one of the gardeners, a station that fits him so well that for a long time I did not notice him.
So plain and ordinary-looking is he that nobody notices him at first – and then they do, especially women. Despite his limp. More than one of the females in the household finds herself called into the gardens to ask his advice on horticulture, fluttering her eyelashes as she does it. He answers politely and gravely and ignores the eyelashes.
And Queen Ant has taken to him; like calls to like. Her tastes were always plebeian. We were all dragged to Brompton to watch the display of some contraption he has invented and I was able to study him. He, of course, is my true enemy. I see that now. There is something about him; a steadfastness. Once latched, his teeth will never let go. He’s the one who has protected the Bratchet from me all these years; without him she would be dead.
Like the rest of the women, I asked ridiculous questions about his plough, or drill, or whatever it is, and was answered with a weary courtesy. The queen was charmed. ‘Some men waste their whole lives in studying how to arm Death with new engines of horror, Master Millet,’ she said, ‘but you have employed your labours in a new instrument for the increase of bread.’
Well, well. I have plans for Master Millet and he may live, despite the creature’s demands for his death. He will do very well as a guardian. Strange, that a man who has hunted me all these years with the intention of bringing me down, is perhaps the only man I’ve ever trusted.
Keep the creature from my brain. Let there be blood for blood. After all, we do not wish to take it; we want to give it, to see ours run into the blood of England. Then, though she claws me to pieces, we shall be at peace.
And now we wait on the queen. Harley nags her to rid him of St John. St John and Abigail nag her to rid them of Harley. All three nag her to contact the Pretender and nag him to change his religion so that the blood of the Stuarts continues to rule Britain.
I, who know her better, hold my tongue in patience though I near bite it in half. Silently I scream at her. I can feel my mouth form the words she must utter: ‘I wish to see the boy. Send for the boy.’
Must, must, must. Say it, you full-gutted, gouty, wavering, royal old sow. Say it before that mouth of yours closes for ever. Say it before my hands reach for that fat neck, so like Effie’s neck, and squeeze the words out of it. Say it. Say it.
She said it last night. Somehow she endured the concert. Carrots wheeled her back from the great hall, nearly dropping – Carrots, like the rest of them, had to stand for the whole of it and then wait for the congratulations to Mr Handel, Mr Handel’s return congratulations, the hand-kissing, the word dropped to this courtier then that.
Queen Ant, for once, was in fine fettle. Music soothes her. We undressed her, put on her night robe and cap, attached the harness and, hauling on the rope like canvas-climbers, swung her into bed.
Danvers went to mix the medicine while I placed her elder son’s portrait near her hand – she sleeps with it always. As I curtseyed before summoning the night’s draught of cold tea, she whispered, ‘Fetch the boy.’ I turned away, thinking it was my mind had said it. ‘Bring the boy to me. Secretly,’ she said, ‘Send to Ipswich. I want to see him.’
Lord God, why did I pretend he was at Ipswich? It will be at least six days more, to allow for the supposed message and the journey, before I can present him. But I dared not let her think he was close by; she might have sent Danvers or Carrots to check.
Don’t let her die yet, God. Let her live six days more.
I took the boy to her an hour ago. The coach I’d sent to Highgate brought him and Jubah to Kensington Palace’s back stair. Sarah and Abigail used it in their days of power to get to the queen unseen, but since the unrest there are two guards on it, mainly, I think, to thwart Abigail who now has to use the public approach.
Tonight the queen had sent orders to let me pass. Jubah stayed in the shadows. With her black face and clothes she was virtually invisible. A faithful nurse, Jubah, and I hope she will not have to be parted from him.
In all these years I have been careful not to touch him. He must not love me. I am the woman who visits occasionally, that is all. I think I frighten him. But tonight, because the stairs were dark, I took his hand.
‘It is very dark here,’ he said.
The door was open for us at the top and I inspected his appearance. He is a handsome child with loose black curls and clear, pale complexion. In the clothes I had bought him, he looked very well.
‘I hope you will behave nicely,’ I told him, ‘you are going to see the Queen of England.’
He nodded. Jubah had prepared him.
We went in. Queen Ant had dismissed all the women, saying she wanted to contemplate her soul alone, as sometimes she does, but they had put her to bed first.
Like I did that first time, he flinched at the size of her, but he advanced bravely to the bed and bowed, sweeping off his hat. He’d been told not to speak until she did, but he said, ‘Are you the Queen of England?’
She nodded and smiled. ‘Are you James Stuart?’
‘Yes. But you haven’t got a crown on.’
‘I keep it in a drawer.’ Her voice, which is the only pretty feature left to her, reassured him. She said, ‘Can you climb up here?’
I helped him clamber up on the bed. The macaw shrieked and I looked around for the creature. She was there, on the other side of the bed, looking at him and licking her lips.
If she touches him I shall kill her, dead as she is.
‘Well, James,’ said Queen Ant, ‘do you know your catechism?’
‘Yes, Your Majesty.’ He said the creed for her. He has been well instructed by one of the Brotherhood, a defrocked priest, who gives him lessons in Latin and mathematics in return for free lodging with Jubah. There is a slight trace of Creole in the boy’s speech, which he catches from Jubah, but I hoped the queen would mistake it for a Suffolk accent.
She was pleased with him, I could see. ‘What is the outward part or sign of the Lord’s Supper?’
‘Bread and wine, which the Lord hath commanded to be received.’
Satisfied he was a good member of the church, she asked, ‘And who are your parents, James?’
He leaned forward confidentially. ‘I think they are dead. But my mother left me a message with Jubah. She’s my nurse. She said I must always be worthy of my blood.’
‘So you must, James.’ There were tears in her eyes. ‘So you must. May God keep you.’
I lifted him down and curtseyed while he bowed.
As we went down the stairs, he said, ‘She’s a very fat queen.’
‘Yes, but you behaved very well.’
He said, ‘I liked her.’
I must not be proud of him. He is an instrument.
She cannot make him king, my darling. I know that now. Nor would I wish that on him. But she can set him up so high that the fathers of aristocratic daughters will stumble over themselves to gain him for a son-in-law. An earldom at least. He shall take precedence over St John, mere Viscount Bolingbroke.
It will be enough to know that his blood will enter the stream of the enslavers, that careless nobility which every day presides over the slaughter of the unfortunate, that has decreed capital punishment for the theft of bread, that ride their carriages through streets where men and women and children die from neglect, that sent a girl into servitude because she was inconvenient.
I want it known that we held hands in that prison cell in Spanish Town, my love and I, and swore that, if we survived, if the child in each of our bodies survived, there should be restitution made through the body of that child.
Oh, Christ who suffered on the Cross, allow this balance of the scales of justice; let our cry come unto Thee.
I shall not see him again except at the last. He looked very small when Jubah lifted him into the carriage.