RICHMOND PALACE

It was decided that the old palace of Richmond should be our new home. Lady Frances Villiers was to be our governess and in charge of our household; and our tutors would be appointed by the King.

The Palace of Richmond had originally been called Sheen, but when the Earl of Richmond, who became Henry VII, took the crown after defeating Richard III on Bosworth Field, he called the palace after himself and it became Richmond.

When much has happened in a place, some of the past seems to linger there and people like myself become fanciful. My sister did not feel this at all; but Anne Trelawny understood immediately and I talked of it to her.

I remember approaching the palace with our party and thinking: this is to be our new home. There were several buildings, but they did not seem to match each other, though they all had circular towers and turrets. I noticed the chimneys. There were several of them and they reminded me of inverted pears.

My grandfather had lived here once—that grandfather whom we mourned every January. He must have stood in this very spot, where I was at that moment, looking at those upside-down pears. It was a dwelling of ghosts and shadows. I hoped my father would come often.

It was rather intimidating, on our arrival, to be greeted by Lady Frances Villiers. She was smiling, but I sensed she could be formidable. She curtsied, but I fancied she meant to imply that this gesture was a formality, necessary because of our rank, and that we should have to submit to her will.

I was surprised to see that there were six girls with her—some obviously older than I was.

I glanced at my sister. She was not very concerned.

“Welcome to Richmond Palace,” said Lady Frances. “We are so happy to be here, are we not?” She turned to the girls, who stood a pace or two behind her.

The tallest of them answered: “We are very happy to serve the Lady Mary and the Lady Anne, my lady.”

“We shall be a most contented household,” went on Lady Frances. “It gives us great pleasure to be here. I and my daughters have come to serve you and I know we shall all be good friends. Have I your permission to introduce my daughters to you, Lady Mary, my Lady Anne?”

I nodded my head in as dignified a manner as I could muster, and Anne smiled broadly.

“My eldest daughter, Elizabeth . . .”

I often wondered long afterward why some fate does not warn us when a meeting which is going to have a great impact on us takes place. I feel there should have been some premonition to tell me of the effect this girl was going to have on my life. So often I have said to myself, from the first moment I met her I knew I had to be wary of her, that she was sly, clever—far cleverer than I could ever be—and that she disliked me because she, who considered herself my superior, should have to pay homage to me simply because I had been born royal.

But no, I thought that afterward, when I knew. It took me a long time to discover how devious she was. But I was young and innocent; she had the advantage. I could easily have had her dismissed. I only had to say to my father, “I do not like Elizabeth Villiers,” and, although he was no longer in control of the household, my wishes would have been respected. But she was subtle. She did not betray herself. That was where she was clever. She knew how to deliver a barb where it hurt most, but it would be couched in soft words so that only those who understood could be aware of the venom. She was too clever, too subtle for me. That was why she was always the victor, I the victim.

But I deceive myself. None of this was at all clear to me at that first meeting.

She was by no means handsome, but there was something unusual about her looks. Perhaps this was because there was a slight cast in her eyes. It was hardly perceptible. I caught it at times. Her hair was of an orange tinge. “Ginger,” Anne Trelawny called it, and Anne, my dear friend, liked her no more than I did.

The other daughters were being presented.

“My ladies, my daughters, Katharine, Barbara, Anne, Henrietta and Maria.”

They curtsied. Anne Villiers reminded me of her sister Elizabeth; she had shrewd eyes and a penetrating look. But she was less impressive—perhaps because she was younger.

And so we were installed in the Palace of Richmond.

LIFE IN LONDON had settled down to normality. The city had been almost rebuilt and was a much more beautiful and cleaner place than it had been with its reeking gutters and narrow streets.

My father, with the King, had taken a great interest in the rebuilding. They were often in conference with the architect, Sir Christopher Wren, while the work was in progress.

My father at this time was not a happy man. I guessed he was grieving about my mother’s death, and the failing health of my little brother, Edgar, gave him great cause for concern.

He talked to me at this time and I learned more from him than I ever had because I believed he was so distressed that he did not always consider his words, and sometimes it was as though he were talking to himself.

I was glad in a way, though sad because he was, but I did begin to learn a little of what was happening about me.

He was angry on one occasion.

“Bishop Compton will be coming here,” he said.

“To us?” I asked. “But why?”

“The King has appointed him. He is to instruct you and your sister in religion.”

“That does not please you?”

“No. It does not please me.”

“Well, why do you let him come?”

He took my face in his hands and gave me one of his melancholy smiles.

“My dearest child, I have to submit to the King’s wishes in this matter.” He was angry suddenly. “It is that or . . .”

He released me and turned away, staring ahead of him. I waited.

“I could not face that,” he murmured. “I could not lose you.”

“Lose us!” I cried in alarm.

“Well, they would take you from me. Or . . . they would restrict our meetings. My own children . . . taken from me . . . I am unfit to take charge of their education, they say. And all because I have seen the truth.”

This was beyond my understanding. I could only think of being taken from him and I could visualize no greater calamity. He was aware of my concern and was my loving father immediately.

“There. I have frightened you. There is nothing to fear. Anything but that. I shall see you . . . as always. I would agree to anything rather than that they should take you from me.”

“Who would take me from you? The King, my uncle?”

“He says it would be for the sake of the country . . . for the sake of peace. He says, why do I not keep these matters private? Why do I flaunt them? But you must not bother your little head . . .”

I said firmly: “My head is not little and I want to bother it.”

He laughed and seemed suddenly to change his tone.

“It is nothing . . . nothing at all. Bishop Compton will be here to instruct you in the faith you must follow, according to the laws of the country and the command of the King. You must listen to the Bishop and be a good little member of the Church of England. Compton and I have never been great friends, but that is of no moment. He is a hard-working fellow and has the King’s favor. He will do his duty.”

“If he is not your friend . . .”

“Oh, it was a long-ago quarrel. He had the temerity to dismiss a man who acted as secretary to your mother.”

“Did my mother not wish him to be dismissed?”

He nodded.

“Then why? Could you not . . . ?”

“This was the Bishop of London and the secretary was a Catholic. It is over. Your mother was not pleased. Nor was I. But . . . the people here . . . they are so much of one mind and they will listen to no other. Now, my dearest, let us have done with such talk. The fault was mine. Bishop Compton will come to you and he will make good little girls of you both. It is the King’s wish that he should come, and we must needs make the best of it.”

“But you are unhappy.”

“Oh, no . . . no.”

“You said that we could be taken from you.”

“Did I? Let me tell you this . . . nothing, nothing on Earth will ever take my children from me.”

“But . . .”

“I spoke rashly. I did not want this Compton fellow to be here, but I see now that he is a good man, a religious man. He will obey the King’s commands and make good Protestant young ladies of you. That is what the King wants and you know we must all obey the King. He says it is what the country wants and the country must see it being done. That is important. He is right. Charles is always right.”

“Then you are not unhappy?”

“At this moment, with my dearest child, how could I be unhappy? You are to have a French tutor. You will like that. I believe you are interested in learning.”

“I like to know.”

“That is good. And Anne?”

I was silent and my father laughed.

I went on: “She does not care for books because they hurt her eyes.”

He frowned. “She certainly has an affliction. Poor child. But she has a happy nature and we must keep it so.”

When he left me he had banished my fears.

I WAS LEARNING MORE of what was happening around us. There was always gossip among the attendants; the girls naturally heard it, and the elder ones, like Elizabeth Villiers and Sarah Jennings, understood what it was all about.

These two had taken a dislike to each other. Sarah, by this time, had complete domination over Anne, and my sister was hardly ever seen without her friend. It was not that Sarah was sycophantic. Far from it. There were times when one would have thought she was the mistress, and Anne the attendant.

I think Elizabeth Villiers resented her. She had not succeeded in forming that sort of alliance with me; and she probably recognized in Sarah one of her own kind. They were both ambitious and knew that to have one foot in a royal household was one step up the ladder to power.

They realized far more than we did then what our position could be and that there was a chance—though remote—of our reaching the throne if certain eventualities were to come to pass. They recognized in each other a rival for power, and that made them natural enemies. In their way they were both formidable, though their methods were different. Sarah spoke her mind without fear; Elizabeth was soft-spoken and sly. I think, on the whole, I preferred Sarah.

We were all sitting sewing one day. I quite enjoyed needlework. Anne would sit idly with the work before her, not attempting to use her needle. It hurt her eyes, she usually said. Sarah would laugh and do hers for her. I liked to do something with my hands while I listened to the music one of the girls would play; and sometimes there was reading.

On this occasion, Elizabeth Villiers said: “The Bishop will soon be here. He will make sure that the Lady Mary and the Lady Anne keep to the true faith.”

“He is a very clever man,” said Sarah.

“And of the right persuasion,” went on Elizabeth, “which is very necessary.”

“Do you think the Duke is happy with the appointment?” asked Anne Villiers.

Elizabeth smiled a little superciliously. “The Duke will realize it is the best possible conclusion.”

Sarah commented that the Duke would know it was what the people wanted and it was always wise to listen to them and let them think they were getting their way.

“They are certainly getting their way on this,” said Anne Villiers. “I am not surprised the Duke does not like the Bishop.”

I must have shown that I was listening intently, for I saw Elizabeth’s eyes on me as she said: “We all know that the Bishop had Edward Coleman dismissed from the Duchess’s household while she was alive and all because he was a Catholic, which the Bishop thought was a bad influence. The Duke held nothing against Edward Coleman for that but, of course, he could not save him.”

I was thinking of what my father had told me and I remembered seeing him with my mother in the company of Father Hunt, the Franciscan. The trouble was all about religion and that was why Bishop Compton was coming here to teach us.

Elizabeth had turned the conversation round to great families. She had succeeded in bringing to my notice that my wonderful father had to bow to the will of the King, not realizing that he himself had already told me that. Now she wanted to attack Sarah in the same oblique way.

She was growing more and more annoyed by the influence Sarah exerted over Anne, and I dare say she thought that if she were not careful Sarah would have more power in the household than she did. She was hinting now that Sarah was of low birth, and she would stress the fact by saying that she was very sorry for those who lacked the advantage of birth and breeding.

“I have the utmost admiration for those who rise above it,” she said, smiling benignly on Sarah. “Of course, we Villiers are of an ancient family. The name is enough to tell you that. We have been known at court through the centuries. Our kinsman George Villiers, the present Duke of Buckingham, is one of the King’s greatest friends. Oh yes, it is certainly good to be of noble lineage. Do you not agree, Sarah?”

Sarah was ready. “That would depend,” she retorted. “It can be of an advantage, of course, but it can also be a disadvantage. When there is a disaster in a family, a little anonymity can be very desirable.”

“Nothing can alter the glory of an illustrious name.”

“Ah, but the higher the family, the greater the fall. One does not have to look very far for an example. A great family such as yours must find the exploits of The Lady very distressing.”

I saw the color rush in to Anne Villiers’s cheeks. Elizabeth looked coldly at Sarah and the cast in her eyes had become almost a squint.

“I don’t understand you, Sarah,” she said.

“Oh, didn’t I make myself clear? I am sorry. You were speaking of your illustrious family name and I was saying what a pity it was that one member of it should make it . . . notorious.”

“What . . . do you mean?” stammered Anne Villiers.

“I refer to Barbara Villiers, of course. Your cousin, is she not? My Lady Castlemaine, no less. I believe they sing lampoons about her in the streets.”

“She mixes in the highest circles,” said Anne Villiers.

“Indeed, yes.” Sarah obviously could not resist going on. “That is why she has become so well known not only at court, not only in London, but throughout the country.”

“There are many who would be greatly honored by the King’s friendship.”

“Honor?” went on Sarah. “There are times when it is difficult to differentiate. What is honor? What is dishonor? It is for all to make up their minds.” Sarah was smiling triumphantly, because she knew Elizabeth Villiers had been trounced.

I was rather bewildered by this conversation and took the first opportunity of consulting Anne Trelawny.

“It seemed to me that they were talking in riddles,” I said.

“Not they. Elizabeth Villiers does not like Sarah Jennings, so she wants to remind her all the time of her obscure origins, and that it is only by sheer good luck that she has a place here. But Sarah is not going to take that lightly. She retaliates that people in great families can act scandalously, and, of course, Barbara Villiers is the notorious Lady Castlemaine, and is the cousin of these Villiers girls.”

“Anne,” I said, “people seem to want to keep things from me. Don’t you, please. I am not a child any more.”

“I dare say you will be going to court one day and you will know about these matters. You would soon discover that Lady Castlemaine is the King’s mistress, for they make no secret of this. He spends much time with her. She is most indiscreet. And everyone knows what happens between them.”

“But the King is married!”

That made Anne smile. “It makes no difference. It happens with people in high places.”

“It does not happen with my father,” I said fiercely.

Anne was silent. Then she said: “The King is so often with Lady Castlemaine.”

“But what of the Queen? Does she know this?”

“The Queen most assuredly knows.”

“The poor lady.”

“Yes, that is what many say. But life is like that.”

“I like my uncle so much. He is so merry . . . and kind.”

“He is much liked.”

“I cannot believe he would act so.”

“People have many sides to their natures. This is one of the King’s. Lady Castlemaine is not the first by any means. You know of your cousin, the Duke of Monmouth. You know he is not heir to the throne, but he is the King’s son.”

“I do not understand.”

“He was born when the King was in exile. He is without doubt the King’s son. The King accepts him as such. But he is not the King’s legitimate son and therefore cannot inherit the throne. As you grow up you learn to accept that such things happen.”

“I am glad my father is not like that.”

She looked at me a little sadly but with great affection.

“I think the Queen must be very unhappy,” I said. “I am sorry. She is such a kindly lady. I shall never like the King so much again.”

THE BISHOP HAD ARRIVED. He was a man in his early forties, I imagined, which seemed ancient to us. He was not unkind, nor very severe, but he was determined that he was going to teach us to become good Protestants.

I understood later that he was not very learned academically and that side of our education was neglected to some extent. What he was determined to do was set our feet on the right path and, in view of our parents’ religious inclinations, it was very important that we should not be contaminated by them.

That was exactly what he had been ordered to do and I realized later that it was a perfectly reasonable arrangement. My father was, at that time, heir to the throne, for it seemed that Queen Catherine was barren; my mother had died in the Catholic faith and my father leaned strongly toward it; and the English were determined never to accept a Catholic king.

I learned too how the King was exasperated by my father’s attitude toward religion. But my father was a good man, an honest man; he could not deny his faith; he was like one of the martyrs who suffered so much during their lifetimes and were so revered after their deaths. He would have died for his faith—or lose a crown for it. People might say he was a fool. That may have been from their point of view, but he was a good fool.

He had been told that, if he tried to bring his children up in the Catholic faith, they would be taken from him; and that was why Bishop Compton had been sent to teach us.

I was quite pleased that a more serious attitude was being taken about our education. It was true enough that we were never overworked, and if we did not wish to attend lessons there was no compulsion to do so. Anne hardly ever sat for them; that was why in later years she had to exert herself just to write a letter. I was different. I liked to learn, and I was happy to work with my French tutor who was delighted with my response.

Both Anne and I learned to paint and our drawing master caused a certain amount of amusement when he arrived, for he was a dwarf, only three feet ten inches high, and he had a wife who was more or less the same size as he was. He was an excellent miniature painter, very dignified and always behaved with very special decorum.

I liked Richard Gibson and enjoyed the lessons with him. He was well known throughout the court and he and Mrs. Gibson were a most unusual pair. They were by no means young, having lived through the reign of my murdered grandfather and the days of Oliver Cromwell to the restoration of my uncle Charles. They were great favorites at court.

They had had a wedding in my grandfather’s court, which had been celebrated in verse by the poet Waller. There had been a banquet in honor of them which the King and my grandmother Queen Henrietta Maria had attended. People marvelled at them, for they must have been nearly sixty years old at this time and they had had nine children, all of whom were of normal size.

Even Anne enjoyed drawing under Richard Gibson’s tuition.

And eventually my father became reconciled to the fact that the King had undertaken the education of his daughters.

THE YEAR AFTER MY MOTHER’S DEATH, baby Catherine and my little brother Edgar, who had been ailing all his brief life, both died. My father was very sad. He had suffered so many misfortunes.

He took a special delight in being with Anne and me, and our continued good health was a great comfort to him.

Edgar’s death had made a difference and, growing up as I was, I sensed it. Something had changed. Anne and I were more important, especially myself. It was clear why.

Queen Catherine, poor lady, continued to be barren. My father, next in line, had lost his wife and there were no remaining sons of the marriage; and after him came his daughters.

There was a certain amount of whispering about my father’s preoccupation with the Catholic faith, which grew stronger rather than diminished.

I once heard someone say: “If he must be so, why let the whole world know it?”

Because he was an honest man, was the answer. There was no deceit in him.

The people were uneasy and that made them forget his glorious naval victories which at the time had made him so popular. They wanted my father to understand that they would never accept a Catholic king on the throne of England.

It was for this reason that Anne and I must not only observe all the ceremonies of the Church of England, but we must be seen taking part in them.

Oh yes, the death of my mother, followed by that of little Edgar, had given Anne and me a new importance.

And particularly myself.

I WAS ELEVEN YEARS OLD NOW and learning more every day. I was not excluded from the gossip as I had been; and there was a good deal of it among the girls of the household. Sarah Jennings was very interested in what was happening—and so was Elizabeth Villiers. I think they were both rather excited to be in such a household as ours which was really right in the center of affairs, although it might not seem so to us who were living in it.

Of course, a certain amount of attention would always be given to the heir of the throne, but for a long time it had been thought that the King would certainly have a son. He had enough illegitimate ones—lusty at that—to prove that the inability to get an heir was not due to him. It was ironical that he could beget them on so many of his fair subjects and fail with his queen. It seemed to be one of the perversities of life. Poor Queen Catherine! I can sympathize with her now.

Intrigue was rife. The Queen could not produce the heir: the Duke of York was suspected of being a Catholic. There was, of course, the Duke of Monmouth. Illegitimate, yes, but a Protestant and young and handsome, a favorite with the people. Surely he could produce healthy sons. An illegitimate Protestant would be preferred to the true heir who was a Catholic.

That was the opinion at the time and I was not unaware of it.

It changed the attitude of the girls. They were more free with their gossip. Elizabeth Villiers was particularly watchful of Anne and me. Anne was completely obsessed by Sarah Jennings. It was always “Sarah says . . .” or “Sarah doesn’t do it that way,” “I must ask Sarah.” Sarah had Anne’s heart and mind, it seemed. And there was I, with my dear friend Anne Trelawny. Nor had I made a confidante of any of the Villiers girls, although there were six of them.

I did not realize until later that Elizabeth would have liked to have the same dominance over me that Sarah had over Anne, for it was just possible that I might become a very important person indeed.

She was jealous of me. I understand a great deal now which I did not at that time. She would have loved to be in my position! I think Elizabeth Villiers wanted power beyond anything else. I know now what lay behind that intent gaze which I had often found fixed upon me. She was thinking: this girl, this stupid creature, if events shape as they may well do, could be Queen of England one day. And I, brilliant, clever, capable Elizabeth Villiers, will be nothing . . . or someone of comparatively little importance—perhaps—if I am lucky—in her household.

That would have been galling to someone of Elizabeth Villiers’s nature. There were times when she tried to win my favor, but there were others when her envy got the better of her good sense and she sought to wound me.

She knew of the love between myself and my father and she tried to undermine it. She was well aware that to me my father was the hero of many naval victories, the man who had fought the flames during the Great Fire of London, the loving father adored by his children; and she wanted to show me that my idol was not all I thought him; and in her way, which was subtle enough for a young and innocent girl of my age, she set about doing it.

It was when we were all together at one of our sewing sessions that she began to talk about someone named Arabella Churchill. It was the first time I had heard the woman’s name mentioned.

“It really is most scandalous,” said Elizabeth. “How can she be so brazen? This is the third, and all born out of wedlock. A boy this time, they say, and healthy. These children always are. Is not fate unkind? Sons of a marriage die one after another while the little bastards live on.”

“And they say she is by no means beautiful,” said Anne Villiers.

Elizabeth laughed. “Well, some like them that way. She has other attractions doubtless.”

Henrietta Villiers asked: “Is it true that her legs were the great attraction?”

“Yes indeed,” replied Elizabeth. “She had an accident in the riding field and her legs were very much in evidence. They happened to be seen by a certain person . . . and he fell in love with them.”

“With a pair of legs!” giggled Henrietta.

I was only half listening. I supposed this was another of the King’s amours. They included court ladies, actresses from the theaters, women of all sorts and classes. This Arabella Churchill would be one of a crowd. I always felt uneasy when they discussed the King’s morals. After all, he was my uncle. He knew that there was gossip about him but he was just amused. He was very good-tempered.

I heard Anne Villiers saying: “She is very tall and nothing but skin and bone—not good-looking at all.”

“Only a magnificent pair of legs,” said Elizabeth, raising her eyes to the ceiling in an expression of wonder. “Yet she inspired a personage.”

Sarah said that there was so much beauty at court that perhaps it was refreshing to find a lack of it.

“The gentleman concerned,” went on Elizabeth, glancing at her sisters, several of whom could not restrain their giggles, “is said to have an odd taste in women.”

I was getting more perceptive. The pauses and the exchanged glances startled me. I thought suddenly, I believe they are talking about my father. I could not believe this though. This Arabella Churchill had had three children. When the first would have been born, my mother was alive. It was nonsense. But the suspicion remained.

I said to Anne Trelawny when we were alone: “Arabella Churchill’s lover? Who is he?”

I saw the flush in her face and she did not answer.

I said: “Was it my father?”

“In a court like ours these things happen,” she said uneasily.

I could not forget that, while my mother was dying, he had been in love with Arabella Churchill’s legs. I discovered that her first child had been born in 1671—the year my mother had died—and now there was this one.

I remembered my father’s sorrow over my mother’s death. How he had wept and seemed to care so much, and all the time he was making love with Arabella Churchill. And I had believed he was heartbroken by my mother’s death. How could he have been?

Life was full of hypocrisy. People lied. They deceived. Even my noble father.

Elizabeth Villiers had succeeded in what she had intended to do. Nor did she leave it there.

She had a clever way of steering the conversation round to the way she wanted it to go. In the days of my innocence I believed that it happened naturally, but now I was beginning to see it differently. She was clever; she was subtle; she was five years older than I and when one is eleven that is a great deal.

At this time her aim was to poison the relationship between my father and me. It may have been because she thought he might yet turn me into a Catholic and so jeopardize my way to the throne and, as my attendant, she would be without the benefits accompanying such a position. Or it might have been that, disliking me as she did, she could not bear that I should know such happiness from a love the like of which I imagine could never have been hers.

When one of the courtiers began acting strangely and it was said that he was suffering from a bout of madness, Elizabeth remarked that he reminded her of Sir John Denham.

One of the younger girls asked who Sir John Denham was.

It was obviously what Elizabeth had expected, and she said quickly: “It was something which happened some time ago. It was very unsavory and perhaps best forgotten, though there will always be people to remember it.”

“Oh yes,” said Anne Villiers. “Whenever Sir John’s name is mentioned, people will remember.”

“Do tell us what happened,” begged Henrietta.

And then I heard the story of Sir John Denham.

It had started in the year 1666, just after the Great Fire. Sir John Denham had gone mad suddenly and thought he was the Holy Ghost. He even went to the King to tell him so.

Henrietta and Maria Villiers giggled at the thought and my sister joined in.

Elizabeth reproved them rather primly.

“It is not a joke,” she said. “It was very serious and you should not laugh at the misfortunes of others.”

“It was due to his wife, was it not?” said Anne Villiers. “He had married her when she was eighteen and he was a very old man. You can guess what happened. She had a lover.”

Elizabeth was giving me a covert glance, so I guessed what was coming.

“Sir John was so upset,” she went on, “that he went mad. And then she died. It was said she was poisoned. The people blamed Sir John at first. They gathered outside his house and called on him to come out that they might show him what they did to murderers. The people are fickle. When he gave his wife a fine funeral and wine was served liberally to all the people who had come to see her buried, instead of attacking him, they said he was a good fellow and it must have been someone else who murdered his wife.”

“Who?” asked Henrietta.

“I really do not think we should talk of this,” put in Elizabeth. “It is not really a very pleasant subject.”

“But I want to know,” said Henrietta.

“You are not to . . .” Elizabeth made a great show of embarrassment, as though forcing herself to be silent.

Sarah looked at her cynically. Sarah was more shrewd than the rest of us. That was why she and Elizabeth were so wary of each other. I wondered whether she would discuss the case of Sir John Denham with my sister when they were alone together. Anne might be too indolent to ask, but she seemed to be listening with interest; I supposed it would depend on whether Sarah wanted Anne to know.

I did bring the matter up with Anne Trelawny. I trusted her completely and it was always a joy to talk over things with her, because she never tried to impose her will on mine.

“Do you remember all that talk about Sir John Denham who thought he was the Holy Ghost?”

“Oh yes,” said Anne reluctantly. “It happened a long time ago.”

“Round about the time of the Great Fire.”

“I thought they said she died the year after the Fire.”

“She had a lover.”

“They said so.”

“Who was it?”

“Oh, people will talk!”

“Was it my father?”

Anne blushed and I went on: “I guessed it was by the way Elizabeth Villiers talked.”

“She’s a sly creature, that one. I had even rather have Sarah Jennings, though I must say she can be a trial, and I could well do without her.”

“What happened? Was there a big scandal?”

“I suppose you could call it that.”

“And my father?”

She shrugged her shoulders.

I said: “I now know about Arabella Churchill. She is still with him, is she not?”

“Both the King and the Duke can remain faithful to those who really mean something to them. The King had been very friendly with Lady Castlemaine for some years and there is this play actress, Nell Gwynne.”

“Pray do not change the subject, Anne. I said I want to know. One of the Villiers girls said that when Sir John provided the wine, someone else was accused of the murder.”

“They had to blame someone.”

“My father?”

“No . . . not your father.”

“Then whom did they blame?”

“Well . . . they said . . . your mother . . .”

“My mother! She would never have done such a thing!”

“Of course not. As a matter of fact, the post mortem proved that Lady Denham had not been poisoned at all. So it was a lot of lies.”

“Not all,” I said. “I suppose Sir John did go mad and his wife did take a lover, and that lover was . . .”

“Dear Lady Mary,” said my friend Anne. “You must see the world as it really is. You cannot shut your eyes to the truth. Your father is not unlike the King in this. They were both born to love women. It is part of their natures. I sometimes think that the King is so greatly loved because of this weakness. He is the people’s charming, wayward King. He has so much that is good in him and must be forgiven this foible. And as for your father, he loves you dearly, as you love him. This love between you is a precious thing, the best you will ever know until you have a husband who will love you, too. Accept what is good in life. Do not allow others to influence your feelings toward those you love.”

“I wanted him to be perfect, Anne.”

“No one is that. Life is very rarely perfect and never for long. If you are going to savor the best of it, accept what cannot be changed and enjoy it while you are able. When you have learned to do that you have mastered as valued a lesson as ever Bishop Compton can teach you.”