WILLIAM AND MARY

About this time there came to Holland a man who was to have a great influence on me. I had reached a point in my life when I was very uncertain. I longed for a perfect marriage. I admired William in many ways but I had been bitterly hurt by his ill-treatment of me. I did not altogether understand my feelings for him; they were mixed and muddled. For so long in my life I had made an idol of my father. And now that image was crumbling. I was blaming him for the friction between my native and my adopted countries. I was lost in a wilderness. I needed guidance and Gilbert Burnet came along to give it.

Burnet was a brilliant man—a master of Greek and Latin, and a student of civil and feudal law. His father had determined he should have a career in the Church and he went through a course of divinity.

He had had an adventurous life before he came to us and his wide experiences had taught him tolerance.

He was a most unusual man, particularly considering his calling. He was tall, his eyes were brown, his brows thick and almost black; and he was a merry man in spite of his serious dedication.

He was even welcomed by William, because he did not approve of the way life was moving in England, and he regarded William and me as the next monarchs.

My father, he believed, was walking straight into a disaster of his own making; and he thought William and I should be ready when the time came for us to take over. He thought this could not be far off. This man helped to draw William and me together, and he made me understand William more than I ever had before. And I think he had the same effect on William in regard to me.

Gilbert Burnet had the gift of speaking of serious matters in a jocular way, yet in a manner not lessening their importance.

To my amazement, through my conversations with him, I discovered that I had quite an understanding of theology, for during my time of seclusion, I had read a great deal. Now I could discourse with knowledge and perception on these matters, and this impressed Gilbert. He imparted this to William and I detected a new respect toward me from my husband—almost imperceptible but still there.

My father, of course, was not very pleased that Gilbert Burnet should be at The Hague, and there ensued a long correspondence between us about this.

My father was more eager than ever that I should become a member of the Catholic Church. It seemed almost certain now that I should inherit the throne and he could not bear to think of his successor undoing all that he had done to promote Catholicism in England.

His folly alarmed and exasperated me. I loved him as I ever had and always would, but he seemed to me, in the light of all I was learning from Gilbert Burnet, to be acting like a wayward child.

My letters to him began to surprise me. I had for so long thought of myself as a poor scholar. I had seemed less so when compared with my sister Anne, of course, but even so I had never been erudite. Now I was amazed by the ease with which I could express my feelings in those long letters to my father who, although he did not agree with my views, complimented me on my erudition.

I talked a great deal to Gilbert Burnet. During this time I was missing Anne Trelawny very much. I had been accustomed to talk over my feelings with her, and there was no one else in whom I could confide as I had in Anne. With Gilbert Burnet it was different. Of course, we did not talk gossip as Anne and I had frequently done and it is surprising what can be learned from gossip; but I did find my discussions with Gilbert illuminating and a solace.

He made me understand that the break with Rome which had been the great event of the last century had come about through a king’s carnal desires, but it had brought great good to the nation. England must never return to the domination of Rome; and it was clear that it was along that path that my father was trying to lead the country.

Reading between the lines of my father’s letters, I could see how wild his dreams were. He did not work toward his goal as William did—quietly, deviously, keeping his secrets; he did not plan with his mind but with his heart. He was fervently religious. I thought of my great grandfather, King Henri IV of France, the Huguenot, who changed his religion for the sake of peace. He must have been rather like my Uncle Charles in more ways than one. “Paris is worth a mass,” he said, and for that the people accepted him and his great reign began.

My father was a good man, an honest man; and why should I criticize him for that? I had loved him so dearly, but I could not help deploring what he was doing to his country. Then I would see Jemmy’s head . . . that beautiful head which I had loved—bowed and bloody on the block; I could see my cousin as he pleaded with my father who had turned aside and left him to his fate.

My emotions were in turmoil.

It need not have been so, I kept saying to myself. What is a principle compared with the lives of people? I had read of the Spanish Inquisition and the torture and cruelty inflicted in the name of religion. Should we have that in England? No, never!

Gilbert advocated tolerance. He was right.

Meanwhile my father planned for me to be divorced from William that I might marry a Catholic husband. Then he planned that I should come to England and with my Catholic husband reign in that Catholic land which he had created. That should never be.

One day Gilbert came to me in some alarm.

“There is a plot to kidnap the Prince and take him to France,” he said. “Let us ask him to come to your apartments without delay. It will be quieter there. I want none to overhear this.”

William came. He greeted me with that mild show of affection which he had displayed since the coming of Gilbert, for whom he had a friendly word.

“Gilbert has disturbing news,” I told him.

William raised his eyebrows and turned to Gilbert.

“Your Highness,” said Gilbert, “is in the habit of riding on the sands at Scheveling for a little exercise in the evening.”

“That is so,” agreed William.

“You must not do it tomorrow.”

“I have arranged to do so. It is a favorite exercise.”

“Tomorrow your enemies plan to surround you. They will have a boat waiting to take you to France.”

William shrugged his shoulders. “I shall not allow them to do that.”

“You will be ill protected and they will be in force. Once they have you out of the country, they will not allow you to come back.”

“This is ridiculous,” said William. “Of course I shall not allow them to take me. I have work to do.”

“And Your Highness must be on hand to do it.”

I put my hand on William’s arm. “I want you to take the guards with you tomorrow,” I said.

He gave me a wry look. He could see the real concern in my face and I think he may have been touched, though he did not show that he was. Was he wondering why I should care what became of him after the way in which he had treated me? Many people would. I saw the corners of his lips turn up slightly.

“I think it is unnecessary,” he said.

“You must take the guards with you,” I entreated. “Please do.”

The expression on his face did not change as he turned to Gilbert and said: “Since my wife wishes it . . .”

Gilbert Burnet smiled and the outcome was that when William went riding on the Scheveling sands he took a bodyguard with him. It was fortunate that he did, for an ambush was lying in wait for him and made off with all speed when it was realized that the plan must have been discovered since he was accompanied by his guards.

Burnet’s warning had been timely and so had my request that William should take the guard.

This incident was an indication of my changing relationship with my husband. It also showed how far my father was prepared to go in order to get rid of William and replace him with a husband for me of his choosing.

The plan in itself made me angry. I did not wish to be buffeted from one marriage to another, to suit my father’s obsession. I was turning away from him and I could not explain how I felt about William, for I was not sure.

I LEARNED MORE ABOUT WHAT WAS HAPPENING in England and I could see that day by day my father was plunging deeper into disaster. He was determined to make England Catholic and the people were equally determined that he should not. Why could he not see what was happening? It appeared that he was adopting his father’s belief in the Divine Right of Kings. Had he forgotten that that had led to his father’s death?

Sir Jonathan Trelawny—a kinsman of Anne’s—was in conflict with him over the Declaration of Indulgence and was sent to the Tower. Seven bishops were on trial for seditious libel. In the Duchy of Cornwall they were singing:

And shall they scorn Tre Pol and Pen
And shall Trelawny die
Then twenty thousand Cornishmen
Will know the reason why.

These were pointers showing what was to come. Why could my father not see it? I believed he could and refused to. He was meant to be a martyr.

I was beginning to know him from this distance as I never had when I was near him. It was like looking at a painting. One must stand back to see the details clearly. Now, in place of that god-like creature was a weak man who must fall and take others with him because he would cling to a principle which had no roots in possibility.

He continued to write long letters to me, extolling the virtues of the Catholic faith. He was fanatically eager to carry me along with him.

He knew there was a Jesuit priest at The Hague—a certain Father Morgan—and he thought it would be edifying for me to meet him. He would be able to explain a great deal to me, said my father.

I saw immediately how dangerous this could be. If I were to invite the Jesuit to come to me, it would be commented on. I knew how such news traveled. It would be assumed that I was leaning toward my father’s faith.

Did he know this? Perhaps. He would do anything to make a Catholic of me and free me from my marriage so that I might make an alliance with a man of his choosing—an ardent Catholic, of course.

I felt angry with him. I had been forced into marriage in the first place, though I could not blame my father for that. I would make my own decision about my religion. I did not want to be freed from my marriage, though a few years earlier I might have welcomed it. But not now.

My father must know that if I were to see Father Morgan, it would be tantamount to a declaration that I was seriously considering the Catholic faith.

“I certainly would not see him,” I wrote.

I had an opportunity of speaking to William about it.

I saw the approval in his face and I felt a certain pleasure because I had won it.

“You are right,” he said. “You must not see this man.”

“Assuredly I will not,” I told him. “I hope there will be no rumors of a possible meeting. I thought I might write to someone of authority in England in case there have been rumors that this meeting might take place. Perhaps a bishop or archbishop to state my adherence to the Church of England.”

“Pray do that,” said William. “It is right that you should.”

Excited by his approbation, I wrote a letter to William Sancroft, the Archbishop of Canterbury, in which I set down my feelings, saying that although I had not had the advantage of meeting him, I wished to make it known to him that I took more interest in what concerned the Church of England than myself, and that it was one of the greatest satisfactions I could have to hear that all the clergy showed themselves to be firm in their religion which made me confident that God would preserve the Church since He had provided it with such able men.

In view of the conflict which had existed between my father and the Church of England, this was clearly saying on whose side I stood; and in view of my position as heir to the throne, it was of great significance.

When I showed the letter to William his smile was so warm that I fancied he looked at me with love. All it meant, of course, was that he no longer feared my defection to my father. I had now placed myself firmly beside William.

ONE DAY WHEN GILBERT BURNET WAS TALKING TO ME, he said suddenly: “It is not natural in a man to be subservient to his wife.”

I agreed. “It is clear from the scriptures that a woman should obey her husband,” I said.

“That is so,” went on Gilbert. Then he paused for a while before he went on: “It would seem from events in England that the day of reckoning is not far off.”

“What do you think is going to happen?” I asked.

“I think they will not have King James much longer.”

“They must not harm him,” I said. “Perhaps he will go into a monastery.” I paused, thinking of his mistresses. How could he live in a monastery? Where would he go? Exile in France? Wandering from place to place, as he had done in his youth, to the end of his days? As long as they did not harm him . . . I thought. To lose his kingdom will be grief enough.

I was melancholy thinking of his fate. Then Gilbert roused me from my gloom.

“There is much dissatisfaction,” he said. “It has to be. He must be aware of that. Everywhere it is felt that he cannot go on.”

I shivered. Gilbert looked at me intently.

“I trust Your Highness is prepared.”

“There has been so much said of it,” I replied. “So many implications, I could not be unaware of the possibility of its happening.”

“If the King were deposed, Your Highness would be Queen of England—the Prince your consort.”

Now I saw where he was leading and I said: “The Prince would be beside me. We should stand together.”

“Not equally, Your Highness, unless you made it so.”

I was silent and he went on: “I wonder whether the Prince could take such a minor position. He is a man of action—a ruler.”

“He has a claim to the throne,” I said.

“There are others before him.”

“Anne,” I said. “Her children.”

“It would be in Your Highness’s hands. If you were to declare the Prince King . . . it would have to come from you . . . your consent could elevate him from consort to King. As King he would rule beside you. And as you say, he has some right, but you would be the undoubted Queen by reason of inheritance. You would have to give your word that the Prince should be King and you the Queen, to rule together. Would you be prepared to do this?”

I felt a glow of pleasure. I said: “I would not want to rule without him. I should need him. He is my husband. I should be Queen but of a certainty William should be King.”

I could see how pleased Gilbert was and it occurred to me that he had wanted to say this for some time and was relieved that he had achieved the result he wanted. I guessed, too, that William had prompted him to discover my feelings in the matter.

I guessed that Burnet went straight to William and gave him my answer, for William changed toward me from then.

He was more affable; he talked to me of state matters and even showed some affection.

I was delighted and happier than I had been since the days of Jemmy’s visit. I understand now that what had been between us was my greater claim to the throne. Now we were equal and, because he was a man, he believed he had the ascendancy over me.

Strangely enough, I did not resent this; I was so happy because of the change in our relationship.

I HEARD FREQUENTLY FROM MY SISTER at this time. She seemed to be quite contented in her marriage and completely recovered from the loss of Lord Mulgrave. George of Denmark appeared to be a very amiable person; and she had Sarah Churchill, whom she had refused to relinquish, still with her.

Unfortunately Anne had taken a great dislike to our stepmother, which surprised me. The Mary Beatrice I had known had been such a pleasant person, very eager to be on good terms with the family she had inherited. Before I left England I had seen how fond she had grown of our father. She had realized she must accept his infidelities—and did we not all come to that state in time—and she took him for the good-hearted man he was.

What came between Mary Beatrice and Anne I could only guess was this matter of religion—as I feared had been the case with myself and my father.

Mary Beatrice was pregnant. This could be very significant, for if the baby were a boy he would be heir to the throne. I should be displaced, and it seemed certain that an attempt would be made to bring the boy up as a Catholic. It all came back to this perpetual factor.

But Anne was quite fierce in her denunciation. She had always loved gossip and to surround herself in her rather lethargic way with intrigue.

She wrote that “Mrs. Mansell” had gone to Bath and come back looking considerably larger. Mrs. Mansell was the name she had given to the Queen and our father was Mr. Mansell. She had a passion for giving people names. I imagined she felt it gave an anonymity to the information she was about to impart.

I knew and I supposed others did, that she had given names to herself and Sarah Churchill: Mrs. Morely was herself; Mrs. Freeman, Sarah Churchill; and although these two saw each other very frequently indeed, Anne still wrote notes to her dear Mrs. Freeman at every opportunity.

However, I was now told that “Mrs. Mansell” was making a great show of her pregnancy and that she looked very well indeed, although, in the past during such periods, she had looked decidedly wan.

Anne was implying, of course, that our stepmother was not really pregnant, but pretending to be so in order that in due course a baby might appear who was not in fact “a little Mansell” after all.

I think she was enjoying this and I was amazed when I remembered how my father had doted on her—almost as much as he had on me—and he had always tried to make us happy, as best he could, for I must not forget that our marriages were quite out of his hands.

We were, of course, all waiting for the birth of this all-important child, and Anne was not the only one who was suspicious.

Meanwhile Mary Beatrice grew larger.

“She is very big,” wrote Anne. “She looks well and I do think the grossesse of Mansell’s wife is a little suspicious.”

She wrote that they had quarreled recently and “Mansell’s wife,” in a fit of temper, had thrown a glove into Anne’s face. Anne implied that the poor creature must be very anxious and she was wondering how they were going to produce this suppositious child. Anne would make sure that she was present at the birth, to see for herself.

I was sorry for Mary Beatrice. I could imagine how unhappy she must be. She would be worried about my father. Perhaps she could see more clearly where he was going than he could himself.

Again and again I tried to make excuses for him, but I could not get out of my mind those images of Jemmy pleading with him, of Jemmy on the block while they hacked so cruelly at his handsome head. But I still loved my father.

Then the day came and the news was out. The child was a boy. This could change everything. There was an heir to the throne. I had lost my place as successor. What of William? Was he regretting his marriage now?

The child’s birth was indeed significant. It was the climax. It was that factor which made the people decide that my father must go.

The rumors were rife. Anne had not been at the birth after all. In spite of Mary Beatrice’s grossesse, the baby had arrived a month before he was due.

Anne was at Bath taking the waters. Our father had persuaded her to go at that time, although the doctors had not advised it. It seemed that every action of my father and stepmother aroused suspicion. Anne implied that my father had urged her to go because he did not want her to be present at the birth.

Anne wrote; “Mrs. Mansell was brought to bed and in a short time a very pleasant-looking child was brought out of the bed and shown to the people.”

There was an absurd story in circulation about a baby’s being brought into the bed in a warming pan to replace the one which my stepmother had born—or it might be that she had had no child at all, and had feigned pregnancy and waited for the healthy baby to be brought in by way of the warming pan. It was a wildly unlikely story and the fact was that the people did not want to believe that the child was the King’s.

They had made up their minds that my father must go.

ANNE’S LETTERS CONTINUED TO ARRIVE. They chiefly concerned the baby.

“My dear sister cannot imagine the concern and vexation I have been in that I should have been so unfortunate as to be out of town when the Queen was brought to bed, for I shall never have the satisfaction of knowing whether the child be true or false. It may be our brother, but God knows . . .”

I reread the letter. Could she really believe our father would be guilty of such fraud? I could not, yet I wanted to. I was ashamed, but I wanted it to be right for William—and myself—to have the crown William looked upon as his and had done so all his life because of the midwife’s vision. As for myself, I wanted it for him, for if he did not get it his marriage to me would be a perpetual disappointment to him. There was another reason: I was now fully convinced that Catholicism must never come to England. There was only one way to prevent it and that was to take the crown from my father.

Anne had turned against him, for the same reason I imagined. Why did she dislike our stepmother so? I wanted to believe this story of the warming pan although I knew it must be false.

Anne could never have written so many letters before. I wondered if Sarah Churchill encouraged her to write. I believe that Sarah’s husband—who was becoming a power in the army—was William’s friend. And Anne continued to write of her doubts about the baby.

“After all, it is possible that it may be her child,” she wrote, “but where one believes it, a thousand do not. For my part, I shall ever be one of the unbelievers.”

And later she wrote with a certain triumph: “The Prince of Wales has been ill these three or four days and has been so bad that many people say it will not be long before he is an angel in heaven.”

I could not stop thinking of my father and stepmother and wondering how much they were aware of what was going on.

More and more people were coming from England to the court of The Hague. They were the miscontents who were waiting for the day when William would sail across the sea to take the crown.

The little Prince did not die. He recovered and there was a great deal of activity; more arrivals, secret discussions and throughout Holland men were busy in the camps and dockyards. It was obvious that great events were about to take place.

I heard then from my father. I think he found it hard to believe that I could ever be with those who worked against him.

He wrote: “All the discourse here is about the preparations which are being made in Holland and what the fleet which is coming out from there plans to do. Time will show. I cannot believe that you are acquainted with the resolution the Prince of Orange has taken and which alarms people here very much. I heard that you have been in Dieran and that the Prince has sent for you to tell you no doubt of his coming invasion of this country. I hope it will have been a surprise to you, being sure it is not in your nature to approve of such an unjust undertaking.”

I could scarcely bear to read that letter. I kept seeing us together all those years ago. A little child of three or four years, waiting for his coming, being picked up in his arms and set on his shoulder, while he talked to his captains, rather naively asking for compliments to be paid to his wonderful daughter. That was the father I had loved so much. And now here he was . . . surrounded by his enemies.

There were more visitors from England, eager to take part in William’s expedition. They brought messages urging him to act. William was believing that, instead of a defending army, he would find a welcome.

The fleet was being made ready. Just off the coast were fifty men-of-war and several hundred transports. The climax was coming nearer and nearer and I could see there was no escape from it. I had hoped that there would be some compromise. Perhaps my father would give up his faith. No, that would never happen. Perhaps he would abdicate. That would be the wise thing to do.

I could not bear to contemplate his being at war with William.

He wrote to me, reproaching me for not writing to him.

“I can only believe you must be embarrassed to write to me now that the unjust design of the Prince of Orange’s invading me is so public. Although I know you are a good wife, and ought to be so, for the same reason I must believe that you will be still as good a daughter to a father who has always loved you tenderly, and who has never done the least thing to make you doubt it. I shall say no more and believe you very uneasy for the concern you must have for a husband and father.”

I wept over the letter. I have always kept it. I was to read it often in the years to come.

And now the time was near. William was with me the night before he was due to sail. Ever since I had told Gilbert Burnet that if I were Queen of England William should be King and there would be no question of his remaining a mere consort, his manner had changed toward me. He talked with me more seriously; he even discussed plans with me on one occasion. I did not ask about Elizabeth Villiers. I was afraid to do so because I knew he was still her lover. She no longer lived in her sister’s house but had returned to court and no reference was ever made to the undelivered letter and the manner in which she had returned to Holland, but I had caught her watching me on one or two occasions, a little superciliously, as though to say: do not try your childish tricks on me again, Madam. Rest assured that I shall find a way to outwit you.

In my heart I knew she would, and I was glad the matter was ignored; but I was deeply jealous of her. If she had been beautiful, I could have understood it, but she was a mystery to me—as William was.

It did occur to me that I might have said, give up Elizabeth Villiers and I will make you King of England. Continue with her and remain my consort.

I wondered what his response would have been. I could imagine his cold eyes assessing me, but I could not bargain in such a way.

I had to give freely and for that he was undoubtedly grateful. It had brought him closer to me than any bargaining would have done.

He was really affectionate that night before he embarked for England. We supped together and retired early. He was to leave next day for the Palace of Hounslaerdyke and then go on to Brill where he would embark.

He spoke to me very gravely and with more feeling than he had ever shown before.

He said: “I hope that there will be little opposition when I land. I have been sent invitations to come from all sides. It is clear that the people of England have decided they will not continue with the King. He has shown his intentions too clearly. But, of course, there will be some who stand beside him.”

“You mean there will be fighting.”

“It is possible. It may be God’s will. How can one be sure? And if I should not return, it will be imperative that you marry again.”

“You will succeed,” I said hastily. “I am sure of it. Have you forgotten Mrs. Tanner’s vision?”

“I firmly believe that what she saw was heaven-sent. All through my life I have believed that. It has been long in coming, but now it is at hand. I shall come through. I shall be triumphant. But this is in the hands of God and his ways are mysterious. I said if I should not return it is your duty to marry without delay. You know full well that your father will do all in his power to marry you to a papist. That would be disastrous. You must marry a Protestant.”

I turned away. It distressed me that he could discuss my marriage to someone else so dispassionately.

He went on talking of what my duties would be in that calm way of his until I could endure no more.

I said: “You must succeed. I will not think otherwise. I do not want to marry anyone else. You are my husband. It is destined that you and I shall rule together.”

To my surprise he softened. I think he was a little surprised that I could be so genuinely devoted to him. Indeed, I was myself surprised, but when I contemplated the danger which he was about to face, and the possibility of his never coming back, and the insistence that there would be on my marrying again, I realized the extent to which I was bound to him.

I knew that I wanted to be with him, that my place was beside him.

While William was gratified by my devotion, he could not have forgotten my moments of rebellion. He would remember the grief of the child bride who had begged to be released from her marriage, the woman who had dared to send Elizabeth Villiers to England with a letter for the King. Then he would also remember that unconditionally I had agreed that he should be King of England and not merely my consort. This would indeed seem a triumph—almost as great as victory over the King.

Indeed, he was grateful and never before had he been so like a lover as he was that night.

The next day we left together, for I insisted on accompanying him to watch him embark.

I HAD BIDDEN HIM FAREWELL and watched him as he went aboard. I felt a terrible sense of foreboding and could not stop thinking of my father. I tried to convince myself that William would return. I was determined to believe Mrs. Tanner’s prophecy. The three crowns must be William’s. But what of my father, my poor ineffectual father? I remembered hearing that my uncle Charles had once said to him: “James will not last more than three years after I have gone. The people will never get rid of me, for if they did, it would mean having James—and so I am safe.”

Another prophecy!

“Oh, God,” I prayed, “spare him. Let him go away quietly. Let him live in peace with his faith.”

William and my father. The triumph of one would be the humiliation and defeat of the other. And I must watch this happen to the two men who had been the most important in my life.

William embarked at Brill on the twenty-ninth day of October—not the best time of the year to cross the treacherous Channel. It was the season of gales and it was not surprising that as the fleet moved away from the coast it was caught up in one.

The wind increased. I was panic-stricken. I kept thinking of William’s words. Had he a premonition? Then I heard that several of the ships had been damaged and the remains of the fleet was returning to port.

We heard news from England. The Dutch fleet had been destroyed. And where was William?

It transpired that these reports had been grossly exaggerated and I was overjoyed to receive a letter from William. He had been forced to return to Holland and had landed at Helvoetsluys. He said that he would leave again as soon as possible. The damage to the ships had not been as great as had at first been feared and they could be speedily repaired. He would see me before he sailed again.

Meanwhile my anxiety had affected me deeply and I had become quite ill. I could not sleep and was feverish. I hastily summoned a doctor who bled me.

They thought the relief of knowing that William was safe, and that I should see him soon, would help my recovery and I determined to be well enough to make the journey to Brill.

I arrived there on the tenth of November. The weather was dark and gloomy. William was ready to leave Helvoetsluys where he was to embark.

I heard that the road was bad and the weather uncertain, so I waited at Brill, fearing he might not be able to reach me.

With what joy I beheld him! He said his stay would be brief, but he had promised me that he would come to me before he sailed and he was determined to do so.

I embraced him, weeping, and for once he did not seem impatient. He talked of the coming invasion.

“I do not know what my reception will be,” he said. “They have now had time to prepare themselves. They will rejoice over our disaster in the storm. They have circulated rumors that our fleet has been destroyed. But by God’s will we shall soon have a different tale to tell.”

How quickly those two hours we spent together passed. Afterward I tried to remember every word we had said, every look which had passed between us.

It was natural that William’s mind should be on the great project which lay ahead and I was grateful that he had kept his promise to come back and see me.

Later that day I set out for The Hague, and in spite of the weather the people came out to cheer me as I rode along.

There I spent the next days waiting for news. When it came I could scarcely believe it to be true.

William had arrived safely and landed at Torbay. It was the fifth of November, an important anniversary—that of our wedding. I wondered if William remembered, but I expected his mind would be too engrossed in other matters. There was another anniversary to be remembered on that day. At home we had always celebrated the discovery of the Gunpowder Plot. Significant dates, and this would be another.

There were none to prevent William’s landing. He was welcomed by the Courtneys, one of the most important families in Devon, and given lodgings at their mansion.

Nothing happened for a few days and I was afraid that we might have been lulled into a sense of security and that the English army might suddenly appear.

It was never quite clear to me what happened at that time. Everything was so uncertain. There were many who deserted my father. He had been a great commander when he was young. He might have been so again. But I could imagine how disheartened he must have been, how saddened by the defection of those whom he thought were his friends.

I believe what would have hurt him most was Anne’s siding with his enemies. It hurt me, though I had done the same. But I was married to William. Need Anne have been so cruel?

Churchill deserted and came to join William and Anne left London with Sarah Churchill.

So his two daughters, whom he had loved dearly, had deserted him when he most needed their support.

HOW MUCH MORE DISTURBING IT IS to be away from the scene of action, desperately wondering what is happening, than to be in the midst of it. The imaginary disasters are often more alarming than the actuality. Reports were coming from England. The Dutch fleet had been wrecked, the Dutch army defeated, the Prince of Orange was a prisoner in the Tower. The Dutch had been victorious. The Prince had slain the King. Which was true? I asked myself. How could I know?

The strain was almost unbearable.

Constantly I thought of my father. What was he doing? How was he feeling? And William? What if those two came face to face?

When I prayed for William’s success, I could see my father’s reproachful eyes.

“Please God,” I prayed, “watch over him. Let him get quietly away where he can be safe and devote himself to his faith.”

At this time Anne Bentinck became very ill. She had been ailing for some time but now her malady had taken a turn for the worse.

Much as I distrusted the Villiers family, I had formed a friendship with Anne. I knew that she was her sister’s confidante and that, since she had married Bentinck, she had enjoyed a closer relationship with William. That was inevitable, for William had used Bentinck’s apartments as though they were his own and Bentinck was more often with William than with his own family. I liked Anne and although I could not altogether trust a Villiers I did respect her, and was very sorry to see her so ill.

When I went to see her I was horrified by the change in her.

The doctors had visited her, she told me.

“They will soon make you well,” I said.

Anne shook her head slowly. “No, Your Highness, I think this is the end.”

I was astounded. Anne was young. She had her life before her. The Bentinck marriage had been a happy one. It shocked me to hear her talk of dying.

“You are feeling sad. This is a sad time for all of us.”

“It is indeed. I wonder what is happening. I wish we could have some news.”

“You shall hear it as soon as it comes,” I promised her, and she thanked me.

I stayed with her for a while. To be with people gave me a respite from my continual imaginings of what was happening. I said I would call on her again and I added prayers for her recovery to those I said every day.

There was still no news. I heard that Anne’s condition had worsened and went again to see her.

She looked pleased and grateful for my coming.

“It will not be long now,” she said, and I had to put my ear close to her lips to hear her.

“My lady . . . we . . . we have not always been to you as we should. You have been a good mistress to us. My sister and I . . .”

“Do not fret,” I said. “The doctors will be here soon. They will do something.”

She shook her head. “No . . . Forgive . . .”

“There is nothing for which I have to forgive you,” I said.

“Yes,” she answered. “My husband is with the Prince . . . always with the Prince . . .”

“It was a great friendship between them. Your husband would have given his life for him. The Prince never forgets that.”

She smiled. “The Prince must be served.”

“There is great friendship between them.”

“The Prince demands much from those who love him. My husband . . . he is like a slave to his master. He has little time for aught else. He is only allowed his freedom when the Prince is otherwise engaged. He is always expected to be there . . . on the spot. It is the way of the Prince.”

This long speech seemed to have exhausted her and she was silent for a while.

Then she went on: “My lady . . . my children . . . when I am gone . . . you will look to them.”

I said I would.

“They are young yet. If you could . . .”

“I will see that all is well,” I assured her. “You should not worry. Your husband will care for them. He is a good man. Anne, you were lucky . . .”

She nodded, smiling.

“Your promise,” she said. “Your forgiveness . . .”

“I give my promise,” I told her, “and forgive whatever there is to forgive.”

She smiled and her lips moved, but I could hear nothing.

I stayed with her, thinking of the day I had left England, a poor frightened child, in the company of the Villiers whom I did not much like.

There was not much time left for Anne. I was at her bedside with Lady Inchiquin and Madame Puisars and Elizabeth Villiers when she passed away.

We sat on either side of the bed, my husband’s mistress and I. Elizabeth was deeply affected by Anne’s death. They had been closer than any of the others and I was sure that they had shared confidences about Elizabeth’s relationship with William.

Was that what Anne had meant when she had asked for forgiveness? Death is a very solemn state. I could not feel the same anger in the presence of my rival on this occasion as I should on any other. She was suffering the loss of her beloved sister and I could only feel sorrow for her.

IT WAS STILL DIFFICULT TO GET NEWS. So far I understood that there had been no fighting and I was thankful for that; but I could not understand why this should be, grateful as I was for it.

My father’s first thoughts had been for his family. Mary Beatrice and the baby had been sent away to safety. I heard they were in France. Anne was still in hiding with Sarah Churchill.

Thoughts of my father filled my mind but all the time I reminded myself that he had brought this on himself and but for him it need never have happened.

If my uncle Charles could see what was happening he would smile that sardonic smile of his and say “I was right. It happened as I said it would. Poor foolish sentimental James. This is no way to rule a country, brother.”

It was heartbreaking. Sometimes I thought it was more than I could bear.

Before December was out I heard that my father was in France. Deserted by his friends, his army depleted, there had been no alternative. But for one thing I was thankful. There had been little loss of life and scarcely any bloodshed.

And then . . . William was at St. James’s. It seemed that the enterprise, so long talked of, planned with such care, undertaken with such trepidation, was over and more successful than we had hoped in our most optimistic dreams.

Dispatches came from William. They were not brought to me and I was bitterly hurt. There was no word to me personally from William. No tender display of affection. After our last meeting, I had told myself, there was a change in our relationship.

I understood later that he could not suppress his resentment of me. Although he had changed since Gilbert Burnet had told him that I would not stand in the way of his becoming king, now that he was in England, he heard the views of some of the ministers there and the question was raised again. I was the heiress to the throne, they pointed out, and because he was my husband, he was not king in his own right. So, the old resentment was back. William could not endure taking second place to a woman. That which he craved beyond all things, he was told, belonged to his wife and his power depended on her good will. So he sent official documents to Holland and no communication to me.

To understand is to forgive, they say. If one has tender feelings toward another, one makes excuses. I wished I had understood then. I need not have felt so wounded, but I told myself that what I had thought of as William’s tenderness for me was transient. He had been carried along by the poignancy of the occasion and the possibility that that meeting might be our last on earth.

I heard how William had made his entry into London and thousands had come out to see him. I could visualize their disappointment. I remembered when he had come to London on a previous occasion and how somber he had seemed beside the King and his friends. William would have no smiles for the people. He did not look like a king. The people were silent. There were no cheers for the dour-looking Dutchman. What had he to recommend him, except that he was a Protestant and the husband of their new Queen Mary? Where was Queen Mary? She should be the one who was riding the streets.

Bentinck, mourning the death of his wife, but first of all slave to William, tried, so I heard, to remonstrate with William, to which William had replied that it had been hinted to him that he was but the consort of Queen Mary and he was not the sort of man to play gentleman usher to his wife.

These little scraps of information came to me gradually and I knew that this was what had affected William’s conduct toward me more than anything else.

William Herbert, Duke of Powis, held a meeting of ministers in his bedroom because he was suffering from the gout and unable to leave his bed. Bentinck had been allowed to join them on behalf of his master, and reported what had happened.

Bentinck put forward the view which he had been sent there to state, that the best plan would be for the Prince to be crowned King and myself take the rank, not of Queen Regent, but Queen Consort.

At that, Herbert, infuriated by the suggestion, forgetting his gout, leaped out of bed, seized his sword which he kept close by and, brandishing it, cried that if the Prince of Orange treated his wife so, he would never draw a sword for him again. After that display, he sank back on his bed in acute pain.

Bentinck said that when the Prince heard this he was overcome with melancholy.

He had turned to Bentinck and said: “You see how the people think? I am tired of these English. I shall go back to Holland and leave their crown to whoever can catch it.”

After that William scarcely emerged from St. James’s Palace. Ministers called on him constantly; he listened to what they said but rarely made any comment.

It was not surprising that they wondered what kind of a man they had brought to England.

And as he had intended, when he considered the time was ripe, and they were growing uneasy, he asked the Marquis of Halifax and the Earls of Shrewsbury and Danby, whom he believed to be his friends, to come to him, and he explained the reasons for his serious deliberations.

“The English plan to set Queen Mary on the throne and wish me to reign by her courtesy. I must make it clear to you that no man could esteem a woman more than I esteem my wife, but I am so made that I could not hold power by apron strings.”

The three men looked at him in consternation. Then Danby said he understood his dilemma but, in view of the fact that Queen Mary was the rightful Queen, they could see nothing else that was acceptable.

William then told them that Dr. Burnet had discussed the matter with me and would be prepared to tell them what had taken place at that interview.

As a result of this, Dr. Burnet was sent for and he gave an account of our talk together when I had most emphatically said that I believed a wife should be obedient to her husband and would be ready to resign sovereignty to William.

Lord Danby’s reply was that it would be necessary to have my confirmation of this and no steps could be taken until this was in the hands of Parliament.

As a result I received a communication from Lord Danby stating the case with a request that I should let him know my decision with as little delay as possible.

I immediately wrote back that, as the Prince’s wife, I was never meant to be other than in subjection to him and I should feel no gratitude to anyone who would seek to set up an interest dividing me from my husband.

That satisfied them.

The Lords and Commons were assembled and it was agreed that the Prince of Orange should be offered the three crowns of England, Ireland and France. Scotland, of course, was a separate kingdom and the title of France was a relic from the past. However, the three crowns were William’s now. I was to be offered a joint sovereignty and royal acts would be signed in both our names, but the executive power was William’s. Any children we should have would be heirs to the throne and if we failed to have them the succession would go to the Princess Anne and her children.

William had achieved what he had always wanted.

While this was happening Christmas had come and passed and we were nearly at the end of January. Then news came from William. I was to leave Holland and come back to England. We were to be crowned King and Queen and the reign of William and Mary was about to begin.