A “VERY INCOGNITO” VISIT

I suppose one cannot remain in deepest depression for weeks on end—especially when one is young. I was only fifteen, and young for my years, and the young, I believe, are resilient.

It was a relief to be on dry land after experiencing that turbulent sea and wondering if I would survive, and I had realized that, after all, I wanted to live.

I could not help being impressed by The Hague Palace to which we came after leaving Hounslaerdyke. It was a magnificent spot, grand indeed, with its Gothic halls and the lake, which they called the Vyver, washing the wall on one side.

It was the official residence of the Stadholder, which would account for its formidable formality, and much as I admired it, I was relieved to discover that I was not expected to live there.

There were two residences which were really part of the palace. One of these was the Old Court, which was a Dower Palace, and very pleasant, but the place which I really liked was the House in the Woods, and I was delighted to discover that this would really be my home.

True to its name, it was in a wood, but the house itself was surrounded by beautiful gardens. Two new wings had been built onto the house to accommodate my household.

It was about a mile from The Hague Palace and in the front of it was a long avenue, at the end of which was an impressive statue of the Stadholder William Henry, my husband’s grandfather.

I think I felt a little more hopeful when I entered the House in the Woods for, in spite of its splendor, there was a homeliness about it. The walls of the domed ballroom were covered by paintings and among them was my grandfather, the never-forgotten Charles the Martyr; and I was shown another picture of a member of my family. This was my Aunt Mary, who had married into Holland and become my husband’s mother.

As the weeks passed, I entered into a state of resignation. I soon realized that I should not see a great deal of William. We did not meet even for meals because he usually dined at the Hague Palace with his ministers when my presence would have been undesirable.

There were occasions when he came to supper at the House in the Woods, and those were the times I dreaded, for I knew they meant we were to spend the night together.

I tried to understand his point of view. These occasions were as distasteful to him as they were to me, for I was perpetually on the edge of tears which frequently overflowed; and the manner in which I clenched my teeth in preparation for the ordeal was not conducive to lovemaking.

He was not the sort of man to hide his feelings or to make things easier for me.

“Stop crying,” he would say. “Do you not understand that this is our duty?”

Oh yes, such an attitude must curb the most intense passion, except that of a sadist, of course, and William was certainly not that. He wanted to get the unpleasant business over as speedily as he could and he made no secret of it.

Perhaps I should have been glad of this, but there must have been something perverse in my nature. I did not want him, but with a certain feminine logic, I wanted him to want me.

I knew that I was by no means repulsive. I was rather too plump, but I had been called beautiful. I was young and virginal—indeed too much so, it seemed. I believe my youth irritated him and my dread certainly would.

It was strange that I should feel this faint resentment because the “duty” was as repulsive to him as it was to me. I thought of Mary Beatrice and my father. In fact my father was constantly in my thoughts, and I longed for his presence. Mary Beatrice had been as young as I was and as frightened. It must have happened to her just as it had to me. And then, suddenly, she had ceased to be frightened and instead became jealous of Arabella Churchill and the rest. But she had come to love my father. Should I ever grow to love William? They were as different as two men could be. My father and the King had what was called the Stuart charm. That had completely passed over William without touching him. I must remember that people who paid compliments as charmingly as the King did did not always mean them. William would never say what he did not mean. William would never pretend.

And so the weeks passed. I learned to steel myself for those evenings when William came to supper and I found they were less unpleasant than they had been in the beginning. I knew what to expect and that is better than being taken by surprise. I very much liked the House in the Woods. I could wander out with my attendants and stroll in the woods whenever I had the desire to do so. We danced in the evenings, or played cards, and, apart from the suppers and their aftermath with William, I could be tolerably happy.

Then there was wonderful news from home. Anne had completely recovered and I was so relieved and delighted that nothing could make me miserable then.

I was still writing to my dear Frances Apsley, and still called her “my husband.” I wondered what William would think of those letters. He must never be allowed to see them. But would he be interested? I was beginning to learn that little interested him except the government of the country.

I remember one day when we were sitting with our needlework I heard the story of that strange happening at the time of William’s birth. It must have affected him deeply, and made him sure of the destiny which awaited him.

I had noticed that Elizabeth Villiers liked to talk about William. Sometimes I would find her looking at me slyly, as though she were considering something. I did not understand her and I wished I had asked my father not to let her accompany me. I could tolerate her sister Anne, but there was something about Elizabeth which disturbed me. It always had, but I had been so miserable at the time of the marriage that I had not been able to think of anything else. I should have been wiser. My father would have said immediately that if I did not want her she should not go, for indeed the purpose of these girls, more than anything else, was to be a comfort to me in a strange land. But it was too late to think about that now.

On this occasion, she said: “I heard a strange story the other day. It was about the Prince’s birth. It is really very extraordinary.”

We were all alert, listening.

“It was someone who knew the midwife, a Mrs. Tanner, who told me. Perhaps the Prince has told Your Highness of this?”

She was looking at me with that sly look. She knew that there was very little conversation between the Prince and myself and was hinting that it was very unlikely that he would have told me anything except not to cry, that I must not be foolish, a silly child crying for her father.

“What was it?” I asked.

“Well,” said Elizabeth. “If you have not heard and do not mind my telling . . .”

“Do tell us,” cried Anne Villiers. “I cannot wait to hear.”

“It was a very sad time,” went on Elizabeth. “The Prince’s father had died only eight days before the Prince was born. The court was deep in mourning and the Princess hung her bedchamber with black cloth.”

“Surely she changed it for the birth of her son?” said Anne Trelawny.

“No,” replied Elizabeth. “Not according to Mrs. Tanner, the midwife. Even the cradle was hung with black.”

“What a sad way to bring a child into the world!” commented Jane Wroth.

“What would he know about it?” demanded Elizabeth. “But that is not the point. When he was emerging into the world . . . at the very moment . . . all the candles went out.”

“Who blew them out?” asked Anne Trelawny. “Or was it just the wind?”

“No one. They went out of their own accord.”

“How difficult for them,” put in Jane Wroth. “A baby about to be born in the dark.”

“But that was so that the circles of light could be seen.” Elizabeth spoke with great intensity and, watching her, I saw the squint was very pronounced. It made her look calculating, wise, witchlike.

She went on in very solemn tones: “And about the baby’s head were three circles of light. Mrs. Tanner saw them clearly.”

“What were they?” I asked.

“Your Highness, they were signs. Mrs. Tanner said they were like three crowns just above the baby’s head.”

“What did it mean?” asked Anne Trelawny.

“They said it meant that the Prince was born to greatness. His father was dead. There was no Stadholder. The fortunes of the country were low. And he had just come into the world. It was a sign, they said, that he would inherit three crowns.”

“What crowns?” I asked.

Elizabeth looked at me steadily and said: “They speak of the three crowns of Britain: the crown of England, Ireland and France.”

Elizabeth lowered those strange eyes. There was an air about her which I did not understand, a pride, a triumph.

She had always baffled me.

IT WAS NOT LONG after my arrival in Holland when I received a request to go to The Hague Palace where my uncle Laurence Hyde, Earl of Clarendon, who was the English ambassador, had something of importance to impart to William and me.

I had long realized that my husband did not regard me as of any importance in state matters, but this was different. It needed my uncle’s ambassador to remind the people here that I was his niece and Princess of Orange.

Wondering what this could mean, I went to the Presence Chamber in the palace where William, with Clarendon, was impatiently awaiting me.

My uncle greeted me with the deference due to my rank as the Prince’s wife, and, having made his point, said that the news was for both of us.

“There is great sadness at Whitehall, Your Highnesses. Charles, Duke of Cambridge, has died.”

Poor Mary Beatrice. Her little son, who had been born two days after my marriage, had been christened Charles and created Duke of Cambridge.

There was silence. My thoughts were with my stepmother. I remembered her joy when she had at last given birth to the longed-for son, and her hopes because it had seemed possible that he would live.

And how short had been his life! This was the child who had soured our marriage and filled William with such bitter disappointment.

I said: “The poor Duchess. How is she?”

My uncle replied: “Very sad, Your Highness, and the Duke with her.”

I looked at William. I guessed what he was feeling and I marvelled at his ability to hide it. I saw him take a deep breath and then said: “We must send our condolences to the Duke and Duchess.”

“I will write to them at once,” I said.

“It will comfort their Graces to hear from you,” said my uncle.

“What was the cause of death?” asked William.

Laurence Hyde was uncertain. “There have been the usual rumors, of course.”

“Rumors?” asked William with more animation than he had shown on hearing the news.

“It is gossip, Your Highness. There was smallpox in Whitehall. The Lady Anne herself . . . Praise God she has now recovered . . . but there were several deaths. The Lady Frances Villiers . . .”

“Ah yes,” murmured William. “And now the little Duke. But these rumors . . .”

“The nurses, Mrs. Chambers and Mrs. Manning, were blamed by some for not applying a cole leaf to draw out the infection. They protested that they had done their best for him. I am sure they did, poor women. But there will always be rumors.”

“And how is my father?” I asked.

“He is deep in mourning, Your Highness.”

I wished that I were there to comfort him.

When my uncle left and I was alone with William, he said: “That message must be sent to the English court without delay.”

A certain reserve dropped from him. He might have felt it was not necessary to hide his true feelings from me. I saw the slow smile spread across his face—a smile of satisfaction.

I was shocked. I could not stop thinking of the grief my father and stepmother would be suffering at this moment.

Perhaps he noticed this, for he laid a hand on my shoulder.

“You must not grieve,” he said in a more gentle tone than he had ever used to me before. “It may be that they will have more sons.”

But the smile lingered about his lips and I was sure he was convinced they never would. The way was clear. My father would have the throne, but for how long? The English would never accept a Catholic monarch. No wonder he felt benevolent toward me.

That night he came to supper. There was a change in him. He was less impatient, less critical.

He was implying that the marriage had been worthwhile after all.

I THOUGHT A GOOD DEAL about William. In fact, he was not often out of my thoughts. He was a strange man, so aloof that I felt I should never know him. He had betrayed his feelings a little over the death of my little half-brother, but that had not surprised me. Quite clearly he had no affection for me, though he had a deep regard for my position. He thought I was a silly young girl. He had made that perfectly clear, and never more so than during those periods of “duty.”

I sometimes had a conventional idea that, since he was my husband, I should try to love him. I began to make excuses for him. I pictured what his childhood must have been like, and I compared it with my happy one. Sometimes I felt that if I had not had such devoted parents, and particularly a doting father, I might have been able to understand him more readily.

He had been born fatherless and his mother had died when he was young. All through his childhood he had been taught that it was his duty to serve his country and that he must regain the title of Stadholder.

I had learned something of his country’s turbulent history, of the Spanish oppression, of his great ancestor, William the Silent, who had stood out against the evils of the Spanish Inquisition. William the Silent must have been rather like William himself. They were great men; they were serious men—unlike my uncle Charles and the men of Whitehall and St. James’s, whose main interest was the pursuit of pleasure.

I learned about the de Witts who had governed the country until some six years before, when the French King had invaded the country and William had declared he would fight to the last ditch and never give in.

He was a great soldier and a great statesman, and the people of Holland recognized in him another William the Silent. I heard how they had rallied to him, the Stadholder, and had demonstrated against John and Cornelius de Witt, storming their house, dragging them out and subjecting them to violent deaths by tearing them to pieces in the street.

It was horrible, but so much that was horrible happened to people. William had saved his country and was now recognized throughout Europe as one of the most able statesmen—important enough to marry the daughter of James, Duke of York, heiress to England—himself in line to the throne.

The three crowns! I thought: did he believe in the sign at his birth? I imagined he was no visionary, but it is easy to believe in prophecies which promise us great things, and his whole life had been molded to one aim. Ambition. And the crown of England had been promised him at this birth. For that, it was worth marrying a foolish girl for whom he could feel only contempt.

I was beginning to understand William and it helped to change my feelings toward him in some measure. I still dreaded his coming, but I understood. He could not feel warmth for anyone. He had not been brought up to love.

And then I had a surprise.

I had always known that William Bentinck was a greatly respected associate of his, but I had not realized how close.

One day from my window I saw William riding away from the House in the Woods after one of our nights together, which always left me a little shaken, although I had come to accept their inevitability. William Bentinck came riding toward the palace. He had, I guessed, some message for William. He had almost reached him when the horse shied and Bentinck was thrown from the saddle.

I caught my breath in horror, but the horse had stood quite still and Bentinck hastily picked himself up. It was clear that he was unhurt. It was just a slight mishap. The horse must have slipped over a stone and Bentinck had slid quite gently out of the saddle.

It was what happened afterward that amazed me. William had leaped from his horse and ran toward Bentinck. They were smiling at each other and then suddenly, to my astonishment, William took Bentinck into his arms and held him against him for a moment. Then he released him and they laughed together. I could not hear what was said, but I knew that William must be telling him how relieved he was that he was unhurt. I could not believe it. William looked like a different man. He was smiling as I would not have believed he could smile.

Who would have thought he could feel so warmly toward any man?

AFTER THAT I BECAME VERY INTERESTED in William Bentinck and wondered what it was about him which could attract William in such a way.

Bentinck was a year or so older than William—a nobleman who had been a page in William’s household, a position which had brought them into close contact and, as they were more or less of an age, I supposed they would have interests in common, and so this friendship had begun.

He had accompanied William on that visit to England when the latter had distinguished himself by breaking the windows of the maids of honor’s apartments; but, I learned, it was some years later when the friendship became significant.

I was a little hurt when I heard the story from others. William himself talked so rarely to me and never of his past.

It had happened five years after his return from England. The war in France was in progress and William was at The Hague Palace for a short respite, when he caught the smallpox. There was great consternation. This disease had killed both his father and his mother and people wondered if it were going to take him too. And at such a time when Holland needed his undoubtedly clever leadership!

His life was despaired of, for the usual eruptions did not appear and in such cases death seemed certain.

The doctors had a theory that if a young and healthy person who had not had the sickness would sleep in the bed of the sufferer and hold him in his arms throughout the night, these eruptions would be brought out and possibly save the life. Was there a young and healthy man who would risk his own life to save the Prince’s, for it was almost certain that the volunteer would catch the pox?

I could imagine the consternation among those young men about the Prince. It was William Bentinck who offered to make the sacrifice for the sake of his master and Holland.

For sixteen days and nights he shared William’s bed and waited on him by day. The effect was as the doctors had said it would be. The eruptions were drawn forth and William’s life had been saved. Alas, poor Bentinck had caught the disease very badly and come near to death. However, he recovered and ever since there had been a special friendship between him and William.

I liked the story. It proved that William had some warmth in his heart. He was capable of gratitude and Bentinck had risen high since that episode; he was always at William’s side. William consulted him and shared confidences.

As William was capable then of firm friendship, I began to make excuses for him. His mother had died when he was nine years old and he had been devoted to her since his birth; perhaps it was through her that he had conceived that ambition to possess the English crown. She had been English, my father’s sister—and she had put William in charge of Lady Catherine Stanhope, who had gone to Holland with her on her marriage, having previously been her governess. Then, of course, there was Mrs. Tanner’s vision of the three crowns.

I had begun to feel a little happier after that; and then, a wonderful thing happened. I was going to have a child. There was a long time to wait yet, but it had at last come to pass.

I was so proud. I even felt that all I had suffered would be worthwhile. What would it be like to have a child of one’s own? It would be wonderful. Everyone would be pleased, particularly if it were a boy. If it were a girl, that would be a disappointment, but only a minor one, for I was young. I could have sons, for I would have shown that I was not barren.

William was delighted. It was impossible for him to hide his joy. He smiled at me for the first time.

“That is good,” he said. “We will pray for a boy.”

He patted my shoulder. I smiled at him a little shyly and he continued to regard me with approval.

All my ladies were delighted, except Elizabeth Villiers. She congratulated me with the others, of course, but I caught an odd look in her eyes which I did not understand. Anne Trelawny clucked over me as though I were a little chick and she a mother hen.

It was early days yet, for there was a long time to go. I congratulated myself because I should enjoy the waiting period. No more suppers and after. What need of them now? Their express purpose had been achieved.

It was decided that while I was in the early stage of pregnancy it would be a good idea for me to show myself to the people of Holland, and in order to do this I and my ladies should take a journey through the country. The best way of undertaking this was by means of the canals. There I could sail through the land in the utmost comfort.

I looked forward to it with enthusiasm and felt almost happy.

I wrote to my sister Anne, to Mary Beatrice and to Frances Apsley to tell them my news. I had not let Frances know how unhappy I had been; I never allowed myself to criticize William in any way. Now I did not have to pretend so much, for I was no longer miserable.

We had a great deal of fun preparing for our journey. Elizabeth Villiers acted a little strangely. She said she wanted to see me. It was very shortly before we were due to leave.

“I want to ask Your Highness’s permission to remain behind,” she said. “I have a certain weakness of the throat which I know would be aggravated by the damp air and I am afraid I should be ill if I spent much time on the waterways. I have been advised in this.”

I was surprised. I had always thought she was particularly healthy, but I did not protest. I was never fond of her company and felt no great need for it—only a mild pleasure that I should be deprived of it.

That was a very pleasant journey. I was greeted everywhere I went by those kind and homely people. I was impressed by the cleanliness of their dwellings, the manner in which they conveyed their pleasure in seeing me, which seemed very sincere, so that I felt they really were glad to welcome me, for they would not have pretended to be glad if they were not.

There was less ceremony than at home in England. People would come and take my hand; they would bring forward their children for me to admire. I was really happy during those days. There was something peaceful about the flat green land, and when the children brought me flowers which they had picked from the fields, I was reminded that soon I should have a child of my own. Yes, for the first time since coming to Holland, I was truly happy.

The night air was indeed damp and one day, to my dismay, I awoke shivering intermittently. I tried to shake this off, but it persisted. In a day or so I had a fever.

Doctors were called. They said I was suffering from the ague. It was a change of climate, though the air around The Hague Palace was noted for its dampness.

Thus my progress through the country did not end as happily as it had begun. I was taken back to the House in the Woods.

Elizabeth Villiers was there. She looked taken aback when she saw me and, I fancied, disappointed.

“Your Highness is ill?” she said with a pretence of concern.

“It is the dampness of the air, they say,” said Anne Trelawny. “Her Highness is to go immediately to bed.”

Elizabeth continued to look displeased. I did not trust her. She made me feel slightly uneasy.

I began to feel very ill and then . . . it started.

The pains were violent. I did not know what was happening to me. I lost consciousness for a while and when I regained it I found several doctors at my bedside.

It was morning—that very sad morning—when they came to tell me I had lost my child.

I had never been so miserable in my life.

William came. He looked very angry. The child of our hopes was not to be.

“What did you do?” he demanded.

“Nothing . . . nothing . . . it just happened,” I stammered.

He looked at me with scorn. He was so disappointed and angry. Then he left me. It was almost as though he could not trust himself not to do me some harm if he stayed.

I felt a resentment then. I had wanted the child as much as he had. Why did I not tell him that? Why did I allow myself to be treated so? He frightened me. When he was not there I planned what I would say to him, but when he came my courage failed me.

I thought of Mary Beatrice who had only little Isabella left of all her children, and how she had lost the little Prince whose coming had so disappointed William and who, had he lived, would have ruined William’s hopes of the throne, and I thought: am I to be cursed in the same way?

Anne Trelawny tried to persuade me not to despair because it was only the first. That did not help me. I had lost my child. I turned my face to the pillow and wept.

WILLIAM, INSPIRED BY NEW HOPES that there was no impediment to my inheritance, was determined to get his heir, and as soon as my health began to improve his visits continued, and it was not long before I was pregnant again.

One day there was a letter from England. It was addressed to William and it evidently annoyed him to such an extent that he could not help showing the bitterness of his feelings.

It was from my father. The relationship between them had never been cordial. They could not help seeing each other first as Catholic and Protestant. I could sympathize with William in this when I heard how his country had suffered under the Spanish yoke and how the terrible Inquisition had inflicted such extreme torture on the people of Holland. I had heard that some thirty thousand of them had been buried up to their necks and left to die unless they accepted the Catholic faith as the true one. William saw my father as a man who would spread this kind of terror throughout the world.

As for my father, he recalled Cromwell and his Puritans who had murdered his father.

They were born to be enemies. They were so different in every way—my father warm and loving, William cold and austere. How strange that the two most important men in my life should be so different and how sad that they should have been such enemies.

And now here was another cause for enmity.

William said to me coldly: “I have had an accusation from your father that I do not take good care of you.”

“Oh no,” I said.

“But yes. He thinks that it was strange that you should suffer from the ague which you never did under his care. He informs me that the Duchess, his wife, and your sister, the Lady Anne, wish to visit you.”

I could feel nothing but joy. I clasped my hands and could not help exclaiming: “Oh, how happy that will make me.”

“They propose to come, as your father says, incognito. ‘Very incognito’ are his words. They have already sent a certain Robert White on ahead to procure a lodging for them near the palace so that there will be nothing official about the visit.”

“Why do they want to come in this way?”

He looked at me oddly. “They seem to think you are not being well treated here. Perhaps you have given some intimation of this?”

“Why? What do you mean?”

He lifted his shoulders. “The good ladies are to assure themselves—and your father—that you are being treated according to your rank. It would seem they have been led to believe this is not so.”

He was spoiling my pleasure in the anticipation of their arrival.

I said quickly: “You would not . . .”

“Refuse to allow them to come? I could scarcely do that. Rest assured, the lady spies will be well received when they arrive, though they will be ‘very incognito.’ ”

Nothing could really spoil my delight and I joyously awaited their arrival.

AND WHAT A JOY IT WAS TO SEE THEM. There was my dear, dear sister, who had been so ill when I left, now in radiant health.

It was wonderful to see me, she told me.

“When you went away, I wept for days. Sarah thought I should do myself some harm with my sorrow. Dear, dear Mary, and how do you like it here?”

She looked around the chamber. It was attractive, she said, but not like dear St. James’s and Richmond.

She was talking a great deal—for Anne—but this reunion was a very special occasion and even she was moved out of her usual placidity.

Then there was my stepmother. I saw the change in her. Grief had left its mark on her.

I did not mention the recent death of her baby son, but she knew I was thinking of it.

There was so much to talk of. I wanted news of my father.

“He never ceases to talk of you,” Mary Beatrice told me. “He wishes you were back with us and reproaches himself for letting you go.”

“It was no fault of his. He would have kept me in England if he could.”

She nodded. “He could do nothing,” she said. “But he still blames himself. This appears to be a pleasant country. The people are very agreeable.”

“Orange,” said Anne. “It’s a strange name for a country.”

“I call you Lemon . . . my dear little Lemon,” said Mary Beatrice. “Orange and Lemon, you see. Do I not, Anne?”

“Yes,” said Anne. “She says, ‘I wonder how little Lemon is today among all the Oranges.’ ”

We were all laughing. There was so much to know. How were all my friends—the Duke of Monmouth, for instance. All missing me, I was told.

I said: “It is wonderful that you have come.”

“Your father was so uneasy about you. He would have liked to come himself but he could hardly have done that. It would have made it too official. But when we heard what was happening here . . .”

“What did you hear?”

Mary Beatrice looked at Anne who said: “People wrote home . . . some of the ladies, you know. They wrote that the Prince does not treat you well. Does he not?”

I hesitated—and that was enough.

“Lady Selbourne wrote home and said that you were neglected by the Prince who treated you without respect.”

“The Prince is very busy,” I said quickly. “He is much occupied with affairs of state.”

“He will always be Caliban to me,” said Anne. “That was Sarah’s name for him.”

I said: “Pray, do not let anyone hear you say that.”

“Well,” laughed Anne. “He is rather alarming. My poor Mary, I am sorry for you. I can’t help being glad he is not my husband.”

I looked at her placid face and wondered who would be found for her. Of one thing I was certain: it would not be long before she had a husband. The thought apparently did not occur to her, or if it had, it had not alarmed her. Very little did alarm Anne. She had an unswerving faith in her ability to sail serenely through life.

“I will tell you a secret,” she said, dismissing the unpleasant subject of my marriage. “It is very much a secret at the moment. Only our stepmother knows, is that not so? But I must tell my dear sister, if she promises to say nothing of it to anyone.”

I promised readily.

“It is Sarah,” she said. “What do you think? She has married John Churchill.”

“Well, I knew he was courting her. Why should it be a secret?”

“The Churchills have fine ideas of themselves ever since Arabella started to advance their fortunes.” Anne paused for a moment, faintly embarrassed. Our stepmother knew, of course, of Arabella’s relationship with her husband and how, because of it, her family had received many favors.

“The Churchills think themselves far above the Jennings and that Sarah is not a good enough match.”

“Sarah will soon teach them differently from that!”

“Of course. Sarah is good enough for anyone. But if he had to go away with his regiment and Sarah went with him, what should I do without her?”

“You will have to arrange that she stays behind or let her go,” I said.

Anne smiled complacently, certain of her power to keep Sarah with her.

“It is a secret until the family have been brought round to see good sense. Our stepmother thinks that can be done.”

“I did hear a whisper that John Churchill was a wayward young man,” I said.

“You must mean the Lady Castlemaine scandal. There was something. But so many people have been involved with that woman.”

“I have heard it said that the King sent him to Tangiers to separate them.”

“That was long ago. John is now reformed. He thinks of no one but Sarah. I dare say he will do exactly as Sarah wants.”

“Knowing Sarah, I am sure that is very likely.”

I wondered how long this deep friendship with Sarah could last. Anne herself must marry one day and that was most certainly to be in the near future.

She said: “How did you get on with Dr. Hooper?”

Dr. Hooper was the almoner who had replaced Dr. Lloyd. I frowned. William did not approve of him. Dr. Lloyd had not minded if I attended the Dutch services, but Dr. Hooper had advised me not to. In fact, he was almost as fierce against it as he was against Catholicism. This had given rise to some unpleasantness, for Dr. Hooper was not a man to keep silent about his opinions. There had been one or two far from felicitous encounters between William and Dr. Hooper.

“He is a man of strong opinion,” I said.

“And the Prince did not approve of him?”

“Well, not exactly.”

Mary Beatrice smiled grimly and I said quickly: “You know he is returning to England. He is going to marry.”

“I had heard that.”

“He has promised he will come back again, bringing his wife with him.”

“Does that please you?”

“I like him.”

My stepmother did not answer, but I knew she was thinking that my husband had probably made life very difficult during Dr. Hooper’s stay at The Hague.

He would no doubt make his views at the Dutch court known when he returned to England. He would be quite fearless about that, and with the letters which found their way to England, it would be known that my life in Holland was not as serene as it might have been.

The visit was very brief and I was very sad to say good-bye to them. It had been a mixture of joy and sadness to be with them, for, while it was wonderful to be in their company, memories flooded back of the idyllic life I had led before my marriage. I was beset by such nostalgic longing for the old days that I was not sure whether the visit had been good for me or not.

They had promised to come again.

“The journey is not so far,” Anne had said on parting. “Of course, there is that hateful crossing, but I would face that a thousand times to be with my dear sister.”

And my stepmother agreed with her.

So I was hopeful that there would be another visit before very long.