THE EXILE

Soon after their departure, William paid me one of his rare visits. As I was pregnant, it was not for the usual purpose.

He said: “I have a letter from your father.”

He handed it to me and I read:

We came hither on Wednesday from Newmarket and the same night the Duchess, my wife, arrived home so satisfied with her journey and with you as never I saw anyone; and I must give you a thousand thanks from her and from myself for her kind usage by you. I should say more on the subject, but I am ill at compliments and I know you do not care for them.

There was more of the letter. He did not give me time to read it, however, but snatched it away as I prepared to do so.

“Well,” he said, his lips in a straight line, his eyes cold, “The spies gave a good account of us.”

“They were not spies,” I said with a touch of indignation.

“Were they not? You surprise me. Their grateful thanks are couched in the language of diplomacy. They are adept in that art at your uncle’s court, I believe. Your father is an uneasy man at this time.” He waved the letter at me, and I stretched out to take it, but he held it back. He was not going to share it with me. All he wanted me to see was the good report which had been given of the visit.

“There is trouble in England,” he went on.

“Trouble?” I said quickly. “What trouble?”

“Your father, I fear, is not a wise man. His obsession with a religion which does not please the people will be his undoing.”

“Is anything wrong with my father?”

“Only what he inflicts on himself.”

“Please tell me if you have any news.” I was losing my fear of him in my anxiety for my father, and I felt bold suddenly. If my father was in trouble I must know.

“Is he in danger?” I asked.

William did not speak immediately. A slow smile crossed his face but he seemed as cold as ever.

He tapped the letter.

“There is a plot being talked of in England. A man named Titus Oates has claimed to have discovered it. This is a papist plot to take command of England and bring back that faith.”

“And my father?”

“They will seek to involve him, of course. There is a great excitement in England because of it. All Catholics will be suspect. Your father, your stepmother, the Queen herself. The English will never again have a Catholic on the throne. That is why I say your father is unwise.”

“He is an honest man,” I said. “He does not pretend. He will not lie to the people.”

“Honest . . . and so unwise!”

I wanted to read that letter. I wanted to know exactly what had been written. William knew it, but he would not show me.

I understood later, but I could not then.

His hopes were high. The popish plot raised them. Charles, my uncle, could not live forever, and then it would be my father’s turn. And would the people have him? If not, the next in line was myself. I would be the one and William was my consort. Consort? When he had a claim himself . . . not as strong as mine, it was true, but a claim. He wanted me to know that, however high my rank, he was my husband and I owed obedience to him.

That letter pleased him indeed. Not because my sister and stepmother had not mentioned his harsh treatment of me, but because of the news about a papist plot.

I CONTINUED TO WORRY about my father. News came from England. We heard of little else but Titus Oates and the popish plot. Everyone was talking about it. I knew that William was in communication with some of the ministers at my uncle’s court. There were several of them who were determined not to tolerate a Catholic king and they turned to William.

I realized that William was aware of the close relationship between myself and my father and he did not want me to be influenced by him.

Although he had a certain contempt for me, and I was sure believed he could subdue me if the need arose, he had to remember that, if my father was removed, he could only secure the throne through me; and I believed on one or two occasions he had seen in me a certain rebellion—a determination to stand up for what I believed to be right, even if it were against his wishes.

He was already conspiring with men in England and must have been anxious to keep me in ignorance of this, for fear I should betray the fact to my father.

Soon after the departure of the visitors I was taken ill again with the disease which had attacked me before. I was suffering alternate fits of shivering and fever and they diagnosed the ague.

I became very ill and during the illness I lost the child I was carrying. It had happened exactly as before.

I was completely desolate, more so than ever. It was a significant repetition. I knew what it meant. The curse of the queens was upon me. I began to believe that I should never have a child who would live.

I knew William was deeply upset. Our efforts were in vain. A child was conceived and that was the end.

He blamed me. Of course. What had I done? I had been careless, stupid. I had let another chance go by.

I was too ill for some time to care much. I thought I was dying and so did some of those about me. I knew this because Anne Trelawny told me afterward.

There was a great deal of gossip among the women about William’s callous behavior. There were occasions when he did come to see me. I supposed diplomacy demanded it. I pretended to be too ill to speak to him.

He stood by my bed, looking at me with obvious exasperation—the wife who could not do what every little serving-maid could with ease—produce a child; and yet I held the promise of a crown in my hands.

He was anxious about me for one reason. I must get well. I must not die, for if I died, I should take William’s hopes with me, for Anne would be next. Idly I wondered how she would have acted if she had been the one chosen for William. I thought of her indifference, her lassitude. She would have ignored him and turned to Sarah Churchill for comfort.

Often now I thought of Frances Apsley. One of my greatest compensations was the letters I wrote and received; and I often thought how pleasant it might have been if we could have lived together.

People noticed the change in me. I was a little aloof with my attendants. I had discovered that I had only to look mildly displeased by their conduct and they became subdued.

Dr. Hooper had come back with his wife. She was a charming woman and I wanted her to know how pleased I was to have her join our circle.

The maids of honor had their own dining quarters. I joined them on occasions. I had expected, of course, to dine with my husband, but he still dined at The Hague Palace and the excuse was that he was busy with his ministers. I knew this was commented on and was one of those facts which gave the impression that I was not treated with the respect due to me.

Dr. Hooper had had his meals with the maids of honor in the past but had declined the invitation for his wife to join them when she arrived. He said that, in view of the “great economy” the Prince of Orange practiced and his dislike of the English, he thought it better for Mrs. Hooper to dine at their lodgings, and, naturally, he would take his meals with her, thus saving the Prince more expenditure.

This was also noted and I had no doubt that the information would reach England.

So William had a reputation for meanness. It was true he paid the chaplains who came over from England very little. Dr. Hooper, being a man of means, supported himself and his wife all the time he was in Holland. The Dutch were so shocked by his extravagent way of life, for their clergy were so poorly paid, that they called him “The Rich Papa.”

This state of affairs had the effect of making Dr. Hooper very independent and he spoke his mind freely in William’s presence and, I think, must have given him some uncomfortable moments. Not that William was the man to allow such trivialities to affect him, but he was concerned that Dr. Hooper might influence me in my religion, for it was a fact that, since his arrival, I had adhered to the rites of the English Church instead of adopting those of the Dutch.

William was heard to say on one occasion that if ever he had a say in the matter (which meant that if ever he were King of England), Dr. Hooper should remain Dr. Hooper throughout his life. He would certainly not get promotion from William.

Dr. Hooper was indifferent to such comments and went on expressing his opinion with the utmost freedom.

He did not stay with us for long, however, and his successor, Dr. Ken, proved to be even more outspoken.

I discovered that something of importance was happening in the quarters of the maids of honor, presided over by Elizabeth Villiers. There was a great deal of entertainment there. This was strange for, as Dr. Hooper had pointed out, William disliked any form of extravagance, and the supper parties which had become a familiar feature of the evenings, must have entailed certain expense.

Then it suddenly dawned on me that there was some purpose in these parties. Some of the maids of honor were attractive and most of them were young; and the most important men at court could at times be seen there.

Among them was William Zulestein, who was a great friend of William’s and was in fact related to him, for Zulestein’s father was the illegitimate son of Henry Frederick, Prince of Orange, my husband’s grandfather, by the daughter of a burgomaster of Emmerich. He had been a faithful friend of William’s father and now there was a close friendship between him and William.

William Bentinck was also a frequent visitor to the suppers, as were others of William’s circle. William himself had been known to be present. Many of the English visitors to The Hague were invited—among them Algernon Sidney and Lords Sunderland and Russell.

On the rare occasions when I was present I noticed that the English visitors were made much of, and the girls were very agreeable to them.

Elizabeth Villiers acted as hostess. When I was there she paid me all the homage due to my rank, but I was constantly aware of her sly smile and watchful eyes; and I could not help feeling that there was something subversive about those supper parties—some purpose behind them.

I watched Elizabeth Villiers in earnest conversation with Algernon Sidney and I wondered what subject they found so enthralling. I did not believe it was lovers’ talk; more than ever, I felt there was indeed something rather sinister behind these gatherings, and that they should be carried on with William’s approval amazed me.

There was born in me then a deep feeling of apprehension. I felt we were moving toward a climax of which others were aware and I was ignorant. I felt a little frustrated and helpless, which was due to the fact that I had a faint glimmer of understanding.

Constantly I thought of my father. I gathered that this plot of which they were all talking was directed not only against the Queen but against him also. He was in danger and I wanted to be with him.

These anxieties had their effect on me. I had another fit of the ague and this time I could not rid myself of it. I had to take to my bed and I was very ill this time. People in my bedchamber whispered together and I believe they thought I had not long to live.

William came to see me. He looked really alarmed. Poor William, I thought with newly acquired cynicism, if I died, what hope would you have of the crown? After my father, Anne; and Anne would marry and very likely have sons. Then the prophecy of the three crowns would not be fulfilled. And when I thought of the way in which he had behaved when I had lost my babies, I wanted him to suffer.

I heard him demanding: “Where is the physician? Why is he not attending the Princess?”

And I thought: he is indeed alarmed.

Anne Trelawny said: “The Prince is sending Dr. Drelincourt to

attend to you. The Prince has more faith in him than in any doctor in the country.”

I said: “He is worried—not for me, but for the crown.”

Anne said nothing, but I knew that she agreed with me.

I was young and did not want to die, even to spite William, and under Dr. Drelincourt I began to improve a little.

He had diagnosed that my listlessness was not helping me and that I must revive my interest in the life around me. He said my ladies should be with me: they should chat and gossip of what was going on at court.

Anne Trelawny was constantly with me, Lady Betty Selbourne too, and Anne Villiers. I was beginning to like her more; she had softened and seemed more interesting. She mentioned William Bentinck frequently. I had noticed that she was with him often at the supper parties and seemed to have a great admiration for him. She told me what a wonderful friendship he had with the Prince. She repeated the story of how he had saved William’s life when he had had smallpox and how the disease had attacked Bentinck himself. He bore the scars of that episode. She said they were like medals for bravery.

One day William came to me.

“You are recovering,” he said.

“I am told so.”

“It is clear that you are. When you are a little better, you shall go to Dieren. The climate is good there and Dr. Drelincourt shall go with you. I wish to see you fully recovered.”

“I know how important that is to you,” I said pointedly.

“But of course,” he replied.

“My sister Anne is fully recovered now,” I went on, marvelling at my audacity, but enjoying it. “She is in perfect health.”

“I gathered so. But she will not be allowed to travel with your father.”

He was looking at me with a certain triumph as though to say, do not try your barbs on me. They are so feeble that they glance off almost unnoticed.

I was very anxious to know what he meant about Anne’s traveling with my father.

He said: “Your father wished to take her with him when he left England, but that was prevented at the last moment. The people would not allow it. They suspected, and with reason, that he would attempt to make a Catholic of her.”

“I do not understand. Where is my father going? Why is he to leave England?”

He smiled almost benignly. “No, of course you do not,” he said, implying that I could not be expected to grasp matters of state. “Your father has left England.”

“Why?”

A look of pleasure briefly fluttered across William’s face.

“Not at his desire. He was asked to leave. You might call it exile.”

I was frightened now and he knew it. More than anything I wanted to see my father and hear from him what had happened. I was getting agitated and, fearing the effect it might have on my health, he said quickly: “Your father is now in Brussels. He has heard of your illness and is coming to visit you.”

I could not help showing my pleasure and relief and he looked at me with that impatience I knew so well.

I closed my eyes. I did not want to ask any more questions. My father was coming to me. I would prefer to hear what had happened from him.

WHAT A JOY IT WAS TO SEE HIM! We embraced and clung together; we could not bear to let each other go.

“I have been so concerned about you,” said my father; and Mary Beatrice stood by, watching with tears in her eyes.

I noticed how they had changed, both of them. My father looked strained and tired. Mary Beatrice had lost the first glow of youth; she was only a few years older than I was, but she looked at least ten.

She had lost her children, as I had, but mine had not been born and hers had lived, if only for a short while; she had come to a new country, as I had, but the people had not welcomed her as the Dutch people had welcomed me. But my father had been a loving husband, although an unfaithful one.

Our positions were not dissimilar and because of this we could understand each other.

My father was bitter and sad.

I said: “I cannot be kept in ignorance any longer. I must know what has happened.”

“Do you learn nothing then?” answered my father. “There are many here who are no friends of mine. Surely they would spread the news.”

“I learn very little and I must know.”

“We have been asked to leave. Even my brother said it was necessary.”

Mary Beatrice went on: “He appeared to be very grieved when we left. Yet it was he who ordered it. I told him so. I could not stop myself. It was all so false. I said to him: ‘What, sir, are you grieved? But it is you who are sending us into exile. Of course we must go. You are the King and have ordained it.’ ”

I thought she would burst into tears and my father put his hand over hers.

“It was no fault of my brother, my dear,” he said. “He had to do it. It was what the people wanted. It is due to that scoundrel Oates.”

“I know,” she said. “I am sorry I spoke thus. He is ever kind. He understands. He showed me by his looks that he did.”

“Exile?” I said. “How can you be exiled?”

“You do not know what has happened in England. This man, Titus Oates . . . he is at the root of it all. He has stirred up such trouble that it has brought us to this.”

“I have heard that man’s name mentioned,” I said.

“I should have thought the Prince of Orange would be deeply interested in what is taking place.”

“He does not talk much to me of state affairs.”

My father looked grim. His feelings toward William had not changed and he had hated the match from the beginning. I knew that, whatever they showed on the surface, there was deep animosity between them.

“This man Oates is a scoundrel. That much is obvious, but the people cannot see it—or won’t.”

“They believe because they want to believe,” said Mary Beatrice.

“He has accomplices. William Bedloe and Israel Tonge and others. Oates claims to have been a clergyman—a Catholic at one time. He professes to have joined the Jesuits and it is because of this that he claims to have knowledge of this plot.”

“What is the plot exactly?” I asked.

“To kill the King, set up a Catholic ministry and massacre the English Protestants.”

“And you?” I said.

“The government thought it wise that I should leave the country for a while, and my brother was obliged to agree with them.”

“It will pass,” I said.

“I do not know,” replied my father seriously. “This is no ordinary plot to be proved false—as it undoubtedly is—and forgotten. He is rousing the whole country.”

I began to grasp the situation. The anti-Catholic feeling was great throughout England and, fomented by this outrageous Titus Oates, it was not safe for my father to remain there. I was very anxious.

I learned that this visit to The Hague was, as he had said of that earlier one made by Mary Beatrice and Anne, “very incognito.” The situation was too delicate for it to be a state visit. William was, in a way, involved in English affairs; no one could be unaware of what the refusal of the English to accept a Catholic monarch would mean to him. If my father had a son now he would be taken from him and given a Protestant upbringing, but child rulers usually caused trouble, and at The Hague was one of the most staunch Protestants, married to the present heir to the throne—if my father should be rejected.

WHEN I WAS ALONE with Mary Beatrice I realized how troubled she was.

She told me that she had been happier in her first years in England than ever before and now it had all changed.

“I often think,” she said, “that, had your father been a Protestant, we should still be enjoying that happy life. The people were fond of him once, as they are of the King. They both have what is called the Stuart charm in good measure. The King is clever and determined to keep his crown; but the fact is that your father is too honest to deny his faith and for that we must suffer.”

She told me of how they had had to leave.

“We wanted to bring your sister with us, of course, and she was delighted at the prospect of seeing you, but when it was known that she was coming there was an outcry. The people thought your father might seek to make a Catholic of her, and so she was not allowed to go with us.”

“How I should have loved to see her!”

“She said she must come soon. Perhaps it can be arranged.”

“What troubles there are in life!”

“You too?” she asked.

“I miss my home—you, my father, my sister, my uncle . . . the ones I loved.”

“You have your husband.” She looked at me intently, questioningly, and I did not answer.

She went on: “The Prince received us well when we arrived in Holland. He had a guard of honor waiting to greet us. Your father was gratified, but he did explain immediately that this was not a state visit and it would be better for him to remain incognito. We went to Brussels and shall return there when we leave here, for, dear Lemon, we must not stay long—we shall have the house which your uncle had during his exile. I think so much of the early years when we were all together, getting to know each other. How happy it was! Who would have dreamed then that all this would happen?”

Poor Mary Beatrice! My poor father! How different everything might have been!

I asked about Isabella and her face lit up with pleasure. Then it was sad again.

“I wanted to bring her with us. She is such a beautiful child. But it was not permitted. Your father is going to write to the King imploring him to allow Isabella to come to us. Perhaps we can persuade him to allow Anne to accompany her.”

“I thought the people did not want them to go with you.”

“I know, but the King would be happy for them to. He understands. But it will, I suppose, depend on the people. The King will never do anything to offend them.”

“He is wise,” I said.

“Wise and determined never to go wandering again.”

“Yet my father will do what he thinks right, no matter what the consequences.”

“Everything is wrong,” she went on. “Wherever we look, there is trouble . . . Monmouth . . .”

“What of Jemmy?” I cried.

“He has grown ambitious. This horrible plot delights him. He mingles with the people. Monmouth, the Protestant. One would think he were heir to the throne. I do believe he sees himself as such. He is the King’s son and he wants everyone to remember it and, above all, he is a Protestant.”

“Jemmy cannot think . . .”

“I tell you, he is an ambitious young man. He wants the people on his side. I believe he thinks that one day the crown could be his.”

“That is impossible.”

I thought of my bright and amusing cousin, whose visits Anne and I had looked forward to—and now he had become my father’s enemy! What a lot of trouble could have been avoided if my father had not flaunted his religion. It was not the first time that I had felt a touch of impatience with him. The King kept his counsel and all went well with him. If only my father could have been as wise.

I felt ashamed of these critical thoughts. It was disloyal. I brushed them aside and talked about Isabella.

Their stay was brief. They had come to see me, my father told me. They had been so alarmed to hear of my illness, but because of the circumstances they could not prolong their stay.

The encounter had been beneficial to me and my health visibly improved. And then they returned to Brussels.

MY FATHER WAS CONTINUALLY IN MY THOUGHTS and I greatly pitied not only him and Mary Beatrice but Queen Catherine as well. It appeared that she was in acute danger, for these villainous men were accusing her of being involved in the plot to murder the King, and therefore of treason, for which the punishment was death. This was sheer nonsense, and I was sure my uncle would protect her from her malicious enemies. But what must the poor woman be suffering now?

The King should never have married a Catholic. My grandfather, Charles the Martyr, had married one, too; the stormy Henrietta Maria had been fiercely religious and was blamed for the troubles of that reign which had ended in such tragedy.

Catholics brought trouble wherever they were and that was at the very heart of the popish plot.

I would always maintain my father’s honesty, but he really was acting in a reckless, foolish manner, and was causing misery to a great many people.

There was a great deal of activity going on at the supper parties. Elizabeth Villiers was still hostess at these affairs and I was astonished that she should be in such prominence even when William was there. But he did not seem to notice her presumption. I had even seen him talking to her when she joined him and some of the English visitors.

As for myself, I was gaining confidence. I had proved to myself that I could stand up to William and I felt better for it.

I had a feeling at those parties which I attended, that they were all very much aware of my presence and that it put a curb upon them. Perhaps that was just a fancy, for how could I know what they were like in my absence? Perhaps I imagined that there was a watchfulness.

On one occasion, soon after my father and Mary Beatrice had left, I noticed a man who stood out among the others because he was so different. He did not look like a man accustomed to court ways. I guessed him to be English and he was deep in conversation with Sidney. Sunderland joined them and they all talked together very earnestly.

I called Betty Selbourne to my side. She seemed to know everyone and was noted for her discretion.

I said to her: “Who is that man talking to Lord Sunderland?”

She paused for a moment and then replied: “I could not remember for the moment, but I do now. I believe him to be a Mr. William Bedloe.”

“Who is he?”

“I do not know, Your Highness. I have not met him. I think he came over with a message for Lord Russell.”

“Bedloe,” I murmured. I thought the name seemed faintly familiar.

“Would Your Highness like him to be presented to you?”

I looked at the man’s mean face and awkward bearing.

“No, Betty,” I said. “I think not.”

It was later, when I lay in bed, sleepless, thinking of my father and poor Queen Catherine, when I remembered where I had heard the name before. “Titus Oates and his friends—Tonge and Bedloe.”

My suspicions were beginning to be formed. William Bedloe was a confederate of Titus Oates.

What were these men who were plotting to ruin the Queen and my father doing here at The Hague? The answer was clear: my father was going to be robbed of his inheritance and William, through me, was going to take the crown of England.

I felt sick with horror. I wanted no part in it. I wanted to break away from it all.

How could my father have plunged us all into this morass of intrigue and misery?

And William? How much was he involved in it?

I HAD BEEN HORRIBLY SHOCKED that a man concerned in the popish plot with Titus Oates should be received at the court of The Hague, and even more so by a discovery I made soon afterward.

I was really fortunate in having in my service that rather feckless pair Betty Selbourne and Jane Wroth, for I learned a great deal from little details which they thoughtlessly let slip from time to time in their everyday tittle-tattle. Anne Trelawny was discreet and always concerned not to alarm me, and I believe she kept from me any news which she thought might do so.

Some reference was made to my father’s visit, and Jane said: “It was the day before his illness.”

“His illness?” I asked. “What was that?”

Betty was there too and she and Jane exchanged glances.

Betty said: “Oh, it was nothing much. It quickly passed. It was a day or so before he left.”

“Why did I know nothing of this? What sort of illness?”

“It was of no importance,” said Betty. “I suppose he did not want to worry Your Highness.”

“If it were of no importance, how could it worry me?”

They were both silent and I went on: “How did you know of it?”

“People were talking about it,” said Jane. “Your Highness knows how people will talk. The Duchess was so anxious.”

I knew there was something mysterious about this illness and, instead of gently urging them to talk and eventually prizing the news from them, I said imperiously: “I want to know the truth. Please tell me immediately.”

I could see the expressions on their faces. There was no help for it. They must tell me.

“Well,” said Betty. “It was just before the Duke and Duchess left. The Duke was troubled in the night with sickness and gripping pains—so they said.”

“Why did I not know of this?”

“We were told not to speak of it. We should not have mentioned it.”

“But I insist on knowing,” I reminded her. “Go on.”

“The Duchess was very worried. Their servants were there. They thought he was . . .”

I found I was clenching my fists. It was hard to control my dismay and alarm.

“What caused it?” I demanded.

Again that exchange of a glance between the two young women.

“It must have been something he had eaten at supper,” said Jane.

“But he was much better in the morning,” added Betty. “And then, of course, he left for Brussels.”

“Why was this kept from me?”

“Your Highness was recovering from your own illness. The Prince had given orders that you were not to be worried. It was just that your father was briefly indisposed.”

“And my father left almost immediately and instructions were given not to tell me.”

“No one was supposed to mention it, for it would seem as though the cooks did not know their business.”

“And you ladies were told not to mention it? By whom?”

“It was Elizabeth. She is the one who says what we must do or not do now.”

I was very disturbed. Had they tried to kill my father? Those men who assembled for the supper parties were his enemies. They wanted to see him removed to make way for William.

And William? I could not believe that such a religious man would contemplate . . . murder.

I WAS ASHAMED OF MYSELF for entertaining for a moment such a thought of my husband. William was stern, unbending, overwhelmingly ambitious, but he would never be a party to murder—and the murder of his father-in-law.

I felt I wanted to make up for such an unworthy thought.

My attitude toward my father had changed a little. There were those who called him a fool and my uncle was one of them. I had heard that the King had said of him: “The people will never get rid of me, because if they did they would have to have James. That is something they would not want. I doubt he would last four years on the throne.”

My poor misguided father. Such a good man, he was, apart from that lechery which he shared with his brother; but he could be foolish in the extreme.

It surprised me that I could think this of one whom I had idolized for so long. I began to wonder if I were seeing him through William’s eyes.

I was very eager for news of what was happening in Brussels, and I was overjoyed when I heard that my half-sister, the little Isabella, and my sister Anne were going to Brussels to stay with my father for a while.

This appeared to be a great concession, for previously Anne had not been allowed to go with him for fear he should attempt to make a Catholic of her; and I wondered if the feeling in England was less fanatical than it had been, though I still heard that people were being accused by Titus Oates, arrested, tried for treason and executed. Moreover, my father was still in exile; but the fact that Anne was allowed to visit him in Brussels did seem a good omen.

When they arrived they wanted to come and see me. I was very eager that they should do so, and it was arranged. Once again, it would not be a state visit, for, in view of my father’s position as an exile, that would be undiplomatic. I think William was loath to receive him, wondering what effect this would have when the news reached England that the exiled Duke had been received at The Hague.

My husband was in a delicate position. He was certain now that I would be Queen and he, as my consort, would share the throne. No, not consort. If I were Queen, he would insist on being King. After all, he had a claim in his own right. But he had to remember the importance of my position. He had certainly changed toward me since I had begun to show a little spirit.

So I wanted to see my family and he could not deny me that. Nor did he wish to make his ambitions too plain. He had a difficult path to tread.

So they came and he greeted them with a certain amount of warmth. As for myself, I was overcome with joy. We embraced and clung together, mingling our tears. We Stuarts have a streak of sentiment in our natures.

There was one irritation. Anne had brought Sarah Churchill in her suite and as Sarah had refused to be parted from her husband, Colonel Churchill was of the party.

Anne was growing up. She was nearly as old now as I had been at the time of my marriage. So far there had been no one selected for her and she was blithely unconcerned, and she doted on Sarah; she seemed completely subservient to her. It was, still “Sarah says this . . .” “Sarah does it this way. . . .” I was tired of Sarah. Anne seemed unable to make a decision without her. But then she had always been too lazy to make decisions.

Sarah was quick to see my irritation with her and she was too autocratic to accept it. I wondered what John Churchill thought of his wife, for I was sure she attempted to control him as she did Anne. I was amazed when I saw them together, for he seemed almost slavishly devoted.

Anne said: “Oh, Sarah is so clever. I am not surprised that he is her devoted slave.”

“Does she seek to make you one?” I asked.

Anne blinked at me with her shortsighted eyes. “How could she? She is my attendant.”

My dear, simple Anne; she had not changed. She was as ready to accept Sarah’s domination as ever and, of course, I noticed, Sarah always couched her orders to Anne in diplomatic terms, for indeed Sarah was at heart a diplomat. But she did not please me.

One day Anne said to me: “Sarah thinks the Prince does not treat you as he should.”

“Sarah does?”

“Yes. She says she would not endure it if she were you.”

“That is very bold of her.”

Anne giggled. “Sarah is always bold. Well, she is Sarah. No one would get the better of Sarah. And she says you are really more important than he is, or would be if . . .”

I said: “Our uncle, the King, will live for a long time yet, and so will our father. My husband is the Stadholder and Prince of Orange, and it is only if our father has no sons that you or I could ever sit on the throne of England.”

“Sarah thinks the people will not have our father, nor perhaps a son of his.”

“If Sarah were as wise as you think she is, she would look to her own business and leave that of her peers to them.”

“Mary,” cried Anne incredulously, “do you not like Sarah?”

“I think Sarah Churchill takes too much on herself. She should remember her place as the wife of a man who has yet to make his way in the King’s army.”

I guessed she would tell Sarah what I had said and Sarah would not like it. I was glad of that.

On another occasion, Anne said: “Sarah thinks Elizabeth Villiers gives herself airs.”

I agreed with her but said nothing, and Anne went on: “Sarah thinks she has a reason for it.”

“What happens in my apartments is no concern of Sarah’s,” I said. “I think it would be a good idea, sister, if you made that clear to her, and if I discovered her making any trouble in the household it might be necessary to send her away.”

Anne looked at me in amazement.

“Send Sarah away! You couldn’t do that!”

“Very easily,” I replied. “This is my household. I do what I will here.”

“Sarah thinks you cannot do anything that the Prince wouldn’t want.”

“Sarah is mistaken. I am the Princess of Orange and our father’s elder daughter. I can do as I will.”

I was proud of myself. I remembered my power and I was going to exert it. I was my father’s eldest daughter and that put me in a very special position. I was going to make sure that people remembered it.

I knew that Anne would have reported this conversation to Sarah Churchill, for I heard of no more comments; but Sarah Churchill and I never liked each other after that.

The visit, like the other, had to be a short one. My poor father could not forget that he was an exile. He was a very sad man. I could understand that. I had hated to leave my country, but at least I had done so in an honored fashion. I had not been forced out.

It was a sad occasion when I said good-bye to my father, my stepmother, my sister Anne and little Isabella. There were tears as we assured each other that we should soon be together again.

THERE WAS TENSION throughout the court at The Hague. Messages were coming from England. King Charles had suffered from a series of fits—one after another. He was no longer young and, in view of the life he had led, it seemed unlikely that he would go on much longer.

There were accounts of the people’s grief, not only in London but throughout the country. None of the blatant peccadilloes could change their affection for him. His many mistresses, his scandalous liaisons, made no difference. They loved the Merry Monarch. There had never been a king so loved since King Edward IV, tall and handsome, had roamed the streets of London, casting a roving eye on the handsome women.

There were more gatherings at the supper parties in the apartments of the maids of honor, and William was often present in the company of those discontents from England; and now none of them could suppress their excitement.

I wondered what my father was feeling, shut off from it all in Brussels. Then news came from that city that he had left in haste for some secret destination, leaving his family behind.

I was filled with anxiety when he arrived in England, for I knew it was because of popular feeling that he had been sent away.

Meanwhile, we were all tense, waiting for developments.

Anticlimax came. The King had recovered. The ague had disappeared and he was his old self. I could imagine his amusement at all the excitement and his sly comments that he had cheated them out of the fun.

He received my father with affection. Charles was truly fond of his family in his lighthearted way: and it was only because of his determination “never to go wandering again” that he had given way to popular demand for his brother’s exile.

Even those who loved my father must agree that it was his own fault. If he had only set aside his scruples, worshipped as he wanted to in secret, none of this would have arisen.

That was a thought which occurred to me again and again. And I must confess it produced a certain impatience with him when I thought of the havoc he was causing.

Well, he was back in England. But would he be allowed to stay?

Everyone at The Hague was watchful and alert. Every messenger who arrived at the palace was immediately taken to William. Everyone was waiting for the outcome.

At length it came. My father was returning to Brussels.

He was going to take his family back to England and would call at The Hague on his way.

In the meantime we heard the news. The people of England would not allow my father to stay there. I wondered what his plans would be and it was with mingled joy and apprehension that I greeted him when he arrived; and as soon as I was alone with him, I demanded to know what had happened.

He told me with great emotion of his reunion with his brother.

“This is no fault of Charles,” he said. “In spite of his ministers . . . in spite of the people . . . he would not have me go away.”

“Then . . . you will stay?”

“He cannot have that either. There is too much pressure. Only those who have been in London can understand the trouble that has come out of this infamous plot. Only they can realize what harm has been done. The people have been roused to fury. They are shouting ‘no popery’ in the streets. They are accepting Titus Oates as though his word is gospel. He has inflamed hatred of Catholics.”

“And you have let them know that you are one of them,” I said with a hint of reproach.

“I am what I am.”

“Tell me what will happen now?”

“I am being sent to Scotland.”

“To Scotland! Exiled to Scotland!”

“No. Not exiled this time. This time I go in honor. I am to be High Commissioner there. So I shall have work to do.”

I could not help feeling relieved.

“Charles thinks the family should stay in London. He says he will care for them. Anne would, of course, be expected to, but Mary Beatrice will insist on accompanying me.”

“Well,” I said. “It is better than exile here.”

He smiled ruefully. “This will be exile in a way . . . diplomatic exile. How I wish we could go back to happier days!”

I felt another flicker of impatience. So might we have done, but for your open declaration of your faith, I thought.

Again there was the sadness of departure and I wondered when I would see them again.

I was to remember that parting all through the years to come.