Courting Her Highness (19 page)

Harley was delighted. Life was becoming interesting.

He turned into a coffee house and as he sat down was almost immediately joined by a young man.

“Ha, Harry,” said Harley. “Pray be seated.”

“Master,” replied the young man with a somewhat affected bow, “you have had good news.”

“Do I then betray myself?” asked Harley with a smile.

Henry St. John was an exceptionally handsome man of about twenty-four. Harley had selected him as the most brilliant of the younger politicians and St. John was a willing disciple, immediately recognizing what the patronage of a man in Harley’s position could mean to an ambitious young man; and determined to make the most of it, he never missed an opportunity of sitting at the feet of the master.

“Only to those who know you well, Master.”

“Well, Harry, you are right. I can see the way ahead more clearly than I ever did before. I have recently returned from Holywell near St. Albans.”

“I heard that you were visiting the Marlboroughs.”

“So that is all over the town?”

“Our most brilliant politician—and the Marlboroughs. Who could fail to prick up ears?”

“So there are speculations, eh? Well, we shall see.”

“You are thoughtful. And, I see, in no mood to impart your thoughts.”

“There are thoughts which should be guarded as closely as state secrets.”

“Those sort of thoughts? Then we should indeed expect great events. But you are here in a coffee house where one does not expect to find the greatest statesmen of the day.”

“You are wondering why I am not caressing the bottle, Henry? I am a
faithful man, but I was never more faithful to any than I am to Bacchus. Is that what you’re thinking? Oh, my boy, don’t imagine I have swerved. But tonight I have a fancy to look at a certain section of our London scene which I believe merits more attention than it usually receives.”

St. John leaned his elbows on the table and looked intently into his friend’s face.

“Develop the powers of observation, Henry, my boy. Have you ever considered the power of words? Ah, I see you have. A man of your er … intelligence … I almost said genius, Harry; but perhaps that is a word which should not be rashly employed. No word should be rashly employed perhaps. Remember, my dear boy, that this is a discussion on the importance of words. Words! Words! They are more powerful than cannon. Have you ever heard it said that
Lillibullero
won the victory for Dutch William more certainly than his army? In the last few years words have formed a part of our lives. Lampoons … sly verses … street songs … These Harry are the weapons which have made thrones tremble. Just think if Catholic James could have found a scribbler to give the right words to him the Queen might not be on the throne today. Ah, Harry, you smile. I see you think this is one of my discourses. I talk as so many do, for the sake of talking. I am not sure whether I do or not. But tonight when I am in my cups … I shall be sure, for drinking—in my case—clears the head, Harry. You see I am not as other men for which I might say Thank God had not the Pharisee said it before me and been held up as an example of hypocrisy. I am a hypocrite perhaps. Who shall say? And who is wise to say anything of a man until his time has run out. You only judge a man’s life at his death, Harry. Now look at that fellow over there. I am going to invite him to our table.”

St. John was alert. He knew that it was for the purpose of inviting this fellow to the table that Harley had come to the coffee house.

A man of medium height with a sallow complexion and dark hair—he wore no wig—came over to the table.

“Sir,” he said with a bow, “your servant.”

“Be seated,” said Harley. “But first meet a friend, Henry St. John, who is eager to make your acquaintance.”

St. John looked startled, but Harley smiled.

“Harry, this is Daniel Defoe—a literary man. I hope you are acquainted with his work?”

The man turned his eager eyes on St. John who, taking his cue from Harley, said modestly: “It is an omission which I intend to rectify without delay.”

The grey eyes were idealist, the hooked nose and sharp chin betrayed a strength.

What is Harley up to? wondered St. John. But he began to guess.

He was going to use Defoe as he used everyone. Harley was a brilliant schemer; he was not called Robin the Trickster for nothing.

He was going to stand with Marlborough and Godolphin as one of the almighty three, but Harley was not the man to be one of three. He would want to stand alone, supreme.

This band of men, of whom Defoe was one, would be the secret army. They held a more deadly weapon than the generals, but the generals were too foolish to realize this. It was men such as Mr. Harley who were a step ahead of their contemporaries who became the leaders.

Harley had decided to use the hidden weapon against his foes. The Marlboroughs thought they were going to rule the country because of Sarah’s ascendancy over the Queen, but Harley had decided otherwise:
he
was going to stand supreme. And the fact that he had allowed Henry St. John to share this little confidence showed clearly that if St. John cared to attach himself to Harley he could go along with him; St. John cared. He cared very deeply.

So he was excited as he sat in the coffee house listening to talk between one of the country’s leading statesmen and the poor scribbler.

Parting was almost
unendurable for John and Sarah. It was at such times that briefly they forgot ambition. Sarah was unable to control her tears—tears of sorrow were unusual with her, though she occasionally shed tears of rage. To let him go, her beloved John, into danger! So many hazards he would face; and he had so many enemies! What if she were never to see him again? Nothing then would be worthwhile. As for John,
he had wanted to go to war for only at war could he prove his genius. He was a soldier first and foremost; he believed that this war was necessary to England. And yet what would he not have given at that moment of parting to leave everything and go back with Sarah to St. Albans.

He was worried about young John who was at cross purposes with his mother. Henrietta, now that she had escaped from the family circle by marriage, was as her mother said “saucy.” The only member of the family with whom Sarah really lived on amicable terms was Anne—and this was solely because Anne had a sweet disposition and it was impossible to quarrel with her.

He wanted to be in the circle of his family; he wished momentarily that he and Sarah could have abandoned ambition, the quest for wealth and fame … everything … to go and spend their days quietly at St. Albans … together … all through the days and nights.

Oddly enough he knew as they faced each other that Sarah felt the same—his wild tempestuous Sarah who could be tender only to him, and then rarely so. Yet, he told himself, for him her frequent anger made her occasional sweetness all the more precious.

She clung to him now. “Oh, John,” she whispered, “there’ll be dangers over there.”

“And here there’ll be dangers too. You will have to be careful of your behaviour, my love, for although I go to war with a ruthless enemy you stay behind in a country of tigers and wolves.”

Sarah’s eyes glinted momentarily. “I’d like to see them attack me. Just let them try.”

“They’ll try, Sarah. They’ll never cease to try.”

“I shall be ready for them. Now that I have got young Abigail Hill to take over some of the more unpleasant duties I have more time for important affairs. I’m thankful for that girl, John. She does her task well. And she is respectful and grateful.”

“As she should be.”

“As she should be. She dare not be otherwise. But it is rarely that I have to remind her what I have done for her. She
should
serve me well. But I’ll reward her.”

He touched her cheek lightly with his finger. “It is always well to reward a good servant.”

She took his hand and kissed it. “You will think of me when you are away?”

“Constantly.”

“Let not thoughts of me turn you from those of war. I want this finished quickly. I want you back in England.”

“You can be sure that I shall lose no time in hurrying to you.”

“Oh, my love, these are great days.”

“Yes,” he replied, “this will be warfare with a difference. I want to beat the French in the field and then march on to Paris to take their capital. That is the only way to beat the French.”

“And you’ll have opposition to those plans, I’ll warrant.”

“There is always opposition. To turn to Spain would be suicidal … and if we succeeded there no decision would have been reached.”

“Well, John Churchill, I do not think you are the man to let others fight your wars for you.”

“As usual my love is right.”

When the hour for parting had come and he must set sail, leaving her behind, Sarah declared her intention of seeing him go aboard, for she was determined to be with him until the very last moment.

“How I wish that I were coming with you!” she cried vehemently.

“Ah, my love, then I should indeed be happy. But there are affairs at home which need your attention.”

She nodded. “Have no fear. Sidney Godolphin will do as I wish and Harley seems amenable. I believe he is delighted that you selected him to join you. He as much as told me so.”

“He’s a clever fellow whom we can’t afford to have as an enemy.”

“I shall be watching them. I wish I didn’t have to listen to Morley’s gossip. Sometimes I could scream at the old fool to be silent.”

“You must never do that, Sarah.”

“I believe that woman would take anything … just anything from me.”

“I beg you do not put it to the test.”

“Oh, come, Marl, you can trust me.”

“With all my heart, but you can be a little impetuous, my love.”

“She dotes on me. Her stupid old face looks almost human when she sees me.”

“She is not a fool, Sarah. She is a woman who successfully hides
her true feelings as well as any. I’ve heard that said and I know it to be true.”

“I know what her true feelings are for her beloved Mrs. Freeman, I do assure you.”

“God bless you, Sarah. Take care of yourself and the family.”

One last embrace. Then she must let him go. He stood on deck watching her; and she stood waving to him, praying earnestly, and what was so unusual, humbly. “Let him come safely back to me.”

Marlborough held up his glass that he might see her for as long as possible; and when he could no longer see her he could only endure the parting by writing to her without delay.

“I watched with my perspective glass for a long time in hopes that I might have another sight of you. At this moment I would give my life to come back to you.”

“Hill,” said the
Queen, “pray bathe my feet. They are most painful today.”

Abigail inclined her head and in a few minutes was kneeling at the Queen’s feet with the silver bowl half full of water that was neither too hot nor too cold.

Anne smiled placidly and lay back, her eyes closed.

“That feels good,” she said. “Danvers is either too rough or afraid to touch me. You have magic in your hands, Hill.”

“Your Majesty is so gracious to me.”

“You’re a good creature.”

“And the happiest in the world to give pleasure to Your Majesty.”

“You’re quiet and there are times when I feel the need for quietness.”

Abigail patted the feet dry, anointed them, powdered them and put them into the large and comfortable slippers.

“Your Majesty feels better now?”

“Greatly refreshed Hill. Did I hear Danvers scolding you this afternoon, my dear?”

“She said I was in too constant attendance on Your Majesty.”

“What nonsense!”

Abigail folded her arms and struck a pose that was so like one of Mrs. Danvers’ that the Queen opened her eyes wide and laughed. “I do declare, Hill, you look exactly like her.”

“ ‘Hill,’ ” mimicked Abigail, “ ‘you push yourself too much. Lady Marlborough has put you here to do those tasks which are not to her liking, but I have not asked you to take my place.’ ”

“It’s Danvers to the life!” cried Anne.