Courting Her Highness (60 page)

“Your Majesty is
disturbed?” asked Abigail.

“A request for an audience from the Duchess of Marlborough.”

“And Your Majesty will grant it?”

“The woman holds all her appointments still and that gives her easy access to my apartments. I would be rid of her. Do you know, Masham, I never want to see her again. Does that surprise you when you consider the greatness of the friendship we once had for each other?”

“What surprises me, Madam, is Your Majesty’s great patience with the Duchess.”

“My patience is fast running out. I do not wish to see her, Masham. She wearies me with her continual ranting.”

“Could Your Majesty write and tell her to put what she has to say in writing?”

“An excellent idea, Masham. I will do that.”

When she received
the Queen’s letter Sarah was furious. She immediately wrote that what she had to say could not be put into writing. Anne replied by giving her an appointment for the next day, but when the hour approached Anne called Abigail to her and told her that the thought of seeing Sarah gave her a headache and made her feet throb.

Abigail bathed the feet and afterwards massaged them while the Queen planned the letter she would write to tell Sarah that she preferred what she had to say to be written.

But Sarah was not easily diverted. Again she replied that it was not possible to write what she had to say and again she demanded a private interview.

“Shall I never throw her off?” Anne asked piteously. Then she had the idea of leaving for Kensington and wrote to Sarah telling her that she would be away for some days and if Sarah would care to put what she had to say in writing she, Anne, would consider it while she was away.

But there was no escape. Sarah’s reply came back promptly:

Sarah arrived at Kensington Palace while the Queen was reading her note. She went straight to the royal apartments and told the Queen’s page to announce her.

Anne, sitting at her writing desk, Sarah’s letter before her, realized that she could no longer postpone the interview and gave permission for Sarah to enter.

When Sarah came into the room Anne remained at her desk, her pen in her hand.

She looked up as Sarah entered and said: “I have just read your letter. I was going to write to you.”

As soon as she was in her presence, so many memories came rushing back to Sarah that she forgot the change in their relationship and replied to the Queen with all the old imperiousness: “About what were you going to write, Madam?”

“I was going to write to you,” replied Anne, setting her lips into a line which should have warned Sarah.

“There was something in my letter, Madam, that you wished to answer?”

“There is nothing you have to say that you could not write,” insisted Anne.

Sarah was exasperated. The Queen was in what Sarah called the parrot mood. She would go on repeating her set phrases and it would be impossible to reason with her.

“I did not know that Your Majesty was ever so hard as to refuse to hear a person speak. Even the meanest have a right to be heard.”

“I tell people to put what they have to say in writing when I have a mind to.”

“I have nothing to say on the subject which is so upsetting to you, Madam. Mrs. Masham is not concerned in what I would say, but I cannot be quiet until I have spoken to you.”

“You may put what you have to say in writing,” insisted the Queen.

“It has been brought to my notice,” burst out Sarah, “that evil tales concerning me have been laid before you. It is said that I have spoken disrespectfully of Your Majesty. I would no more think of doing that than killing my own children.”

Anne’s expression did not change, but she did not look at Sarah’s heated face. Sarah Churchill had often spoken disrespectfully to her in her own hearing, so how much more inclined she would be to do so behind her back! Sarah no longer moved her to affection and her greatest desire was never to look on her one-time friend’s face again.

“There are many lies told always,” murmured Anne, turning her head and picking up her fan.

“I ask Your Majesty to let me know what calumnies you have heard against me. I know you will agree that I should have a chance of clearing myself.”

“In your note you said you required no answer,” said Anne. “I will give you none.”

Sarah was furious. “Do not think to thrust me aside in this way. Do not think that I will stand aside for a chambermaid. You
shall
hear me.”

“I will leave the room,” said the Queen, rising painfully from her chair.

Sarah strode to the door and stood against it, her arms outspread, her eyes flashing.

“You will stay here until you have heard what I have to say.”

Anne’s meekness dropped from her; she drew herself to her full height and looked in cold amazement at the Duchess.

“I think Your Grace forgets she is in the presence of the Queen.”

The coldness in Anne’s face alarmed Sarah. She knew in that moment that she had failed. The horror of the situation impressed itself upon her. Everything for which she had worked was slipping away from her. And not only had she lost what she ardently desired, she had failed Marl.

Angry tears came to her eyes and in a moment she was sobbing as she never had before. It was a display of frustration and anger; the acknowledgment of defeat; she turned away and opening the door stumbled into the gallery, where she sat down and gave way to her grief.

Anne looked at the door; she could feel nothing but relief. Sarah Churchill had gone too far, but perhaps even she at last understood that their friendship was at an end.

She went to her chair and sat down thoughtfully. She would dissolve the Whig Ministry. There would be a Tory Government which would please her, for she was a Tory at heart. Mr. Harley would be at the head of her new Government and there would be no further attempts to rob her of dearest Masham.

A scratching at the door. She sighed. There was Sarah again, her face blotched with weeping, but her eyes unusually meek.

She has learned her lesson, thought Anne. She knows that I never want to see her again.

“Well, Lady Marlborough?” said Anne haughtily.

“Madam, my posts demand that I am at times in attendance on Your Majesty.”

Anne inclined her head. Yes, she thought, but we must find a means to put an end to that.

“And,” went on Sarah, “I hope that Your Majesty will have no objection to seeing me on state occasions.”

Anne inclined her head. No, she would not object to seeing Sarah on state occasions. What she would not tolerate was giving her another private interview.

“You may come to the Castle,” said the Queen coolly. “That will not disturb me.”

Sarah bowed and the Queen turned away signifying dismissal; but Sarah had never learned to control her feelings and she could not do so now. Her rage took possession of her once more, suppressing common sense.

“This is cruel,” she cried. “All our friendship forgotten for the sake of a woman whom I myself took from a broom. Everything I have done for you is thrust aside as though it had never been, and I am treated to scorn and indignity. Through the court they are whispering about me and talking of your ingratitude to me. Mrs. Morley, have you forgotten the old days?” As the Queen was silent, Sarah went on: “You will be sorry for this. You will suffer for your inhumanity.”

“That,” answered Anne, “will be my affair. Your Grace is dismissed.”

Sarah gazed in astonishment at the regal figure so different from Mrs. Morley of the past.

“I can only believe,” went on Anne, as Sarah did not move, “that Your Grace is hard of hearing. You are dismissed.”

There was nothing Sarah could do but turn away.

Anne had made up her mind that it was the last time she would ever grant Sarah Churchill a private audience.

The Queen could be stubborn, but Sarah went away planning the next stage of the campaign.

It took her some time to accept the fact that she would never be permitted to speak to the Queen again.

n his Chelsea lodgings Jonathan Swift was
waiting for the arrival of an important visitor. He stared gloomily into the fire and took up his pen to write to Esther Johnson in Ireland. It was one of his pleasanter diversions. Stella, as he called her, was as devoted an admirer as his dear friend Miss Vanhomrigh, who was Vanessa to him. Irascible, gloomy, he was dissatisfied with life because a man of his genius must be forced to lend his talents to men of lesser stature for the reason that they, through birth, riches or their own personalities, had forced themselves into positions of power. He hated his poverty, his caution, his ill temper. What a comfort it would be if Stella were with him now—or perhaps Vanessa. Both adored him; both were ready to give him the adulation he desired. Neither was poor. Stella had her fifteen hundred pounds on which she had believed she could get a better return in Ireland than in England. Vanessa was closer at hand to administer comfort.

But he was born disgruntled. He would not marry because he believed he could not afford to; he could not write as he wished to write for fear of landing in the pillory as poor Defoe had. Perhaps he would not have escaped so lightly.

His great pleasure on cold nights when there was not enough fire in the grate to warm his bones and his Irish servant was more incompetent than usual, was to write to Stella. He pictured her eagerly opening his letters and reading news of the English Court which he was able to give her. All the latest gossip gleaned in the coffee houses; the fall of Viceroy Sarah; the rise of Abigail Masham. This was an excellent state of affairs, he told Stella, for he considered the Whigs to be malicious toads; and Robert Harley was his friend and therefore so was Abigail Masham. The great Duchess was in decline; the Duke might follow her. Jonathan Swift was on the side of his good friend Robert Harley for whom he now waited.

There was the knocking on the door. Swift laid down his pen while his servant let in the visitor.

He rose then to greet Robert Harley.

“Ah, my friend,” cried Robert Harley. “Great news! At last we are on the way.”

He bade Swift sit and drew a chair for himself while from his pocket he took a bottle of wine and shouted to the servant to bring glasses. Robert Harley provided his own wine for he knew that his friend Swift could not afford the quality his palate demanded.

Swift watched his benefactor as he savoured the wine which he did with relish before he spoke.

“Sarah is dismissed,” he said. “Finally. Irrevocably.”

“There remains the Duke.”

“My dear Swift, you are your gloomy self. Of course the Duke remains. The hero of Blenheim, Ramillies, Oudenarde and Malplaquet! Let us not forget Malplaquet where the losses were so great that it could scarcely be called a victory. There is still the Duke, but, my dear fellow, we must see that it is not long before he follows his good lady.”