Courting Her Highness (68 page)

Abigail was lying
in her bed. Her time would soon come, and she hoped this time it would be another boy.

It would not be long now, she was thinking … not that her child would be born, but that Oxford would go just a little too far.

The Queen had certainly been aware of his state of intoxication the last time she had seen them together. Fool! Fool! she thought; and tears came into her eyes.

She was a foolish romantic dreamer. She had allowed him to fascinate her in those days when she had been young and silly. Often now she thought of John and Sarah together. How was life with them? Did he still love his virago as tenderly now that they were together all the time in exile?

It came back to her so vividly. The house in St. Albans. The return of John. The eager manner in which he looked about him for Sarah and then … that long hungry embrace. The scamper of impatient feet; the slamming of the bedroom door; the smiles of the servants.

“He cannot wait to take off his boots.”

The great General, who was first of all the impatient lover, had, by his love for Sarah set up an impossible ideal in the heart of Abigail Hill.

Had her hatred of her cousin stemmed from her envy? Had she become what she was because of the love the Duke of Marlborough bore for his wife?

It had never changed, that love, although Sarah had done little to cherish it. She had gone her wild and wilful way; she had crashed to disaster because of her own rash foolishness and she had taken him with her. Yet, he loved her still.

That was what Abigail wanted … a love such as that. Hers was a dream of romantic love and power. There had been only one man in her life who could give her that: Robert Harley. And he had denied it. Bolingbroke? Never! She could have been his mistress for a month or so. But that was not what she sought.

Someone had come into the room.

“Samuel!” she said; and he pulled out a chair and sat by her bed.

“You are not feeling well?”

“A little tired. It is natural.”

“You do too much.”

She was impatient. “If I did not where would we be?”

He sighed. He knew that he owed everything to her; he knew too that he had failed to give her what she wanted.

“My clever Abigail.” He took her fingers and kissed them. They were limp and unresponsive.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

She turned her head away. For what was he apologizing? His inadequacy?

“I must go,” she said; “the Queen needs me. I must not allow Carrots Somerset to take over all my duties.”

“Do not drive yourself too hard, my dear.”

“And if I did not … would you have your fine title? Would you have your position here at Court?”

“No,” he said. “But there are other prizes.”

She shook him off impatiently. He looked so … how could she say Complacent? Smug. Lord Masham—a man of title through his wife’s endeavours.

It was not what she wanted.

“You are going to the Queen?” he asked. “You should not walk across the courtyard in your condition. Take your chair.”

She shrugged him aside. It was years since she had taken advice from Samuel.

As she came out into the cold air, her eyes smarted with tears—tears of frustration. She was thinking of what might have been if the child she carried had been another man’s, not Samuel’s, the child of a brilliant politician who loved her as Marlborough loved his wife, with whom she could plan the future as Marlborough did with his wife.

Her vision blurred; she was not watchful of her step as one must be in the courtyard. She caught her foot in the cobbles; in a second it had twisted under her and she fell.

She lay bewildered and stunned. Then her pains began. The child was demanding to be born although its time had not yet come.

The news spread
all over the Town. Lady Masham was dying. A fall in the courtyard; a premature birth; and the Queen’s favourite was lying very near to death.

The Queen was in despair. She sent Dr. Arbuthnot to attend to Abigail and commanded him not to leave her until he was sure she was out of danger; and she must have hourly messages as to Abigail’s state.

Anne could not be comforted. She rocked herself to and fro in her chair and asked herself how she could live without dear Masham.

Alice Hill, sitting by Abigail’s bed, listened to her rambling, and knew that she was living in the past, in those days of uncertainty and degradation when she had been as a servant in the house of the Marlboroughs.

She wept, and Mrs. Abrahal who would always be grateful to Abigail for speaking well of her to the Queen sought to comfort her, and Mrs. Danvers took time off from the Queen’s bedchamber to come to the invalid’s bedside.

There were messages from important court personages. Viscount Bolingbroke called or sent his servant every day but Lord Oxford did not enquire once and it might have been that he was not even aware of the accident to his cousin.

Dr. Arbuthnot, who knew Abigail well, and had always admired her,
used all his skill, and by great good fortune saved the life of the child which was a boy.

“Don’t fret,” he told Alice. “This is the best thing that could have happened. The child is a boy and he’ll live. Once I can get her to understand this, she’ll start to recover, I promise you.”

He sat by her bed and took her hand.

“Abigail,” he said, “can you hear me?”

She opened her pale green eyes and he thought how colourless they were, how lifeless—almost the eyes of a dead woman.

“Ah, you hear me then. Ye’ve a fine boy. Do you understand me. A fine boy.”

“Robert …” she began.

The Doctor glanced at Alice. “Is that the name she wants. Robert. Why …”

“Named for my lord Oxford,” suggested Alice.

“Ah, it may well be.”

Abigail’s eyes were open and she appeared to be listening.

“The boy’s a fine strong wee laddie,” said the doctor. “Do you want to see him?”

But Abigail had already closed her eyes. They thought that she was not aware of what was going on but this was not so. She knew that she had had an accident and that her son was prematurely born. She had been close to death and for that reason life seemed doubly precious.

Her hand was taken and held gently. She knew by whom before she opened her eyes. She thought of Samuel who was gentle and unassuming and lacked the overwhelming ambition of men like Robert Harley, Henry St. John and John Churchill. But perhaps for that reason he was capable of giving her greater devotion. Harley had failed her; St. John she would never trust; but she could rely on Samuel. He would always be there, to love and cherish her … as well as their children.

She had demanded too much of life; she had wanted a great leader to love her, but great leaders were not always successful, and there were times when they were sent to pine in exile.

She had been foolish not to accept life as a compromise. Was she a foolish romantic girl to ask for the impossible?

“Samuel,” she said. “You are there?”

She heard Alice’s voice, gruff, relieved. “Is he there? He has not been far away for the last forty-eight hours.”

No, he would not be far away when she was in danger.

“Samuel,” she repeated.

He leaned towards her. “A boy,” he said. “Arbuthnot says he will live and he is healthy and strong. Listen. You can hear him crying.”

She nodded drowsily. The doctor said: “Let her sleep now.”

“I’ll get a message to Her Majesty,” said Alice. “She asked that news be sent to her without delay. She’ll be delighted.”

“There have been messages …?” asked Abigail.

“The Queen had to be kept informed,” replied Alice excitedly. “Viscount Bolingbroke sent his servant every day.”

“My lord Oxford …”

“Oh come, you have a Queen demanding news of you. Is that not enough?”

So he had not asked for her. He cared nothing that she might have died.

“And,” went on Alice, “a husband who has not slept or eaten since you fell.”

She smiled, and closed her eyes.

Is that not enough? That phrase of Alice’s kept ringing in her mind. If it was not enough it was as much as any reasonable woman could hope for. She was not going to be foolish. She had grown wise in the last hours. Life with its compromises had become very precious.

Samuel put his head close to hers. “I hear that you wish the child to be called Robert,” he said.

“Robert!” Her voice sounded scornful. “No … I want him to be called Samuel.”

He was pleased, she sensed it.

“Samuel Masham,” she repeated, “after his father.”

Sarah was homesick
. It was distressing to see poor Marl eagerly reading his letters from home, thinking as she did every day of the meadows about Holywell, the forests at Windsor, the greenness of England, the sound of English tongues.

She was not patient in exile. She was critical of the weather, scenery and people.

“Oh,” she would continually cry, “it is not as it is in England.”

It was comforting though to be with Marl for his health was not good and he needed attention; he was as homesick as she was, although not as bitter, yet, as she herself conceded having more reason to be.

It was she who ranted on about the ungrateful country which had benefited from his victories and then had turned its back on him.

Abroad they had more respect for Marlborough than they had had in England. They remembered him as the great commander here. Prince Eugene had visited them in Frankfurt for the express purpose of seeing the Duke and doing him honour which, declared Sarah grimly, was more than his Queen had done him.

There could not be enough news from home for Sarah. She laughed grimly when she heard how fond the Queen was of the Duchess of Somerset.

“I am pleased,” she said, “that she has a friend nearer her own rank than some I could name.”

Never did a day pass without her mentioning Abigail. She told everyone with whom she conversed how she had taken the wretched creature from a broom, and how ungrateful the whole family were.

There was John Hill, brother to the Creature, whom she had found as a ragged boy, clothed and fed and sent to school. And she had prevailed upon my lord Marlborough to give the lad a place in his Army which he had done, against his judgment. And how had John Hill repaid such benevolence? When wicked charges were brought against the Duke of Marlborough, he had risen from a sick bed in order to go and vote against him.

“There is gratitude for you!” cried Sarah. “Did you ever hear the like?” She would talk of how she had devoted her life to an ungrateful monarch; how she had sat for hours listening to banalities which had nearly driven her mad—all this she had done and what was the result? She was thrown aside for a chambermaid. Lord Marlborough had won honour and glory for his country; he was the saviour of England and what was his reward? Exile! He had been promised a palace, which was to be built at Woodstock and to be named after the greatest victory of all time: Blenheim. And what
had happened? A fool named Vanbrugh—with whom she would never agree—had been allowed to plan it; and the money which had been promised had not been supplied. On and on she raved about the ungrateful country to which she longed to return.