The Queen's Favourites aka Courting Her Highness (v5) (60 page)

“I will remember, Your Majesty.”

Anne held her swollen hands, swathed in bandages on her lap.

“Are they painful, Madam?”

“I think fresh poultices might comfort them.”

Abigail set about preparing them. The Queen’s health was rapidly declining and that saddened her. She would never have another mistress like her; but when James Stuart was James III of England he would remember those who had worked for him; he would remember the one who had found the letter under the pillow.

She must not forget her enemies though—the chief of these was Oxford. He had at last realized that he could waver no longer on such an important point and had come down on the side of Hanover, and would do everything he could to bring the Germans over.

“Your Majesty is tired,” she said, “and I know this is due to Lord Oxford’s behaviour.”

The Queen sighed. “Dear Masham, he was even more difficult than usual.”

“Your Majesty should put an end to the trouble he causes you, by dismissing him.”

“I really believe I should, Masham.”

“Bolingbroke will be so much easier to deal with. There, Madam. That is not too hot?”

“Just warm and soothing, Masham. You are always so good with the poultices. You soothe away the pain.”

“I wish I could soothe away Your Majesty’s other afflictions as easily.”

Anne was thoughtful. The following day she told her Council that she would ask for Lord Oxford’s resignation. Her reasons were that he neglected business and was seldom to be understood, and when he did explain himself she could not be sure that he spoke the truth. Above all, he often came into her presence drunk, which was obnoxious to her, and when he was in a state of intoxication he had behaved indecorously and disrespectfully. She could no longer tolerate such conduct from a minister in his position.

Oxford was dismissed. This was triumph for Bolingbroke … and Abigail.

In the Council
chamber Oxford faced his enemy—Bolingbroke.

Bolingbroke was a traitor, declared Oxford. He had lied and cheated his way into the Queen’s graces. He was ready to bring the Popish Pretender into the country; he had abused and misrepresented the man who had befriended him and who had made his way easy along the path of politics. Bolingbroke was a liar, a cheat and a traitor.

Anne sat in her chair trembling; her head ached; her limbs throbbed; and she longed for nothing so much as escape.

Bolingbroke, went on Oxford, the worse for drink, had been aided in all these wicked practices by a certain woman.…

Anne’s swollen fingers twitched; she felt as though she would swoon. She looked appealingly at her ministers. They must not wrangle about Abigail; they must not attempt to probe the intimate secrets of her bedchamber.

She threw a look of dislike at the ranting Oxford. Was it meet and fitting that drunken men should give vent to their feelings so in her presence?

Bolingbroke had risen and drawn his sword. This silenced Oxford.

“You forget the presence of the Queen,” said Bolingbroke.

“I forget nothing,” retorted Oxford. “Nor shall I. I will be revenged and leave some as low as I found them.”

Anne sat back in her chair, her eyes closed; she could hear their angry voices going on and on. How ill she felt! How she longed for the quiet of her bedchamber with Abigail’s tender hands to massage poor swollen limbs, to provide hot poultices.

But she must do her duty. She must sit here while they wrangled.

It was late when she was taken to her room and they were saying that there must be another meeting the next day.

Abigail and the
Duchess of Somerset put her to bed where she lay exhausted until Dr. Arbuthnot came to her.

“These conflicts are killing me,” she said to him. “Oh, how I long to be at peace!”

At last she did sleep and Dr. Arbuthnot turning to Abigail shook his head gravely.

“You should get some rest yourself,” he said. “Her Majesty will have need of your nursing in the next few days.”

Anne awoke from
her uneasy sleep.

The voices of her ministers still jangled in her head. Lord Oxford, his eyes bloodshot, his voice slurred … she could not forget him; nor the venom she had seen in Bolingbroke’s face. “How tired I am …” she murmured. Then she remembered that she must attend yet another meeting today.

She rose from her bed and stood unsteadily. Where were her women? What time was it?

Time? she thought. It is time for the meeting … and I must go. I must do my duty. I am the Queen.

She moved unsteadily towards the mantelpiece and peered at the clock. Time! she thought. What time was it? She felt herself slipping back in time … living in The Cockpit … listening to Sarah Churchill’s vituperations against the Dutch Monster … working so hard to drive her father from the throne. The warming-pan baby … that brother who was now waiting to take his inheritance.…

If she could go back.… Would it be different? She was afraid of time. It would soon be time for the Council meeting.… Time …

She looked into the clock’s face and thought she saw another face looking at her, calling her, giving her a summons that she could not disobey because it was not in the power of any—Queen or commoner—to do so.

“Your Majesty.”

She turned. Mrs. Danvers was standing beside her, frightened.

“Danvers …”

“I wondered why Your Majesty was staring at the clock.”

“I saw …” she began; and Mrs. Danvers caught her as she would have fallen.

Mrs. Danvers called to the Queen’s women and together they carried her fainting body back to her bed.

“I saw Death in her face,” said Mrs. Danvers, her teeth chattering.

The Queen was
dying. Outside the palace the people gathered waiting for news. This was more than the death of a Queen who had worked for the good of her subjects; this could be civil war; there was a choice of two Sovereigns; the German who could not speak a word of English and the Papist Pretender. People took sides, but half-heartedly. Who wanted the German? Who wanted the Papist? If James had been a good Churchman the country would have stood behind him. But his father had been driven away for his religion. Would it be the same trouble again?

Marlborough’s war was over and the people wanted no more wars. For this reason they were more inclined to accept the German.

In the palace the conflicts raged more fiercely.

Abigail had been in constant attendance. Her thoughts were confused; she had scarcely slept for several nights and was exhausted; yet she knew that the Queen was uneasy when she was not close.

The Queen was dying, and Abigail now realized how much she loved the Queen. Her friendship had been calculated it was true, but she had received such kindness from her Sovereign, she had found such joy in serving her—what would her life be without Anne?

The Council had decided against Bolingbroke as Oxford’s successor, and had chosen the Duke of Shrewsbury as Lord Treasurer.

Shrewsbury had declared that he would not accept office without the Queen’s consent and as a result he had been brought to her bedside. Those about her had believed that she would not recognize him, but she did, for when she was asked if she knew to whom she had given the staff of office she whispered: “To the Duke of Shrewsbury.”

More than that she took his hand and implored him to use his office for the good of her people.

Shrewsbury knelt at the bedside and assured her that he would do all in his power; and she seemed satisfied.

She closed her eyes, but shortly afterwards those about her bed heard her rambling about the past. She mentioned the warming pan, and there were tears on her cheeks.

“My brother …” she whispered. “My poor brother.”

Glances were exchanged. Was she going to demand that her brother be her successor? And what would the reaction be towards a dying woman?

Those who had supported the House of Hanover were afraid; but they need not have worried on that score for Anne was too far gone to remain coherent.

Abigail, almost numb with tiredness, stood close to the bed; they were very near the end, she knew, and when the Queen died she must take the letter from under her pillow. That would let everyone know what the Queen’s wishes were.

But in her heart she knew that there would be so many to oppose the Queen’s wishes and that there was little chance of James Stuart’s coming to England. He himself had refused to give up his religion and the English would not have a papist on the throne. Moreover she knew that he had no means of bringing an army with him to fight for his rights and the French were not in a position to supply him with what he would need.

Yet if the Queen’s dying wishes were known …

But who would care for a dead Queen?

“They are going to bleed the Queen,” whispered Mrs. Danvers in her ear.

“Yes, Lady Masham,” said Dr. Arbuthnot. “She is suffering from an excess of apoplexy.”

Abigail whispered: “Dr. Arbuthnot, what hope …”

But the doctor pretended not to hear her.

The apothecary was at the bed; and as the Queen lay back, her eyes closed, the room seemed to revolve round Abigail, and she fell swooning to the floor.

Anne was aware that something had happened and asked what it was.

“Lady Masham has fainted, Your Majesty,” said Dr. Arbuthnot. “Poor woman she has been with Your Majesty night and day and is worn out with exhaustion and her grief.”

“Poor Masham!” sighed Anne. “Poor, poor Masham …” She was uneasy because they were taking Abigail from the sickroom; but she could not remember the cause of her uneasiness.

“My brother …” she whispered. “My poor brother.”