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.”
The Queen was dying. She had lost consciousness and was fast slipping away.
Although there were services in which prayers were made for her recovery, the Council were making arrangements to send a message to Hanover the moment the Queen took her last breath.
It could not be long now.
Those watching heard the death rattle in her throat, they saw the film in her eyes.
As the doctors bent over the dead Queen they saw a paper protruding from under her pillow. It was taken out and handed to the Duke of Shrewsbury, who looked at it, nodded, and slipped it into his pocket.
“Lady Masham, wake up.”
It was Mrs. Danvers standing over her.
“The Queen?”
“She has passed away.”
Abigail stood up, feeling sick with exhaustion and anxiety for the future mingling with an overwhelming sense of loss.
“I will go to her,” she said. Then her mouth twisted into a wry smile. “It’s too late, though. She will never call me again.”
“Nor any of us,” said Mrs. Danvers.
Abigail shook her head. “What shall we do?” she whispered. “What will become of us?”
She went to the bedside and looked down at the Queen and the tears blinded her eyes as she stooped to kiss that cold forehead and slip her hand under the pillow.
It was gone. She should have known.
This is the end, she thought.
Shrewsbury, seated at the Council table, held up the letter.
“My friends,” he said, addressing his fellow members, “I think we can guess what this contains, but if we do not open it, we cannot be sure.”
“It may contain her last wish.”
Shrewsbury smiled at the speaker. “We are in no position for civil war and the people would never accept a papist. If we do not know what her last wish was, we cannot go against it.” He turned to the fire which was burning in the grate and going towards it held the letter up so that all the members of the Council could see it. “Gentlemen,” he went on, “are you of my opinion for the sake of England it is better that this letter remains unread?”
There was a brief pause, then a voice said: “I am of your opinion.”
“And I. And I.”
Shrewsbury smiled. “Unanimous,” he said.
They watched the paper writhing in the flames.
Sarah saw the messenger approaching. News from England was always eagerly awaited and she had heard already that the state of the Queen’s health was deteriorating.
This, she thought, as she hastened to greet the messenger, could be what we are waiting for.
She knew by the man’s face that it was.
“The Queen …” she began.
“Is dead, Your Grace.”
She snatched the letters from him.
“Marl!” she cried. “Where are you, Marl? The Queen is dead! This is the end of exile.”
The end of exile! How right she was! There was no longer need to remain abroad. Soon they would be back where the fields were greener, where everything she loved and cherished would be waiting for her.
Marlborough took the news more calmly. So much, he pointed out, depended on who was the next Sovereign of England. If it was the Pretender, their chances of returning to Court were small; but if the new King came from Hanover then he would have no reason to feel anything but gratitude towards Marlborough and his Duchess.
The next days were the most anxious Sarah had ever lived through.
“I should die,” she told John, “if we could not go back now.”
They travelled to Calais to be ready to embark as soon as they knew who was to be the new King.
It was over, thought Abigail. Shrewsbury and his Council had caused the Queen’s letter to be destroyed. They could guess its contents, and were not going to allow a papist monarch to mount the throne of England merely to salve a Queen’s conscience.
Bolingbroke was not in a position to act. She had seen him and he told her there was nothing they could do. The people, he believed, would soon tire of the German King who in any case showed no eagerness to accept the throne, and then they would be only too glad to turn to James.
But a papist! thought Abigail. Never! If he would but change his religion …
No, there was nothing which could save her now. Oxford had fallen—and she would not be long after him. The Queen’s love alone had kept her in her place and now that was over.
George I had been proclaimed King of England; the people of London were behind him. Marlborough was coming home.
Abigail sent her maid to tell Lord Masham that she wished to see him.
Samuel came at once and she went to him and put her arm through his.
“This is the end, Samuel,” she said. “There will be nothing more for us here.”
“I know,” he answered.
“So we will take the children and go away from Court.”
“It will be a different life for you, Abigail.”
“I know it is the end.”
“Or,” he said, “the beginning.”
She laughed and she was surprised by the warmth in that laughter. “It would depend on the way one looked at it.”
“Do you remember when we first met?” he asked her.
She nodded. “We were watching the Duke of Gloucester drill his boy soldiers in the Park.”
“Neither of us was very important then, Abigail.”
“We were not. And now it’s Lord and Lady Masham, with a family to keep.”
“We’ll go to the country. We’ll buy a manor there.”
“The thought of being a country squire is not distasteful to my lord?”
“I can imagine in some circumstances it would be very pleasant.”
“Yes, Samuel,” she said. “So could I!”
She wondered then whether she meant it. She thought of the joys of Court life, the intrigues and triumphs.
She would never forget the days when it had been necessary to be on good terms with Abigail Hill in order to get a hearing with the Queen. She would always remember the first time Robert Harley had leaned towards her, endearingly, affectionately and said: “We are cousins.”