Having despatched this reply she went to John’s study; her thoughts were back to the past and the terrible sense of loss was as strong with her as it had ever been.
She decided that she could no longer delay sorting out his belongings and as she went through the treasures he kept in his cabinet she came upon a package; and when she opened this her own golden hair fell out.
She stared in astonishment. Her hair! Then she remembered that occasion when in a fury she had cut it off and thrown it on his desk. So he had gathered it up and preserved it.
She discovered that she was crying—not the tempestuous sobbing which was characteristic of her—but quietly, heartbrokenly.
She put the hair back into the packet and went to her room. There she lay on her bed, quietly weeping.
“Marl,” she murmured, “why was it so? You should never have left me. We should have gone together. For of what use is life to me without you.”
She continued to battle her way through life—but much of the old zest was gone. Life had little meaning without Marl. But she was the same Sarah—bellicose, furious, quarrelsome, impulsively going to battle. She had a new name now. “Old Marlborough.” And she was old; she had been sixty-two when the Duke died.
She might have found some contentment in those last years. She was an extremely rich woman—and she had always loved money. She had only two daughters it was true but many grandchildren. But she could never live in harmony with them. She could never resist meddling—neither in the affairs of the country nor those of the family.
She would not be excluded from the country’s affairs and since she had always sought for her opponents in the highest quarters chose the Prime Minister Robert Walpole as her number one enemy and Queen Caroline, wife of George II—who had now succeeded his father—as the second. Nor did she neglect her own family. Mary, who was perhaps more like herself than any of the others, could never forget how her mother had prevented her marrying the man she believed she had loved. It was true she had been little more than a child at the time, but the memory of that romance remained with her and all through her unsatisfactory marriage she thought of what might have been and blamed her mother.
“You are an ill wife, a cruel daughter and a bad mother,” Sarah screamed at her daughter. “I married you to the chief match in England and if it hadn’t been for me you might have married a country gentleman with nothing more than two thousand a year.”
Mary turned on her mother and cried: “You are an interfering old harridan. You interfered in our lives when we were unable to stop you. You shall not do so now.”
Mary stalked out of her mother’s house and declared she would never enter again.
And Sarah went about the house complaining to everyone who listened—and none dared do otherwise—that she had the most ungrateful daughter in the world. “And as to Montague her husband, he’s a fine specimen of man, I declare!” she shouted. “He behaves as though he’s fifteen although he’s all of fifty-two. He thinks it fun to invite people to his house and into his garden where he squirts them with water. And in his country house he puts vermin in his guests’ beds to make them itch. There’s the Duke of Montague—my daughter Mary’s husband!”
No one pointed out to her that shortly before she had been boasting of marrying Mary to the chief match in England; no one had ever dared point out anything to Sarah, except her daughters, and she quarrelled with them, or her husband, and he was dead.
Nor were her relations any better with Henrietta, who had become the Duchess of Marlborough on the death of her father, for it had been agreed that since the Duke had no sons the title should go to his daughter.
Henrietta was causing quite a scandal. She had always been fond of play-acting and play-actors and had long ago formed a very close friendship with William Congreve, the playwright. She took him into her house, for her husband, Lord Godolphin, gave way to her in all things and when Henrietta went to Bath, Congreve went with her. Henrietta was brought to bed of a girl and it was rumoured that she was Congreve’s daughter.
“A pleasant scandal,” commented Sarah, “for one who bears the proud title of Duchess of Marlborough.”
But there was little she could do about that, for when she called on her daughter she was informed that she was not at home, although Sarah was certain that she was.
She had tried to make Henrietta’s son William, now Lord Blandford, her favourite; and for a time succeeded in doing so. He was affectionately known as Willigo and Sarah fancied she saw a resemblance in him to his grandfather. But only in features. Willigo quickly became known as Lord Worthless, for he loved gay company and was too fond of the bottle. His mother disliked him, although she doted on her youngest daughter—Congreve’s! said Sarah—and consequently Sarah sought to win the affection which he might have given to his mother. But there was little comfort from Willigo. He met a burgomaster’s daughter when he was on the Continent and married her before Sarah could forbid the match.
Still eager not to lose him, Sarah met the girl and even found her charming.
But a year after the marriage Sarah was overcome with grief when Willigo died in a drunken fit. As usual her emotions were manifested in rage.
“I hope the Devil is picking the bones of the man who taught him to drink!” she cried.
She was growing more and more aware of loneliness.
To be old and lonely—it was a sad fate. There was only one member of the large family who had any real regard for her; and was it due to pity on Lady Dye’s part? Sarah never stopped to consider. She was always right, she believed; and any who disagreed with her was wrong. She told Dye she would call her Cordelia for that was a name most fitting, because she saw herself as a Lear who was driven near to madness by the ingratitude and cruelty of those about her. She could not forbear to meddle, and occupied herself with matchmaking for her grandchildren; and with some difficulty married off Harriet Godolphin to the Duke of Newcastle. She produced Dukes for six of her granddaughters, though for her darling Lady Dye she had looked higher and had selected none less than the Prince of Wales. This was an amazing feat and she almost succeeded in bringing the affair to a successful climax. There were so many points in her favour. Frederick was unpopular and hated his parents, and Sarah and he had this hatred in common for she was at this time deep in her quarrel with Walpole who was supported by the Queen. It was a daring plan. Lady Dye to become a Princess and the royal family to be discountenanced all in one stroke. Frederick had many debts and Sarah was reputed to be the richest woman in England, so there was much to recommend such a marriage.
Such a victory, Sarah believed, would have equalled that of Blenheim. What would Marl think if he could look down from Heaven and see his granddaughter Princess of Wales?
Alas for Sarah! Robert Walpole, the enemy, heard of Sarah’s plans and put an end to them. And Sarah had to be content with the Duke of Bedford for Dye.
And when Dye was married she could not stop herself interfering, telling her granddaughter what was wrong with her town house, what improvements should be made, and quarrelling fiercely with her husband.
It was twelve years after the death of Marlborough when death came again to Langley Marsh.
Abigail lay in her bed, her family about her and her mind drifted back and forth from past to present. Her son Samuel knelt by her bed. Her husband was there too with her brother John and her sister Alice.
She knew she was dying; and as she looked at her sister and her brother she was reminded of the day Sarah Churchill had called and how they had received her, trembling with awe and expectation.
Alice was plump and unmarried still; she had lived well and contentedly during the years; John was an old man, his life behind him, and for her and Samuel there were the children.