He was not sure. What was happiness? He had never believed it to be the right of human beings to possess it. Such a belief would be in opposition to his puritanical outlook.
“No, Sorrel,” he said. “It was predestined. It had to be. But is that the more comforting doctrine? What has to be, is. Then no blame attaches to the individual.”
Happiness, he thought. When have I ever been happy? With Elizabeth? But then there was always the guilt. With those dear friends Bentinck and Keppel? With Mary?
“No, I was never meant to be happy, Sorrel. I think that perhaps I am more contented on my lonely rides with you than at any other time.”
He turned towards the Palace. He could see it now—the magnificent walls to which he had given a flavour of Holland. Hampton grew more and more Dutch each day.
“Come, Sorrel,” he said.
Sorrel broke into a gallop; and William remembered nothing more until some time after. Then he learned that Sorrel had trodden on a molehill.
He was in great pain, and when his physician was brought to him it was discovered that his right collar bone was broken.
The King was dying. The King was recovering. He was at Hampton. He was at Kensington.
The Jacobites were rejoicing and drinking to the mole who had made the hill which had thrown William’s horse—a toast to the Gentleman in Black Velvet.
“He was riding Sorrel,” it was whispered. “Sir John Fenwick’s horse.” And they remembered the day when Sir John had been beheaded on Tower Hill.
William had sentenced Sir John to death and Sir John’s favourite horse had not forgotten. It seemed significant.
Many people were calling on the Princess Anne. Some, who had recently neglected her, now came to pay their respects. Sarah Churchill was with her; she could not bear to tear herself from her dear friend’s side. This meant that Abigail Hill was almost completely banished, for naturally Sarah did not seek to share her mistress with a chambermaid.
But William was recovering. He declared it was nothing more than a broken collar bone and he would not remain at Hampton, but set out for Kensington, it being imperative, he said, that he should attend the meeting of his council.
The Bill for the attainder of James Stuart, the so-called Prince of Wales, which had been decided on when James had refused to allow him to come to England as William’s adopted son, had not been signed; and this was something which he declared he must put into effect, for if he did not, on his death, that boy would be proclaimed King; in fact the King of France, who had already acknowledged him as Prince of Wales, would most certainly bestow on him the title of James III.
But when William arrived at Kensington he was very ill, for the bones which had been set at Hampton needed re-setting. Nor was that all. The shock of the fall, in addition to his habitual ailments, was too much for his frail constitution.
Yet he was determined to sign the attainder and had it brought to him. It was unfortunate that at the very moment when the document was laid before him he was attacked by a spasm which made it quite impossible for him to put his pen to the paper. The Jacobites declared this was a sign that God refused to let him sign the document against the true Prince of Wales.
But there were many who had no wish to call the boy their King; they had decided that Anne should be their Queen. There was no doubt that she was the daughter of James II and she was a staunch Protestant.
William was dying. This time there could be no doubt. Few would mourn him; everyone was looking towards St. James’s Palace where the Princess Anne, with her friend Sarah Churchill beside her, was waiting for the news that she was Queen of England.
QUEEN ANNE
The sun shone brilliantly on the March morning. All through the day ministers of the realm were making their way to the presence chamber in the Palace of St. James, jostling each other to be first to kiss the hand and swear allegiance to the new Queen.
Anne had assumed a new dignity; she had, after all, been born near the throne and had known for many years that there was a possibility that this day would come. Sarah never left her side; her excitement, though suppressed, showed itself in her shining eyes and her very gestures. She wanted those who entered the presence chamber to be aware of in what relationship Sarah Churchill stood to the Queen.
What power she had! Anne seemed bewitched by her. Abigail, dismissed by Sarah to her proper place in the shadows, looked on wondering how Anne could have forgotten those cruel words she had overheard. Had she forgotten? It seemed so, for her manner was as affectionate as it had ever been towards her dear Mrs. Freeman.
But was it? Abigail had come to know her mistress very well; and the affair of the gloves had been very revealing. Not by a look had she shown how hurt she was, how shocked; those who did not know the new Queen very well thought of her as fat, lazy, kind and a little stupid, in fact a woman who could be easily duped. They were mistaken. Anne avoided quarrels simply because she did not want to waste her limited energy in such a way; and Sarah Churchill who was so much aware of her own powerful personality underestimated everyone else. She believed that she could be rude to the Queen one day and have her in leading strings the next. But could she? Abigail was not sure. Yet seeing them together now made her wonder.
It made her excited too. She believed that she understood the Queen far more than Sarah Churchill ever could—far more than anyone else. That was why she, who had comforted Anne at the time of Gloucester’s death, who had witnessed the unkindness of Sarah Churchill, now meekly stood aside and made no attempt to call attention to herself. She had a suspicion that Anne was aware of her, demurely in the shadows, aware of her and glad she was there, that there was even a kind of conspiracy between them; as though she and the Queen, together, would fight the overpowering influence of Sarah Churchill from which Anne found it difficult to escape.
Sarah’s loud voice filled the apartment.
“Ah! So Clarendon is asking for audience. He is waiting his turn in the ante-room. And will Your Majesty see him?”
“He is my uncle …”
“Who had taken the oath of allegiance to your father and that means to your so-called brother. Tell him that when he qualifies himself to enter your presence you will be pleased to see him.” Sarah looked about her. “Oh, there is Abigail Hill. Summon one of the pages.”
As Anne’s shortsighted eyes momentarily fixed themselves on Abigail she smiled faintly, but Sarah did not notice; so Abigail hurried away to do her bidding.
When the page arrived Sarah said: “My lord Clarendon is without. It is Her Majesty’s wish that you tell him that if he choses to take the oath of allegiance to his legitimate Sovereign, he will be admitted to her presence—and not before.”
As the page went out the Earl of Mulgrave was ushered into the apartment, a handsome man and a poet of some standing who when he was young had courted Anne. She had wanted to marry him, but Sarah had broken up that romance—although neither of the lovers had known who had been responsible—by telling Anne’s uncle, Charles II, what was going on; as a result Anne had lost her lover who had been sent on a mission to Tangiers. When he returned Anne had already been married to Prince George of Denmark; and she was not the woman to indulge in extra-marital affairs. She was too lazy, too fond of George, too busy being pregnant with remarkable regularity; and in any case she preferred the society of women to that of men.