“He is so very ill these days,” said Barbara. “I doubt whether he has the time or energy for diversions.”
“His gentlemen friends remain at his side. I hear they enjoy themselves on Holland gin in the Hampton Banqueting House. He still finds time—and energy—to indulge his Dutchmen.”
“But he is looking more frail every week.”
“That is why it was a mistake to dress Gloucester up in all that finery. It was almost proclaiming him Prince of Wales before his mother is Queen.”
“I wonder,” said Barbara with a hint of sarcasm, “that you did not warn his mother since she would most assuredly listen to you.”
“I did warn her.”
“And she disobeyed?” Veiled insolence! Sarah had never liked Barbara Fitzharding since the days when as young Barbara Villiers she had lived with the circle of girls, Sarah among them, who had been brought up by Barbara’s mother, with the young Princesses Anne and Mary in Richmond Palace.
“She is so besotted about that boy.”
“He is her son.”
“He is being pampered. I would not let one of mine be indulged as he is.”
Was this a reflection on Barbara’s governess-ship? Barbara disliked Sarah Churchill—who at Court did not?—and although she might rule the Princess Anne’s household, Barbara was not going to allow her to interfere in that of the Duke of Gloucester.
“He is by no means indulged. He merely happens to be an extremely intelligent boy. In fact, I have never known one more intelligent.”
“Have you not? I must invite you to St. Albans one day and you shall meet my children.”
Barbara laughed. “Everything you have must naturally be better than other people’s.”
“Must always be? What do you mean by that? My children are strong, healthy, intelligent, which is not to be wondered at. Compare their father with that … oaf … I can call him nothing else … who goes around babbling ‘Est-il possible?’ to everything that is said to him! Prince George of Denmark! I call him Old Est-il-possible! And when I do everyone knows to whom I refer.”
“One would think you were the royal Princess—Her Highness, your servant,” said Barbara. “You ought to take care, Sarah Churchill. You should think back to the days when you first joined us at Richmond. You were fortunate, were you not, to find a place there? It was the greatest good luck … for you. You must admit that you were not of the same social order as the rest of us. We were noble and you …”
“Your relative, Barbara Villiers—my lady Castlemaine as she became—put honors in your family’s way because she was an expert performer in the King’s bedchamber. We had no such ladies in our family.”
“Your husband I believe did very well out of his relationship with my lady Castlemaine. She paid him for his services to her … in the bedchamber. Was it five thousand pounds with which he bought an annuity? You must find that very useful now that my lord Marlborough is out of favor and has no office at the Court.”
If there was one person in the world whom Sarah truly loved it was her husband, John Churchill, Earl of Marlborough; and although he had had a reputation as a rake before their marriage, he had, she was certain, remained absolutely faithful to her since. This reference to past indiscretions aroused her fury.
She slapped Barbara Fitzharding’s face.
Barbara, taken aback, stared at her, lifted her hand to retaliate and then remembered that there must be no brawling between women in positions such as theirs.
But her anger matched Sarah’s.
“I’m not surprised at your mode of behavior,” she said. “It is hardly to be wondered at. And besides being arrogant and ill-mannered you are also cruel. I should be ashamed, not to have poor relations, but to turn my back on them while they starve.”
“What nonsense is this?”
“It is no nonsense. I heard only the other day the distressing story of the Hill family. I was interested … and so was my informant … because of their connection with the high and mighty Lady Marlborough! Your uncle, aunt, and cousins … dying of starvation! Two girls working as servants, I hear, two boys running about the streets, ragged and hungry.”
“A pitiable story and one which does credit to your imagination, Lady Fitzharding.”
“A pitiable story, Lady Marlborough, but it owes nothing to my imagination. Go and see for yourself. And let me tell you this, that I shall not feel it my duty to keep silent about this most shameful matter.”
Sarah for once was speechless, and when Lady Fitzharding flounced out of the room she stared after her, murmuring: “Hill! Hill!” The name was familiar. Her grandfather Sir John Jennings, she had heard her own father say, had had twenty-two children and one of these, Mary, had married a Francis Hill who was a merchant of London.
Sarah had heard nothing of him since. One did not need to keep in touch with one’s merchant connections—except of course when they were likely to bring disrepute.
Sarah made one of her prompt decisions.
Something must be done about the Hills.
Read all of Jean Plaidy’s
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The Stuart Saga
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The Story of Queen Anne
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