I nodded my head in as dignified a manner as I could muster, and Anne smiled broadly.
“My eldest daughter, Elizabeth . . .”
I often wondered long afterward why some fate does not warn us when a meeting which is going to have a great impact on us takes place. I feel there should have been some premonition to tell me of the effect this girl was going to have on my life. So often I have said to myself, from the first moment I met her I knew I had to be wary of her, that she was sly, clever — far cleverer than I could ever be — and that she disliked me because she, who considered herself my superior, should have to pay homage to me simply because I had been born royal.
But no, I thought that afterward, when I knew. It took me a long time to discover how devious she was. But I was young and innocent; she had the advantage. I could easily have had her dismissed. I only had to say to my father, “I do not like Elizabeth Villiers,” and, although he was no longer in control of the household, my wishes would have been respected. But she was subtle. She did not betray herself. That was where she was clever. She knew how to deliver a barb where it hurt most, but it would be couched in soft words so that only those who understood could be aware of the venom. She was too clever, too subtle for me. That was why she was always the victor, I the victim.
But I deceive myself. None of this was at all clear to me at that first meeting.
She was by no means handsome, but there was something unusual about her looks. Perhaps this was because there was a slight cast in her eyes. It was hardly perceptible. I caught it at times. Her hair was of an orange tinge. “Ginger,” Anne Trelawny called it, and Anne, my dear friend, liked her no more than I did.
The other daughters were being presented.
“My ladies, my daughters, Katharine, Barbara, Anne, Henrietta and Maria.”
They curtsied. Anne Villiers reminded me of her sister Elizabeth; she had shrewd eyes and a penetrating look. But she was less impressive — perhaps because she was younger.
And so we were installed in the Palace of Richmond.
LIFE IN LONDON had settled down to normality. The city had been almost rebuilt and was a much more beautiful and cleaner place than it had been with its reeking gutters and narrow streets.
My father, with the King, had taken a great interest in the rebuilding. They were often in conference with the architect, Sir Christopher Wren, while the work was in progress.
My father at this time was not a happy man. I guessed he was grieving about my mother’s death, and the failing health of my little brother, Edgar, gave him great cause for concern.
He talked to me at this time and I learned more from him than I ever had because I believed he was so distressed that he did not always consider his words, and sometimes it was as though he were talking to himself.
I was glad in a way, though sad because he was, but I did begin to learn a little of what was happening about me.
He was angry on one occasion.
“Bishop Compton will be coming here,” he said.
“To us?” I asked. “But why?”
“The King has appointed him. He is to instruct you and your sister in religion.”
“That does not please you?”
“No. It does not please me.”
“Well, why do you let him come?”
He took my face in his hands and gave me one of his melancholy smiles.
“My dearest child, I have to submit to the King’s wishes in this matter.” He was angry suddenly. “It is that or . . .”
He released me and turned away, staring ahead of him. I waited.
“I could not face that,” he murmured. “I could not lose you.”
“Lose us!” I cried in alarm.
“Well, they would take you from me. Or ... they would restrict our meetings. My own children ... taken from me ... I am unfit to take charge of their education, they say. And all because I have seen the truth.”
This was beyond my understanding. I could only think of being taken from him and I could visualize no greater calamity. He was aware of my concern and was my loving father immediately.
“There. I have frightened you. There is nothing to fear. Anything but that. I shall see you ... as always. I would agree to anything rather than that they should take you from me.”
“Who would take me from you? The King, my uncle?”
“He says it would be for the sake of the country ... for the sake of peace. He says, why do I not keep these matters private? Why do I flaunt them? But you must not bother your little head . . .”
I said firmly: “My head is not little and I want to bother it.”
He laughed and seemed suddenly to change his tone.
“It is nothing ... nothing at all. Bishop Compton will be here to instruct you in the faith you must follow, according to the laws of the country and the command of the King. You must listen to the Bishop and be a good little member of the Church of England. Compton and I have never been great friends, but that is of no moment. He is a hard-working fellow and has the King’s favor. He will do his duty.”
“If he is not your friend . . .”
“Oh, it was a long-ago quarrel. He had the temerity to dismiss a man who acted as secretary to your mother.”
“Did my mother not wish him to be dismissed?”
He nodded.
“Then why? Could you not ... ?”
“This was the Bishop of London and the secretary was a Catholic. It is over. Your mother was not pleased. Nor was I. But ... the people here ... they are so much of one mind and they will listen to no other. Now, my dearest, let us have done with such talk. The fault was mine. Bishop Compton will come to you and he will make good little girls of you both. It is the King’s wish that he should come, and we must needs make the best of it.”
“But you are unhappy.”
“Oh, no ... no.”
“You said that we could be taken from you.”
“Did I? Let me tell you this ... nothing, nothing on Earth will ever take my children from me.”
“But . . .”
“I spoke rashly. I did not want this Compton fellow to be here, but I see now that he is a good man, a religious man. He will obey the King’s commands and make good Protestant young ladies of you. That is what the King wants and you know we must all obey the King. He says it is what the country wants and the country must see it being done. That is important. He is right. Charles is always right.”
“Then you are not unhappy?”
“At this moment, with my dearest child, how could I be unhappy? You are to have a French tutor. You will like that. I believe you are interested in learning.”
“I like to know.”
“That is good. And Anne?”
I was silent and my father laughed.
I went on: “She does not care for books because they hurt her eyes.”
He frowned. “She certainly has an affliction. Poor child. But she has a happy nature and we must keep it so.”
When he left me he had banished my fears.
I WAS LEARNING MORE of what was happening around us. There was always gossip among the attendants; the girls naturally heard it, and the elder ones, like Elizabeth Villiers and Sarah Jennings, understood what it was all about.
These two had taken a dislike to each other. Sarah, by this time, had complete domination over Anne, and my sister was hardly ever seen without her friend. It was not that Sarah was sycophantic. Far from it. There were times when one would have thought she was the mistress, and Anne the attendant.
I think Elizabeth Villiers resented her. She had not succeeded in forming that sort of alliance with me; and she probably recognized in Sarah one of her own kind. They were both ambitious and knew that to have one foot in a royal household was one step up the ladder to power.