But Anne did not have the cornelian ring; and all in good time it came to Mary.
A happy day, which almost made her forget that communication would be more difficult now that Frances was going to St. James’s Square.
In spite of her love for Frances, which was all absorbing, Mary still had an affection for her cousin Monmouth; and now that she was growing up and was a great deal at Court she had many friends among the maids of honor. She was mildly fond of a number of them, but her passion for Frances meant that she had little room in her heart for others.
Eleanor Needham, a beautiful young girl, was a friend of both Mary and Frances; so that when Eleanor was in trouble and she had to confide in someone, she chose the Princess Mary.
But this did not happen until the interfering Sarah Jennings had made it necessary.
Sarah dominated whatever household she found herself in; her passion for management was irresistible to her. She had quarrelled with most of the maids of honor and was continually trying to call attention to herself. She had made the Princess Anne her special charge, but since Mary had become so attached to Frances (and Anne must follow her sister in everything) Anne had become less friendly with Sarah.
Sarah was alert; there was little she missed; and she it was who warned the Duchess of Monmouth to watch her husband and Eleanor Needham, for she was certain something was going on there.
The Duchess told Sarah to mind her own business, to which Sarah retorted that if she could not take a warning she was welcome to the consequences of her blindness. The Duchess accused her husband, mentioning Sarah, at which Monmouth called on Sarah and told her that if she did not keep her sharp nose out of his affairs she might not be in a position to much longer, for that same nose would not reach the Court from the place to which he would have her banished.
Sarah was furious; but then Sarah often was furious. All the same she was aware of the power of the King’s favorite son; and although she might talk of upstart bastards out of his hearing, she was a little afraid of what he might do. Sarah knew that it was most essential for her to keep her place at Court if she were going to make the marriage that was necessary to establish her social position.
So before Eleanor came to Mary she had had an idea of what was happening and now that she was so knowledgeable of how people at Court conducted themselves, she was not surprised at the outcome.
“My lady,” said Eleanor, “I am with child and I must leave the Court very soon.”
“Is it Jemmy’s?” whispered Mary.
Eleanor nodded.
“Poor Eleanor. But what will you do?”
“Go right away from here and no one shall ever hear of me again.”
“But where will you go?”
“Do not ask me.”
“But Eleanor, can you look after yourself?”
“I shall be all right.”
“But I must help you.”
“My dear lady Mary, you are so kind and good. I knew you would be. That is why I had to say good-bye to you. But I shall know how to look after myself.”
“You should stay at Court. No one takes much account of these things here.”
“No, I shall go. But I wanted to say good-bye.”
Mary embraced her friend.
“Promise me that if you need help you will come to me?”
“My good sweet lady Mary, I promise.”
Mary told Anne what had happened, and how sorry she was for poor Eleanor.
“Sometimes,” said Mary, “I think I hate men. There is Jemmy who is as gay as ever while poor Eleanor is so unhappy she has to go right away. How different is my love for Aurelia.”
Anne nodded, and taking a sweet from the pocket of her gown, munched it thoughtfully.
Mary went into her closet and sitting at her table wrote that she was taking up her new crow quill to write to her dearest Aurelia.
She told her about the quarrel between that busybody Sarah Jennings and the Duke and Duchess of Monmouth, which was on account of Eleanor Needham. It was sad, wrote Mary, that a woman should be so ill-used. They had both been fond of Eleanor, and now she had left the Court to go, as she said, where no one would hear of her. How Mary longed to escape from the Court where such intrigues were commonplace.
“As for myself, I could live and be content with a cottage in the country and a cow, and a stiff petticoat and waistcoat in summer, and cloth in winter, a little garden where we could live on the fruit and herbs it yields.…”
Little Catherine died in convulsions ten months after her birth.
Mary Beatrice was heartbroken for a long time; Mary did her best to comfort her and for a while James deserted his mistresses and became the devoted husband.
There would be other children, he assured her; she was so young.
The little girl was buried in the vault of Mary Queen of Scots in Westminster Abbey; and after a short period of mourning Mary Beatrice was obliged to take her part in Court functions.
The devotion of her husband and the company of her two stepdaughters did a great deal for her over this unhappy time.
Although Mary mourned her half-sister, life had become too exciting for brooding on what was past. There was the gaiety of the Court, the friendships with the girls, none of which rivaled that with Frances, but Mary had much affection for friends such as Anne Trelawny. Her sister was very dear to her, and although at times she would feign exasperation because of Anne’s imitative ways and her refusal to change her mind once she had made it up, even when as in the case of the man in the park, she was confronted with the truth, the two sisters were inseparable.
Their stepmother was not in the least alarming. A little imperious, sometimes, a little pious often, but as she recovered from the death of her baby, ready to play a game of blindman’s buff, hide-and-seek, or “I love my love with an A.”
Then there was dancing, in which Mary was beginning to excel, and acting which was amusing. Sarah Jennings generally managed to infuse intrigue into the household which made it a lively one.
The years were slipping past and so absorbed was Mary by her own circle—and in particular Frances—that she forgot she was no longer a child: she had little interest in affairs outside her own domestic circle. A crisis occurred when there was a question of a husband being found for Frances.
A husband! But they had no need of men in their Eden.
“No one could ever love you as I do,” wrote Mary. “Marriage is not a happy state. How many faithful husbands are there at the Court, think you? They marry, tire of their wives in a month, and then they turn to others.”
It was alarming to contemplate. It reminded her of what she had seen when she surprised Jemmy and Henrietta Wentworth; it reminded her of the stories she had heard about her father and her uncle.
Unpleasant thoughts which it was best to avoid, but how could she avoid them when there was talk of Aurelia’s marrying!
For some months her anxiety persisted; and then the matter seemed to have been forgotten and the serene state of affairs continued: meetings with Frances on Sundays and holy days; and always those letters which must be smuggled out to the Apsley home. Her dancing master Mr. Gorley, the Gibsons, and very often Sarah Jennings and Anne Trelawny acted as go-betweens. It was a pleasant intrigue, for it must be carried on without the knowledge of Lady Frances Villiers who did not entirely approve of the correspondence.
So life went on merrily until Mary was nearly fifteen.
It was the day of the Lord Mayor’s feast and the King was dining at the Guildhall. This was one of the greatest occasions in the City of London and when Charles had told James that he thought Mary and Anne should be present James guessed that his daughters would soon be called upon to play their part in state affairs.