The Duke of York was cool to the bridegroom and it was clear that he was longing to shatter his hopes by becoming the father of a son in the next few days. Mary Beatrice, hourly expecting, had yet time to feel sorry for her little stepdaughter who had been more like a sister to her.
And in her apartments the bride’s only comfort was in weeping, which she did so frequently that it was quite impossible to hide the fact, and when she was receiving ambassadors or other state officials who had come to congratulate her, the tears would start to flow.
Two or three days after the wedding William came to her apartments when she was alone. She started up when he entered, her hand to her throat. He frightened her because he always looked so contemptuous and severe.
“Weeping again?” he said, in his cold voice.
She did not answer and he went on: “It would seem I have cause for grief. You have a stepbrother.”
Mary stood up, her fear forgotten. “So … it has happened.”
“Your stepmother has given birth to a son and your father is jubilant.”
He was looking at her with disdain, and she knew what he meant. It was as her uncle had suggested it might be: the marriage was disappointed. Now that she had a stepbrother she had lost her place in the succession, and William was thinking that the marriage was no longer the desirable union it had been a few days ago. He was saddled with a foolish child who spent most of her time in tears, who was quite insensible of the honor he had done her, and had no longer a crown to bring him which would have compensated for all these failings.
“We depart for Holland at the earliest possible moment,” he said sharply, and left her.
There followed days of ceremony and waiting for inevitable doom during which the son of the Duke and Duchess of York was christened Charles after his uncle, and the King himself, with the Prince of Orange in attendance, acted as the boy’s sponsor, while Lady Frances Villiers stood as proxy for his fifteen-month-old sister Isabella.
Three days after the christening Mary was in her apartments being prepared for yet another ball when Sarah Jennings—always first with any news—burst in with her usual lack of ceremony.
“My lady,” she cried, “Lady Frances is very ill. There is great consternation throughout the palace because they are saying it is smallpox.”
Mary stood up, startled out of her grief. “You must not go to her, naturally,” said Sarah practically.
“But I must be assured that she is well looked after.”
“That is being taken care of. We are not to go near the sickroom. Those are firm orders.”
Mary stared at her reflection. The curls bunched on either side of her head gave a look of coquetry which was incongruous with that sad little face.
Lady Frances ill of the smallpox! Her secure and happy world was disintegrating. What next? she asked herself.
There was the unexpected joy of a visit from Frances Apsley. They embraced fervently.
“Oh, Frances, what shall I do? How can I endure this?”
“My dearest Mary-Clorine, you must endure it. It is cruel, but it had to be. You must write to me every day. We must comfort each other with our letters.”
“And not to see each other … ever!”
“We may be able to arrange meetings.”
“Oh, Frances, dearest husband, you say that to comfort me. Have you seen … him?”
“Yes, my dearest.”
“Then you know.”
“He looks stern. He looks as if he could be cruel. But you must remember you are a Princess, and he gains much by this marriage, a fact which you must not let him forget.”
“He terrifies me, Frances.”
“He is only a man, beloved—and not very old.”
“He is years older than I.”
“You think that because you are so young. You must not show your fear.”
“How can I hide it, dearest husband? How can I? Oh, Aurelia, beloved, it is you with whom I should be leaving the Court. Do you remember my dream of a cottage in the country?”
“I remember, my love, but it was a dream which we knew could never be a reality.”
“Aurelia, you will remember me always. You will never forget your poor Clorine who loves you more than she can express. You must never forget that only your letters will assure me of your fidelity. You must write to me … every day … every day …”
They could only assure each other of their undying love. They met and made their vows; but they knew that there could not be many more meetings.
Lady Frances Villiers was dying and the Princess Anne had taken the smallpox.
Mary was in desperation. She had been fond of Lady Frances and to contemplate her death made her very sad; but the fact that Anne was in danger, terrified her. Her distasteful marriage no longer filled her mind; if Anne could be well again she would be ready to accept anything, she told herself.
She wanted to go to her sister, to nurse her herself, but she must not even see Anne—and this when there was so little time left to them!
William came into her apartments and told her that she was to prepare at once to leave St. James’s Palace for Whitehall.
“Although I cannot visit my sister yet I wish to be close to her,” she answered.
“Do you not understand anything?” he asked coldly.
“I certainly do not understand what you mean,” she retorted.
“There is smallpox in this place and it is possible that you may catch it.”
“I wish to remain near my sister,” she said stubbornly.
“It is obvious that you have no conception of what this means—I begin to think you have little conception of anything!”
“I know that the smallpox is deadly. It is killing Lady Frances.” The tears came to her eyes again, and William turned away impatiently muttering: “Tears. Tears. Can she offer me nothing but tears?”
“She was my guardian … she was like a mother to me. And now that my darling Anne …” Her voice broke.
William said impatiently, “Prepare at once to leave for Whitehall.”
“No,” she retorted firmly.
He gave her a look which contained more than contempt. It might have been hatred; then he left her.
That she should openly defy him was something he found very hard to forgive. If they had been in Holland, he assured himself, he would have enforced obedience; it was not so easy here where she was surrounded by her family and friends. So she stayed at St. James’s—the little fool. What if she succumbed to the smallpox? She might die—as he almost had, and would have, but for his dear friend Bentinck. She might be disfigured; how could she hope to please him then? With her pretty delicate complexion and almond-shaped eyes she had pleased him—before she had known he was to be her husband, then her reluctance to accept him, her actual repugnance had so wounded him where he was most vulnerable, that he intended to make her very sorry for her actions. If she were disfigured by smallpox, if she failed to bring him the crown of England—of what use was she?
Had he been a more passionate man he would have hated her; as it was he merely disliked her.
But because she had humiliated him, he was determined to humiliate her.
Everyone noticed that at the ball which Charles had insisted should be given in spite of the smallpox being in St. James’s Palace, Mary’s husband ignored her completely; he would not dance with her nor sit with her if he could avoid it; but when he had to do so he showed his indifference by not addressing a single remark to her.
His conduct was noted.
What a sullen clown the Prince of Orange is! was the general comment, and many felt sorry then for the Princess Mary.