The Princess Anne was in a state of high fever.
“I must stay in England until my sister is better,” declared Mary.
“We shall sail as arranged,” William told her.
She looked at him pleadingly, but he pretended not to see her. She had refused to leave St. James’s for Whitehall when it was known that he had commanded her to; and he had in fact gone to Whitehall and left her at St. James’s—and everyone had noted that the bride and groom already had separate lodgings. He had shrugged aside her recalcitrance. Let her wait till she was without her family to support her. Then she would see who was the master and she would be forced to obey him.
They were to sail on the sixteenth of November and as the fifteenth was Queen Catherine’s birthday the King had said there should be a ball which would celebrate his wife’s birthday and at the same time be a farewell to the Prince and Princess of Orange. Since the newly married pair would be leaving on the next day, they should retire early and say good-bye to all their friends at the ball.
Mary was dressed in the jewels which he had given her, but their luster only called attention to her wretched appearance. So much crying had made her eyes swollen and she could not disguise her misery.
Anne was desperately ill; Mary did not know when she would see Frances Apsley again; and the next day she would say good-bye to her family and leave with William.
If only Anne or Frances could have accompanied her she felt she could have borne her wretchedness more easily. Frances could not come because her father was ill; and who should be her attendants had been settled by the King and her father. The Villiers were well represented. Barbara Castlemaine had seen to that; so Elizabeth and her sister Anne were to be in the suite in addition to a cousin of theirs—Margaret Boyle, who was Lady Inchiquin. Lady Inchiquin, being married and more mature than the others, had been given the post of head of the maids; she it was who would keep them in order and pay their salaries. Mary was delighted that her friend, Anne Trelawny, was coming with her and that her nurse, Mrs. Langford, would be there too. She believed she could have been almost happy if she could have substituted Frances Apsley and her sister Anne for Elizabeth Villiers.
But here she was on what would very likely be the very last night she would spend with her family; and instead of throwing herself on to her bed and giving vent to her misery, she must go down, receive congratulations, and try to smile while she accepted good wishes.
She would not have believed a few months ago that life could change so much.
In the ballroom a glittering company was assembled.
The King smiled kindly at his niece and led her in the dance.
“Would I were King of the winds, Mary,” he said, “instead of merely of these Islands. Do you know what I would do? Send forth my commands and there would be such a gale that no one—not even the Prince of Orange—would dare set sail.”
“If that were possible,” she sighed.
He pressed her hand. “Troubles come and go,” he said. “There was a time when I thought I should never return to England … but I did.”
“Your Majesty was a King … and a man. I, alas, am only a woman.”
“Do not say ‘only,’ my dear niece. In my opinion women are the most delightful of God’s creations. I cannot command that wind, Mary, but I might pray for it. Though perhaps the prayers of sinners are never answered. What think you? Or is one more likely to receive blessings because one rarely asks for them?”
He was trying to amuse her; she loved him; but her sad smile told him there was only one way of relieving her misery and that was to free her from this marriage.
When the dance was over the King took her to her father who smiled at her with pride and told her that she looked beautiful.
“Such jewels,” he said. “They become you well.”
She shook her head and he, fearing that the tears would start again, said quickly: “The Duchess and I will visit you in Holland. Dear child, you are not going to the other end of the world.”
“Anne …” she began.
Anne. He thought of his beloved daughter who lay desperately ill and his expression darkened. To lose one daughter to Orange and the other to death would be unbearable.
“Anne shall come with us,” he said. “You will see, Mary, that we shall take the first opportunity.”
She nodded. “I shall wait for that day,” she assured him.
“And your stepmother sends her love to you. She wishes that she might be with you … to comfort you. She says that she knows how unhappy you are. And she calls you her dear little Lemon—because you are paired with an Orange.”
Mary smiled. “Pray tell her I love her … and the little boy.”
“The little boy is frail, Mary, but we believe he will live.”
“I shall pray for him,” said Mary.
“Daughter, we shall pray for each other. We shall all remember, shall we not, that we are of one family. Although we are apart, that is something we shall remember till we die.”
Mary nodded. “And my dearest Anne …”
“She does not know that you are leaving England. We fear the news would make her very unhappy and she needs all her strength.”
“Oh, Father, how sad life can be!”
“Mary, I beg of you, do not weep here. You are watched, and tears do not please your husband.”
“There seem to be so many things about me that do not please him.”
James’s face hardened. “If he should be unkind to you, Mary … let me know.”
“Of what use?” she asked.
“I would find a way of saving you.”
“Would that you had thought of it before the marriage.”
“Oh, Mary, my dear, dear daughter, circumstances were too strong for us.”
She remembered those words later. Circumstances were too strong. She reflected then that it was a phrase used by those who wished to excuse their weakness.
The hands of the clocks were approaching eight—that hour when she must leave the ball, take off her satin gown and her jewels, and prepare herself for the journey.
All those who would accompany her were in her apartment, many of them chattering with eagerness, for the journey to Holland was for them an adventure. Even Anne Trelawny could not keep the excitement out of her eyes. The Duke of York had taken her aside and asked her (because he knew that of all her ladies his daughter loved her best) to take care of Mary and let him know if aught went wrong with her. Anne Trelawny believed she had a special mission. Lady Inchiquin could not hide the pleasure she found in her new authority. Jane Wroth, a pretty girl, was frankly looking forward to the adventure. Anne Villiers was heartbroken on account of the serious illness of her mother, but nevertheless glad to be going to new surroundings; then there was Elizabeth, subdued and different, so that Mary wondered whether she was capable of deeper feelings than she had imagined. Elizabeth had changed very much of late and Mary, who was always ready to forgive, now accepted the fact that their childish quarrels must be forgotten.
They took off her jewels and carefully put them away; they helped her change her dress.
Then the party set off for Gravesend.
There was after all a respite. Mary remembered the King’s words and wondered whether his prayers had been answered, for such a gale arose that it was impossible to sail and the party were forced to return to Whitehall where, said the King, they might have to reconcile themselves to a long stay.
As he said this he smiled at Mary and she thought then that her uncle would be one of those whom she would most sadly miss.
William was angry. His great desire now was to be back in his own country. He stood glowering at the windows watching the river and listening to the howling wind. The King said they should occupy themselves with a little amusement while they waited. There should be dancing or cards. What did his nephew think?