“It is very sad,” said Mary; and she thought: But if you were not a papist none of it would have happened. She was beginning to see through William’s eyes.
William could not hide his distaste for his father-in-law and James, aware of it, found his position becoming more and more uncomfortable. He was turned away from his home because he was not wanted there, and however much Charles expressed his regret he showed clearly that he was ready to accept the demands of his brother’s enemies. And so he had become a guest at his son-in-law’s Court—but not a welcome one.
One night he awoke in his apartments with griping pains, alarming Mary Beatrice as for some minutes he could do nothing but groan and press his hands against his stomach.
“What can it be?” cried Mary Beatrice fearfully. “I must call for help.”
But James shook his head. “We are here in a strange country, an enemy’s country. How do we know what that enemy plans against us?”
“James, you think William is trying to poison you!”
James groaned aloud. “My body tells me someone has.”
She was hastily scrambling out of bed, but he detained her.
“Wait awhile. I fancy the pain grows less. Perhaps they have not succeeded this time.”
“I cannot believe this of the Prince. Our dear Lemon would never allow it.”
“Do you think Mary has any say in matters at this Court? Have you not seen the manner in which he treats her? My daughter will always be a good daughter to me—but how I distrust her husband!”
“You are a little better now, James?”
He nodded. “The pain is subsiding. For a moment I thought this was the end of me.”
“My poor, poor James.”
“Ah, you have been a good wife to me. You have given me our dear Isabella.”
“And I shall give you sons one day, James.”
“If that hope is to be realized,” he said, smiling wryly, “I do not think we should spend another day at The Hague. If I am well enough we shall leave in the morning.”
“We cannot go back to England, James. Where can we go?”
His lips twisted into a bitter smile. “Exiles!” he said. “Behold the heir of England who has no lodging but that which is grudged him. No, my dear wife, we cannot return to England and if we value our lives we cannot stay at The Hague. We will go to Brussels for a while and there await events.”
In the morning the Duke of York was sufficiently recovered for a journey. With his wife and a few friends he set out for Brussels.
To be an exile! To know that in one’s own country one was not wanted. It was enough to make the gayest of men melancholy; James was scarcely the gayest.
In Brussels he dreamed of home. Mary Beatrice did her best to console him—and herself, with the reminder that at least he was separated from some of his mistresses, but she was certain that it would not take him long to fill those vacancies. It was a pity he could not find men to support him as easily as he found women to share his bed.
Mary Beatrice loved him dearly and to her he was always tender. Like Anne Hyde she found him a good husband apart from this failing—which was, alas, the cardinal sin of marriage. He himself deplored it, but found temptation irresistible. Poor James! He could not help failing in everything he did.
Mary Beatrice longed for the company of her enchanting little daughter Isabella, the only child who had survived and had now lived three years. Such an adorable creature, a delight not only in herself but because she was a symbol that Mary Beatrice could have healthy children, a promise that one day she would have a son.
If her stepdaughter Anne could have accompanied them she would have enjoyed those days in Brussels more; and of course she saw nothing now of dear Lemon; in any case she was worried about this stepdaughter, because William was not pleasant to James and it seemed that Mary was a little cowed by him.
A not very happy state of affairs for James—with Monmouth setting himself up in opposition to his uncle, ostentatiously calling himself the Protestant Duke, William of Orange an ungracious host, and all the enemies at home! Just when Mary Beatrice was beginning to be happy and to love England all these troubles were rising round her.
“If,” she told her husband, “I could only have little Isabella with me, I could I think be more reconciled.”
James clenched his fists and cried: “Why should we endure this? Why should we be cut off from home and family? I shall write to my brother without delay. I am going to tell him that since we are to stay here we must have our children with us.”
“They may allow Isabella to come. But will they allow Anne?”
“I will promise not to contaminate my own daughter,” retorted James bitterly.
He went to his table and wrote such an impassioned appeal to his brother that in a short time news came to them that the Princesses Anne and Isabella with suitable attendants were on their way to Brussels.
The Princess of Orange was suffering so acutely from the ague that her father was summoned to her bedside at The Hague.
James went at once and there was no doubt that his presence comforted Mary. When she heard that Anne and Isabella were on their way she was delighted and her determination to get well quickly was so beneficial that in a short time she had left her bed.
But relations between the Prince of Orange and his father-in-law were as uneasy as before and James declared his intention of returning to Brussels. Mary said that when her sister and half-sister arrived they must be her guests and William made no objection.
There followed a few happy weeks. Anne had arrived with the adorable Isabella who took an immediate fancy to her half-sister Mary which was reciprocated. In Isabella Mary saw the child she had recently lost and could scarcely bear her out of her sight; and to have her dearest Anne with her, that she might hear all the gossip from England, filled her with delight. How was Frances? she wanted to know. She had only her letters to tell her and letters were inadequate. There was Sarah Jennings, now Sarah Churchill, full of vitality, governing all those about her, including her Colonel John who had accompanied the party. After a few days Mary felt she could have been very happy without the company of Sarah Churchill who seemed to have completely bewitched Anne, for she listened attentively to everything she said and appeared to take her advice on all matters.
Sarah, sensing the hostility of the Princess of Orange, was not in the least perturbed. She thought Mary a ninny who was considerably under the thumb of the man she had married. That was no way to live, in Sarah’s opinion. And her John, who adored her more as the weeks passed and who rarely acted without taking her advice, was proving her right.
She had the Princess Anne in leading strings; she was determined to make a great career for John; so she was in no mood to allow the faint criticism of such a weakling as the Princess of Orange to disturb her ways.
Mary Beatrice awoke each day with desire to enjoy it which was almost fanatical. She wanted each day to be twice as long; for always at the back of her mind was a fear that it could not last; and in fact she knew it could not. When her mother arrived from Modena, she felt that this was the happiest time of her life—or would have been if she were not continually reminded of the exile and the memory of their enemies.
The Duke of York burst into his wife’s apartment; an unusual color burned in his cheeks and his eyes were brilliant. He shut the door and made sure that they were alone before he told her what had excited him.
“A letter,” he cried, “from Halifax! Charles is ill … unto death, they say. Essex joins with Halifax. They say a few days will see the end of my brother.”