There were times when she wanted to tell him that he need have no fear of her ever disobeying him because her greatest joy would be to show herself as his loving and obedient wife.
Her days were passed almost in seclusion; there were her needlework, her flowers, her fowls, her miniatures; and occasionally those treasured interviews with William. She had heard that her sister Anne had been involved in an unfortunate affair with Lord Mulgrave and for that reason it had been decided that a husband should be found for her without delay. Anne was now married to George of Denmark and wrote to Mary that she was very happy. Mary would always love her sister; she did not forget how close they had been; but even Anne seemed far away now. In her letters Mary caught glimpses of the somewhat frivolous life her sister led. She was pregnant and thrilled at the thought of becoming a mother; she wanted Mary to send her stuff for a bedgown because she had a notion that just what she wanted could be found in Holland; Anne was content with her dear George and her dearest Sarah whom she would never allow to be very far away from her.
Then life began to change with the arrival of the Duke of Monmouth at The Hague.
Jemmy was still one of the most attractive men Mary had ever seen and now that she was older, now that she knew that even William was guilty of adultery, she viewed his peccadilloes less severely. Jemmy came with his mistress Henrietta Wentworth and he seemed a different man from that gay—and perhaps heartless youth—who had fascinated her a little in the past.
For one thing his love for Henrietta was so deep; or perhaps it was Henrietta herself who made something beautiful of that relationship. She, a great heiress in her own right, had sacrificed all hopes of a conventional and comfortable life for the sake of Monmouth. He was aware of this and did his best to return her devotion. Henrietta was naturally beautiful and her love for Monmouth transfigured her so that she could not enter a room without everyone’s being aware of her, but she herself was conscious only of her lover. Such a devotion could not but have its effect on Jemmy.
He was more serious; beneath his natural gaiety and great charm there burned a zeal. He wanted to mount the throne of England; he was the son of the King and because he could ensure the continuance of Protestantism in England he believed his cause was righteous.
William, whose great enemy was James, tentatively offered friendship to Monmouth, but he would only do this as long as Monmouth’s bastardy was recognized.
It was a delicate situation.
Moreover Jemmy was in Holland because of the discovery of the Rye House plot—the object of which had been the murder of Charles the King and his brother the Duke of York.
William and Monmouth were closeted together and Monmouth passionately explained that he had had no part in the plan to murder his father; he swore that that intention had been kept from him.
“It was to be a revolt against the threat of Catholicism, to bring back the liberties which my father took away when he installed the Tory sheriffs and confiscated the city charters. My father has always wanted to rule without the Parliament … as our grandfather did. My father has been lucky. He has enjoyed great popularity. Because he is the man he is, they have never tried to chop off his head as they did our grandfather’s. But the people of England do not want an absolute monarch. And this was the object of the plot.”
William regarded his cousin steadily. “And because of this you are sent in exile?”
“I was in the first plot but not the second. By God, William, you know my feelings for my father. Those near him love him and I am his son. I have had great affection from him; the only thing he has ever denied me is my legitimacy and if it rested with him …”
William nodded. Charles did dote on this handsome son who was more than a little like himself. William thanked God that Charles’s sense of rightness had prevented him from giving his beloved son his dearest wish.
“My father and uncle were to be waylaid coming from the Newmarket races … and murdered. It was kept from me. I swear it, William, you know I would never harm my father.”
“I know it,” answered William.
“Russell, Algernon Sidney, and Essex are dead—Sidney and Russell on the scaffold, Essex in his prison—some say by his own hand. They wanted me to give evidence against them and I could not. They were my friends, even though they had kept me in ignorance of the plot to murder my father and uncle. And it is due to my father that I did not share their lot, William. It is due to him that I am here.”
“And what do you propose to do now?”
“What can I do? I cannot return to England.”
“Do you claim that your mother was married to your father?”
Their eyes met and Monmouth flinched. “I make no such claim,” he said, “for my father has denied it.”
William’s lips curled in a half smile.
“Then you can take refuge here. You will understand that I could not shelter one who put my wife’s claim in jeopardy.”
Monmouth bowed his head; he understood that he could rely on a refuge in Holland, but Mary must be recognized as the heir who would follow her father (or perhaps her uncle) to the throne.
William visited his wife in her apartments and at his approach her women, as always, promptly disappeared. Mary looked up eagerly and was dismayed to find herself comparing him with Monmouth. They were both her cousins—and how different they were! Monmouth, tall and dark with flashing eyes and gay smile. It was difficult to imagine William gay; his great wig seemed too cumbersome for his frail body and one had the impression that he would not be able to maintain its balance; his hooked nose, slightly twisted, seemed the more enormous because he was so small; he sat hunching his narrow shoulders, his small frail hands resting on the table.
“You realize the significance of Monmouth’s visit?” he asked coldly.
“Yes, William.”
Her face was alight with pleasure. She was always delighted when he discussed political matters with her.
“I think we must be watchful in our treatment of this young man.”
“You are as usual right, William.”
He bowed his head in assent. He was pleased with her; he was molding her the way he wanted her to go. She was beautiful too; her shortsighted eyes were soft and gentle; her features strong and good. He had always wanted a beautiful wife, but of course docility had counted more than beauty. In her he had both—or almost. When she stood up she towered over him; he could never quite forget her horror when she had learned she was to marry him; he could never forget his shuddering bride. He knew that she did not always agree with him but when she did not she bowed her head in tacit acceptance that it was a wife’s duty to obey her husband. On the other hand he must never forget the Zuylestein affair and that she was not the weak woman she sometimes gave the impression of being; on occasions she could be strong; and how could he ever be sure when one of those occasions would arise?
This made him cautious of her, and cold always.