She tried to smile when they danced a bransle together, but she could not raise herself from her melancholy. There was something unreal about the strange turn life had taken, she saw now, and it could not last.
“Jemmy,” she said, “how long shall you stay in Holland?”
“As long as I am welcome, I suppose,” he answered.
“You know how long that will be if I have any say.”
“Tell me,” he whispered.
“Forever,” she answered; and turned away, afraid.
On the evening of the sixteenth of February 1685 Mary was in her apartments playing cards with some of her women when a message was brought to her that she must present herself without delay to the Prince in his cabinet.
She rose at once and as soon as she saw William she knew that he was excited, although his expression was calm as usual. But a nerve twitched in his cheek and when he spoke he found it difficult to control his breath.
“News,” he said, “which should have been brought to us days ago. On account of the ice and snow it has been delayed. Charles, King of England, is dead and your father has now mounted the throne.”
“Uncle Charles dead!” she muttered.
He looked at her forgetting to be exasperated by this habit of repeating his words.
“You realize,” he went on, “the importance of this to … us?”
She did not answer. She was thinking of Charles, her kind dear uncle, with his charming careless smile … dead.
“I have sent for Monmouth,” went on William. “He should be with us soon.”
No one could doubt the genuine grief of Monmouth. What had he ever had but kindness from the hands of his father? And what would become of him now that his greatest enemy was King of England?
He remained closeted with the Prince of Orange for many hours; then he went back to the Palace of the Mauruitshuis, which William had lent him during his sojourn in Holland, and there gave way to sorrow.
Bevil Skelton, the new Envoy from England, asked for an audience with the Prince of Orange.
This William granted. He had received a cold, somewhat unfriendly letter from Whitehall which ran:
“I have only time to tell you that it has pleased God Almighty to take out of this world the King my brother. You will from others have an account of what distemper he died of; and that all the usual ceremonies were performed this day in proclaiming me King in the city and other parts. I must end, which I do, with assuring you, you shall find me as kind as you can expect.”
As kind as you can expect. There was an ominous ring in those words.
Great events were about to break and rarely had William felt so excited in the whole of his life.
When Skelton was ushered in he came straight to the point. “His Majesty King James II wishes you to send the Duke of Monmouth back to England without delay.”
William bowed his head. “I shall do as the King of England demands. And now if you will leave me I will have him informed that he is no longer my guest. Then, when that is done, you may make him your prisoner and conduct him to your master.”
Skelton was delighted with his easy victory; but when he was alone William immediately sent a messenger to Monmouth with money, explaining that a plot was afoot to carry him back to England and his only hope was to leave Holland with all speed.
Thus when Skelton went to arrest Monmouth, he had fled.
Gone were the gay and happy days.
Mary sat with her women thinking of the dances and the skating, wondering what the future would hold.
All through the spring she waited to hear news of Jemmy. There was none.
He will never be able to return to England because my father hates him, she thought.
But in May of that year there was news. Monmouth had left for England.
The tension at The Hague had never been so great. Messengers were arriving at the Palace all day. William was shut up with Bentinck for hours at a time; he hardly seemed to be aware of Mary.
Monmouth was in Somerset. Taunton was greeting him. He had followers in the West of England who would go with him to death if need be for the sake of the Protestant cause.
To William’s surprise there were many to support the King, and his army under Churchill and Feversham was a well-trained force. What chance had the rebels against it?
King Monmouth, they were calling the Duke. King! William gritted his teeth and prayed for the victory of his greatest enemy.
It came with Sedgemoor and debacle. Victory for King James. Defeat, utter and complete, for King Monmouth.
In The Hague William secretly rejoiced. Monmouth, you fool! he thought. You deserve to lose your head and you will, King Monmouth.
Oh, Jemmy, thought Mary, what will become of you? Why did you do this? Why could you not have stayed with us, dancing, skating. We were so happy. And now what will become of you?
She quickly learned. Before the end of July Jemmy was dead. He was taken to the scaffold from his prison in the Tower. He went to his death with dignity and he did not flinch when he laid his head on the block.
THE WIFE AND THE MISTRESS
Those months stood out forever in Mary’s memory; they were the turning point in her life. Jemmy was dead … killed, on her father’s order.
“He was his uncle,” she said stonily to Anne Trelawny.
“Monmouth was a traitor, Your Highness.”
“I do not believe he meant to take the throne.”
“Your Highness was always one to believe the best of your friends. He called himself King Monmouth. He could not have been more explicit.”
“Others called him that.”
She could not be comforted. She shut herself in her apartments and thought of him—dancing, laughing—making love with numerous women. He was no saint. He was not a noble honorable man such as her husband was. But he was so beautiful, so charming, and she had never been so happy as when in his company—except of course on those occasions when William showed his approval of her.
If he had never come to The Hague, she thought, I should not be mourning him so bitterly now.
The entire Court was talking of what was called the Bloody Assizes which had followed Monmouth’s defeat at Sedgemoor. They spoke in shocked whispers of the terrible sentences which were passed on those who had rebelled against the new King of England. Death, slavery, whipping, imprisonment. It was a tale of horror.
And this, said Mary, is done in the name of my father.
Dr. Covell, who had succeeded Dr. Kenn as chaplain to the Princess of Orange was flattered to receive a call from Bevil Skelton the English Envoy at The Hague.
Skelton implied that he wished to speak to Covell alone and when he came into the chaplain’s apartment there was an air of secrecy about him which delighted Covell. Covell, an old man, who lacked the courage and personality of Hooper and Kenn, his two predecessors, guessed that some highly confidential matter was about to be communicated to him.
He was right.
“Dr. Covell,” began Skelton, “I know that I can rely on your discretion.”
“Absolutely, my dear sir. Absolutely.”
“That is well, because I am going to take you into my confidence regarding a very secret matter.”
“You may have the utmost trust in me.”
“I believe,” said Skelton, “that you deplore the way in which the Prince treats our Princess.”
“Scandalous, sir. Quite scandalous.”
“And you are a faithful servant of King James II, our lawful sovereign.”
“God save the King!”
“I must insist that you keep this absolutely to yourself.”
“I give my word as a priest.”
“Well, then, this Orange marriage is not satisfactory. Not only is it without fruit but the Princess is treated like a slave. His Majesty knows this; the Princess is his favorite daughter and he is deeply concerned. It is clear that she is unhappy. She must be unhappy. No wife could be otherwise, neglected as she is. The King wishes to have the marriage dissolved and it is my duty to find a way of doing it.”