Bolingbroke would make no such mistake. He would not underestimate the powers of the Queen’s favourite woman. The Queen’s support was necessary and Abigail could bring him that.

Well, he was always ready to take on a new mistress.

Abigail was watching him covertly, reading his thoughts. Did he imagine that he only had to beckon to her? What did he think he had to offer her? His charm, his elegance, his experience? None of these she wanted.

She knew now what she longed for: devotion, adoration, fidelity, that relationship which she had seen idealized in the St. Albans House.

Was there no escaping from the Marlboroughs?

But in the meantime it would be amusing to join with Viscount Bolingbroke, for although he could never fit into her emotional life she needed his help in taking her revenge on the man who had failed her. In every way, she whispered to herself. Yes, in every way!

She smiled at Bolingbroke, as she evaded his proximity.

“We have much to discuss, my lord.”

He agreed. Business first, he thought. Pleasure later. At least there was one point on which they were in immediate agreement: the downfall of Robert Harley, Earl of Oxford.

Bolingbroke planned to create a new party and place himself at its head; he was following the path which Harley had set when he had formed his party to defeat Godolphin. The Queen’s brief return to health was over. Her little fling had resulted in a return of the gout and dropsy. Her hands were swollen—all trace of the beauty of which she had once been so proud, gone; her face was patchy with erysipelas; her legs and feet so distorted that she could not walk.

She needed Masham and her dear Duchess day and night and since Masham was expecting, it meant that the Duchess was in constant attendance. Dear Duchess! To whom Anne could talk so much more intimately of the past than she could to Masham, for the Duchess had been with her long before Masham had come.

One could not expect such a noble lady to do the menial tasks which Masham still performed but Anne often found it difficult to decide which was the more important to her. But when Abigail returned she was not really in any doubt, and she understood that she had imagined she might prefer the Duchess because a pregnant woman must think primarily of the child she was going to bear. No one could administer a poultice with the same care as Masham—so that the minimum of pain went hand in hand with the maximum of benefit.

“Dear Masham, when your child is born, you must be in constant attendance.”

“Nothing could delight me more than to obey Your Majesty’s command,” answered Abigail.

Abigail often talked to her of her half brother in France, for Abigail understood how worried she was at the part she had played in her father’s downfall. When she talked to Abigail she believed that the best thing possible would be for her half brother to come to the throne on her death.

“That, Madam, would make you happiest. I know full well,” Abigail told her; and when she was with Abigail it seemed that this was so.

Abigail brought Bolingbroke to her and he was of the same opinion.

But then the dear Duchess of Somerset would remind her of the perils of popery. Yes indeed, said the Duchess, she would be happy if she could bring back her half brother; but she must not forget her duty to the Church. Her father had been driven out of England because he was a Catholic; would she not, by bringing back her brother—also a Catholic—plunge England into trouble again?

“For Madam,” insisted the Duchess, “the people of this country would never accept a Catholic monarch.”

It was true and she must consider the Church. But when Masham and Bolingbroke talked to her, of keeping the crown to the Stuarts—her own family, her own brother to follow her—she could not help but sway towards their opinions.

Who were these Germans? The Electress Sophia—an overbearing woman—her son George Lewis who, it was said, could not speak a word of English and would not try to! His marriage was unfortunate. His wife was imprisoned on an accusation of adultery, and it was said that he had plenty of mistresses. Not quite the monarch to follow good Queen Anne!

How complicated it was; and there was Mr. Harley—Lord Oxford who had once been able to answer all her problems so satisfactorily—now it seemed at loggerheads with Bolingbroke who was next in importance in her Government—and worst of all with Masham, who had once thought so highly of him.

He was disturbing her too, for often his speech was so slurred that she could scarcely understand him; and his clothes were becoming more and more untidy. It was not the happiest manner in which a first minister should present himself to his Sovereign.

She had seen Masham turn away in disgust.

And she was in such pain and often so tired. Oh dear, the happy days when she believed she had solved her difficulties by ridding herself of the Marlboroughs and enjoyed a brief return to better health, were over.

Abigail was lying in her bed. Her time would soon come, and she hoped this time it would be another boy.

It would not be long now, she was thinking … not that her child would be born, but that Oxford would go just a little too far.

The Queen had certainly been aware of his state of intoxication the last time she had seen them together. Fool! Fool! she thought; and tears came into her eyes.

She was a foolish romantic dreamer. She had allowed him to fascinate her in those days when she had been young and silly. Often now she thought of John and Sarah together. How was life with them? Did he still love his virago as tenderly now that they were together all the time in exile?

It came back to her so vividly. The house in St. Albans. The return of John. The eager manner in which he looked about him for Sarah and then … that long hungry embrace. The scamper of impatient feet; the slamming of the bedroom door; the smiles of the servants.

“He cannot wait to take off his boots.”

The great General, who was first of all the impatient lover, had, by his love for Sarah set up an impossible ideal in the heart of Abigail Hill.

Had her hatred of her cousin stemmed from her envy? Had she become what she was because of the love the Duke of Marlborough bore for his wife?

It had never changed, that love, although Sarah had done little to cherish it. She had gone her wild and wilful way; she had crashed to disaster because of her own rash foolishness and she had taken him with her. Yet, he loved her still.

That was what Abigail wanted … a love such as that. Hers was a dream of romantic love and power. There had been only one man in her life who could give her that: Robert Harley. And he had denied it. Bolingbroke? Never! She could have been his mistress for a month or so. But that was not what she sought.

Someone had come into the room.

“Samuel!” she said; and he pulled out a chair and sat by her bed.

“You are not feeling well?”

“A little tired. It is natural.”

“You do too much.”

She was impatient. “If I did not where would we be?”

He sighed. He knew that he owed everything to her; he knew too that he had failed to give her what she wanted.

“My clever Abigail.” He took her fingers and kissed them. They were limp and unresponsive.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

She turned her head away. For what was he apologizing? His inadequacy?

“I must go,” she said; “the Queen needs me. I must not allow Carrots Somerset to take over all my duties.”

“Do not drive yourself too hard, my dear.”

“And if I did not … would you have your fine title? Would you have your position here at Court?”

“No,” he said. “But there are other prizes.”

She shook him off impatiently. He looked so … how could she say Complacent? Smug. Lord Masham—a man of title through his wife’s endeavours.

It was not what she wanted.

“You are going to the Queen?” he asked. “You should not walk across the courtyard in your condition. Take your chair.”

She shrugged him aside. It was years since she had taken advice from Samuel.

As she came out into the cold air, her eyes smarted with tears—tears of frustration. She was thinking of what might have been if the child she carried had been another man’s, not Samuel’s, the child of a brilliant politician who loved her as Marlborough loved his wife, with whom she could plan the future as Marlborough did with his wife.

Her vision blurred; she was not watchful of her step as one must be in the courtyard. She caught her foot in the cobbles; in a second it had twisted under her and she fell.

She lay bewildered and stunned. Then her pains began. The child was demanding to be born although its time had not yet come.

The news spread all over the Town. Lady Masham was dying. A fall in the courtyard; a premature birth; and the Queen’s favourite was lying very near to death.

The Queen was in despair. She sent Dr. Arbuthnot to attend to Abigail and commanded him not to leave her until he was sure she was out of danger; and she must have hourly messages as to Abigail’s state.

Anne could not be comforted. She rocked herself to and fro in her chair and asked herself how she could live without dear Masham.

Alice Hill, sitting by Abigail’s bed, listened to her rambling, and knew that she was living in the past, in those days of uncertainty and degradation when she had been as a servant in the house of the Marlboroughs.

She wept, and Mrs. Abrahal who would always be grateful to Abigail for speaking well of her to the Queen sought to comfort her, and Mrs. Danvers took time off from the Queen’s bedchamber to come to the invalid’s bedside.