She rose from her bed and stood unsteadily. Where were her women? What time was it?

Time? she thought. It is time for the meeting … and I must go. I must do my duty. I am the Queen.

She moved unsteadily towards the mantelpiece and peered at the clock. Time! she thought. What time was it? She felt herself slipping back in time … living in The Cockpit … listening to Sarah Churchill’s vituperations against the Dutch Monster … working so hard to drive her father from the throne. The warming-pan baby … that brother who was now waiting to take his inheritance.…

If she could go back.… Would it be different? She was afraid of time. It would soon be time for the Council meeting.… Time …

She looked into the clock’s face and thought she saw another face looking at her, calling her, giving her a summons that she could not disobey because it was not in the power of any—Queen or commoner—to do so.

“Your Majesty.”

She turned. Mrs. Danvers was standing beside her, frightened.

“Danvers …”

“I wondered why Your Majesty was staring at the clock.”

“I saw …” she began; and Mrs. Danvers caught her as she would have fallen.

Mrs. Danvers called to the Queen’s women and together they carried her fainting body back to her bed.

“I saw Death in her face,” said Mrs. Danvers, her teeth chattering.

The Queen was dying. Outside the palace the people gathered waiting for news. This was more than the death of a Queen who had worked for the good of her subjects; this could be civil war; there was a choice of two Sovereigns; the German who could not speak a word of English and the Papist Pretender. People took sides, but half-heartedly. Who wanted the German? Who wanted the Papist? If James had been a good Churchman the country would have stood behind him. But his father had been driven away for his religion. Would it be the same trouble again?

Marlborough’s war was over and the people wanted no more wars. For this reason they were more inclined to accept the German.

In the palace the conflicts raged more fiercely.

Abigail had been in constant attendance. Her thoughts were confused; she had scarcely slept for several nights and was exhausted; yet she knew that the Queen was uneasy when she was not close.

The Queen was dying, and Abigail now realized how much she loved the Queen. Her friendship had been calculated it was true, but she had received such kindness from her Sovereign, she had found such joy in serving her—what would her life be without Anne?

The Council had decided against Bolingbroke as Oxford’s successor, and had chosen the Duke of Shrewsbury as Lord Treasurer.

Shrewsbury had declared that he would not accept office without the Queen’s consent and as a result he had been brought to her bedside. Those about her had believed that she would not recognize him, but she did, for when she was asked if she knew to whom she had given the staff of office she whispered: “To the Duke of Shrewsbury.”

More than that she took his hand and implored him to use his office for the good of her people.

Shrewsbury knelt at the bedside and assured her that he would do all in his power; and she seemed satisfied.

She closed her eyes, but shortly afterwards those about her bed heard her rambling about the past. She mentioned the warming pan, and there were tears on her cheeks.

“My brother …” she whispered. “My poor brother.”

Glances were exchanged. Was she going to demand that her brother be her successor? And what would the reaction be towards a dying woman?

Those who had supported the House of Hanover were afraid; but they need not have worried on that score for Anne was too far gone to remain coherent.

Abigail, almost numb with tiredness, stood close to the bed; they were very near the end, she knew, and when the Queen died she must take the letter from under her pillow. That would let everyone know what the Queen’s wishes were.

But in her heart she knew that there would be so many to oppose the Queen’s wishes and that there was little chance of James Stuart’s coming to England. He himself had refused to give up his religion and the English would not have a papist on the throne. Moreover she knew that he had no means of bringing an army with him to fight for his rights and the French were not in a position to supply him with what he would need.

Yet if the Queen’s dying wishes were known …

But who would care for a dead Queen?

“They are going to bleed the Queen,” whispered Mrs. Danvers in her ear.

“Yes, Lady Masham,” said Dr. Arbuthnot. “She is suffering from an excess of apoplexy.”

Abigail whispered: “Dr. Arbuthnot, what hope …”

But the doctor pretended not to hear her.

The apothecary was at the bed; and as the Queen lay back, her eyes closed, the room seemed to revolve round Abigail, and she fell swooning to the floor.

Anne was aware that something had happened and asked what it was.

“Lady Masham has fainted, Your Majesty,” said Dr. Arbuthnot. “Poor woman she has been with Your Majesty night and day and is worn out with exhaustion and her grief.”

“Poor Masham!” sighed Anne. “Poor, poor Masham …” She was uneasy because they were taking Abigail from the sickroom; but she could not remember the cause of her uneasiness.

“My brother …” she whispered. “My poor brother.”

The Queen was dying. She had lost consciousness and was fast slipping away.

Although there were services in which prayers were made for her recovery, the Council were making arrangements to send a message to Hanover the moment the Queen took her last breath.

It could not be long now.

Those watching heard the death rattle in her throat, they saw the film in her eyes.

As the doctors bent over the dead Queen they saw a paper protruding from under her pillow. It was taken out and handed to the Duke of Shrewsbury, who looked at it, nodded, and slipped it into his pocket.

“Lady Masham, wake up.”

It was Mrs. Danvers standing over her.

“The Queen?”

“She has passed away.”

Abigail stood up, feeling sick with exhaustion and anxiety for the future mingling with an overwhelming sense of loss.

“I will go to her,” she said. Then her mouth twisted into a wry smile. “It’s too late, though. She will never call me again.”

“Nor any of us,” said Mrs. Danvers.

Abigail shook her head. “What shall we do?” she whispered. “What will become of us?”

She went to the bedside and looked down at the Queen and the tears blinded her eyes as she stooped to kiss that cold forehead and slip her hand under the pillow.

It was gone. She should have known.

This is the end, she thought.

Shrewsbury, seated at the Council table, held up the letter.

“My friends,” he said, addressing his fellow members, “I think we can guess what this contains, but if we do not open it, we cannot be sure.”

“It may contain her last wish.”

Shrewsbury smiled at the speaker. “We are in no position for civil war and the people would never accept a papist. If we do not know what her last wish was, we cannot go against it.” He turned to the fire which was burning in the grate and going towards it held the letter up so that all the members of the Council could see it. “Gentlemen,” he went on, “are you of my opinion for the sake of England it is better that this letter remains unread?”

There was a brief pause, then a voice said: “I am of your opinion.”

“And I. And I.”

Shrewsbury smiled. “Unanimous,” he said.

They watched the paper writhing in the flames.

Sarah saw the messenger approaching. News from England was always eagerly awaited and she had heard already that the state of the Queen’s health was deteriorating.

This, she thought, as she hastened to greet the messenger, could be what we are waiting for.

She knew by the man’s face that it was.

“The Queen …” she began.

“Is dead, Your Grace.”

She snatched the letters from him.

“Marl!” she cried. “Where are you, Marl? The Queen is dead! This is the end of exile.”

The end of exile! How right she was! There was no longer need to remain abroad. Soon they would be back where the fields were greener, where everything she loved and cherished would be waiting for her.

Marlborough took the news more calmly. So much, he pointed out, depended on who was the next Sovereign of England. If it was the Pretender, their chances of returning to Court were small; but if the new King came from Hanover then he would have no reason to feel anything but gratitude towards Marlborough and his Duchess.

The next days were the most anxious Sarah had ever lived through.

“I should die,” she told John, “if we could not go back now.”

They travelled to Calais to be ready to embark as soon as they knew who was to be the new King.

It was over, thought Abigail. Shrewsbury and his Council had caused the Queen’s letter to be destroyed. They could guess its contents, and were not going to allow a papist monarch to mount the throne of England merely to salve a Queen’s conscience.

Bolingbroke was not in a position to act. She had seen him and he told her there was nothing they could do. The people, he believed, would soon tire of the German King who in any case showed no eagerness to accept the throne, and then they would be only too glad to turn to James.

But a papist! thought Abigail. Never! If he would but change his religion …

No, there was nothing which could save her now. Oxford had fallen—and she would not be long after him. The Queen’s love alone had kept her in her place and now that was over.