Poor Margaret! She had not wanted to be in the play in the first place. She had had to be persuaded that it was her duty, and now, to have lost a diamond which did not belong to her plunged her into the deepest gloom.

Anne said, in her lighthearted way: “You must not worry, Margaret. It is certain that it will be found. It must have dropped onto the floor. Let there be a search.”

I could see that there would be no comfort for Margaret until the diamond was found and returned to Lady Frances.

Margaret was appalled to discover it was worth eighty pounds.

I felt very sorry for her. Margaret was different from the others. She was more serious; at one time she had been in my mother’s household and my mother had thought very highly of her.

She had said once: “Margaret Blague is a really virtuous girl. She is deeply religious and lives according to her beliefs. One cannot say that of many. Oh yes, they will attend the church services; they assume piety, but when it comes to the virtuous way of life they betray that they are merely making a show. With Margaret her religion goes deep.”

I knew she thought playacting was sinful and I could not agree with her in that. Poor girl. She had been more or less forced into doing what she had not wanted to, and against her judgment to borrow the diamond. It was ironic that this should have happened to her.

A search was made but the diamond was not to be found. It would be easy for someone to pick it up and pocket it. Who would be the wiser?

“Eighty pounds,” mourned Margaret. “I am not rich enough to pay Lady Frances such a sum.”

“She will not ask for it,” I comforted her.

“But I must pay it nonetheless. Otherwise how will she know that I have not stolen it?”

“No one could possibly suspect you of that.”

“There will be some,” insisted Margaret. “And how can I be happy again knowing that I have lost this valuable jewel?”

It was true. If the diamond were not found, Margaret would remember it all her life.

I could not stop thinking of her. The incident had put a blight on what should have been a happy evening.

My father noticed my preoccupation. He had come to us full of enthusiasm.

“Calisto! Nymphe! My clever little girls,” he cried. “You were enchanting. I was so proud of you both. We shall have Davenant wanting you to join his players.”

“It was Mrs. Betterton who helped us,” said Anne.

“Ah, she is a great actress and a charming lady, too.”

“She made us say our lines again and again, didn’t she, Mary?”

“Yes, she did.”

“What ails you, daughter?” asked my father. “Is something wrong? You cannot hide your feelings from me, you know. Come. Tell me.”

“It is poor Margaret Blague.”

“What of her?”

“She has lost Lady Frances’s diamond and is very frightened. She did not want to act in the first place, nor did she want to borrow the diamond.”

My father grimaced. “A little puritan, eh?”

“She is really very good and now so unhappy because she thinks losing the diamond is some judgment on her for playing when she knew she should not do so.”

“These puritans can be something of a trial ... as we found to our cost. Tell her not to worry. Doubtless the jewel will be found. If it is not ... then it is lost.”

“She says she must pay for it and she cannot because she is not rich.”

“And that worries my tenderhearted little daughter?”

“I like her. She is very pretty and she looks unhappy now.”

“And you cannot be happy and enjoy your triumph while poor Margaret grieves.”

He understood, as he always had.

“Well,” he said, “I refuse to have my daughter sad on such an occasion. I tell you what shall be done. I shall provide the eighty pounds, so that Margaret Blague can take it along to Lady Frances and so forget about the matter. How is that?”

I looked at him with adoration. He was indeed the best and kindest man in the world.

“So you are happy now you have this matter settled?” he asked.

“I am happy,” I said, “to have the most wonderful father in the world.”



ANNE HAD BEEN SO EXCITED by the performance that she wanted to do more. She had liked Mrs. Betterton so much that she had wanted to keep her at court. Of course, she was indulged in this matter and there was to be another play with a bigger part for Anne. We were all so pleased to see her enthusiasm. Good-tempered, good-natured as she always was, she was rarely excited about anything, so it was unusual to see her working on her lines with energy and real enjoyment. This was for the play Mithridate, and Anne was to have the part of Semandra.

Mr. Betterton was also at court and he was coaching the young men in their parts.

Anne had discovered my passion for Frances Apsley. She knew about the letters we exchanged and that Frances was Aurelia and I Clorine. She did what was typical of her; she decided she must have a passionate friendship. I had Frances and, as there was no one to compare with my choice in Anne’s opinion, she must have Frances too.

After all, sentimental friendships were the fashion. So many young women indulged in them and they were generally conducted by letters.

This had nothing to do with her allegiance to Sarah Jennings, any more than mine had toward Anne Trelawny. They were our true friends, our everyday friends. This was different. The object of our devotion in this case was an ideal being, a goddess to be worshipped.

I had found the goddess and she must be Anne’s too.

I often wonder now what Frances thought of our outpourings. When I remember some of the impassioned words I wrote I can smile at my innocence. It did not occur to me at the time that others might think it was not exactly a healthy state of affairs.

However, Anne was soon corresponding with Frances in the same manner. Frances humored her, as I expect she did me. We were the daughters of the Duke of York, heir to the throne, and if there was no son, I was second in line to the throne, Anne third. That had to be a consideration.

Not only was Anne writing to Frances — an example of her devotion and her determination to imitate me, for writing was an occupation she had hitherto avoided and I could imagine what those letters were like — but they must have their private names, as Frances and I had. So Frances was Semandra — from the play, of course — and Anne was Ziphares, another character from it.

It may have been this unusual activity on Anne’s part that attracted Lady Frances’s attention, and she may have felt that she should know what was going on. We were, after all, in her charge. She was especially watchful.

It happened that Richard Gibson, the dwarf, whom we often used as a courier, was away. Sarah Jennings, who was fully aware of the passion Anne and I shared for Frances Apsley, and no doubt laughed at it and clearly considered it no impediment to her domination over Anne, agreed to take the letters while Richard Gibson was absent. Thus, I supposed, she could keep a close check on Anne and share her confidences about what she would consider to be a silly and by no means a permanent arrangement.

One day, when I was having my dancing lesson with Mr. Gorey, our dancing master, Anne was in her closet, writing to Frances — never an easy task for Anne — and before she had time to finish her letter she was called to have her dancing lesson.

She did not want to leave the letter unsealed, so she took it with her to the class and, as my lesson had just finished, she gave it to me, whispering that I might be good enough to seal hers with mine and that Sarah had promised to take them both to Frances.

I went back to my closet and there wrote my letter to Frances, but just as I was finishing, Sarah Jennings came in.

“I shall have to go now,” she said. “So I will take the letters.”

“My sister’s is not yet sealed. Will you please seal it for her while I do mine?”

As I gave her the letter, Lady Frances came in and I had a notion that she might have heard some of the conversation.

I felt my face grow scarlet. Suppose she asked to see the letter? I could not bear to think of those cool eyes reading the impassioned words. She would not understand at all and they would seem quite foolish to such a practical person. I had called Frances my husband and I was her adoring wife.

Sarah was calm enough. In any case, she had nothing to fear. She was just standing there with Anne’s letter in her hand.

As Lady Frances came into the closet, I was so embarrassed. I stammered something about my new gown and asked how she liked it. I turned to the cupboard and opened it so that my back was toward her and she could not see my flushed face.

Lady Frances said: “My Lady Mary, what were you doing in your closet before I came in?”

Sarah stood there with an air of nonchalance, Anne’s letter still in her hand.

“I ... had called in Mrs. Jennings to show me a new way of sealing a letter,” I said.

Lady Frances looked at the letter in Sarah’s hand and there was a slight pause before she said: “Mrs. Jennings is very ingenious with such things.”

There was an awkward silence and then she left us.

Sarah shrugged her shoulders. “Let us seal the letters,” she said, “and I will take them to Mrs. Apsley without delay.”

After that I fancied Lady Frances was very watchful and when next I wrote and Richard Gibson was still away and Sarah was unable to deliver the letter, I summoned one of the footmen and asked him to take it, in spite of the fact that Frances had warned me not to send letters unless it was by someone whom I could trust.