We embraced warmly.

“I thought that would cheer you a little,” she said emotionally.

“I am so glad you are coming,” I told her. “It makes me slightly less miserable to think of that. There is only one thing that could make me really happy now.”

“I know,” said Anne, “but I shall do what I can to help and we shall be together.”

So I was cheered a little.

My sister Anne was very mournful indeed. She looked pale and quite unlike herself. Her cheeks had lost that rosy glow which had made her pretty.

“I do not like this, Mary,” she said. “It makes me feel quite ill. I begged our father to stop it.”

“It is not in his hands.”

“To separate us! We have never been separated. And now there is this man, John Churchill. He wants to take Sarah away. I won’t have it.”

“John Churchill,” I repeated, and I immediately thought of Arabella Churchill, with the wonderful legs, and what I had heard of her friendship with our father.

“He is very good-looking, I grant that,” went on Anne. “Sarah is taken with him, though she won’t admit it. He is always hanging around. Arabella Churchill is his sister. John Churchill was a page in our father’s household. You must have seen him. People say that Arabella helped him on. Then he became an ensign in the Foot Guards. He has been abroad already in France and Flanders, even Tangiers. I must say, he is very attractive. Sarah says that if he comes courting her he will have to give up his philandering ways. Did you know, they say our uncle sent him to Tangiers because Barbara Castlemaine liked him too much. And now he is chasing Sarah.”

I had rarely known Anne speak so much. She was not usually given to conversation and liked to sit contentedly listening while others conversed, avoiding all unnecessary effort.

But now she was really moved. I warmed toward her and the tragedy of having to say good-bye seemed greater than ever. How I should miss my dear sister. How could they take me away from everything that had made up my happy life? What a silly question! They could and would do it — by marrying me to the Prince of Orange.

Anne went on: “Of course, John Churchill’s family doesn’t think Sarah is good enough to marry him.”

I could not help saying: “I am sure Sarah does not agree with that.”

“No. She is furious about it. That is why she keeps him uncertain, and he grows more and more eager to marry her every day. But she likes him, I know. That is what worries me. She must not marry him, for if she does she will go away. Suppose they want to send him abroad. I will not lose you and Sarah. Mary, you must not leave me.”

There was nothing we could do but mourn together and my hope of release grew fainter every day.

The marriage now seemed a certainty. There was an occasion when the Council came to congratulate me. My eyes were red with weeping and I must have looked really miserable.

After that there followed more ceremonies ... the Lord Mayor gave a banquet to celebrate the betrothal to which the whole court was invited. The people lined the river bank as our barges sailed along to Westminster Hall and the Prince and I were in the King’s barge with my father. The King had his hand on my shoulder and the Prince was on the other side of me. I did my best not to show the misery I felt.

I was moving fast toward my marriage. I had to accept the fact that nothing could avert it now. I should have to marry this strange, silent man who seemed much older than I. Twelve years is a great deal when one is fifteen. It was only two weeks since I had heard the news which had robbed me of my content. It seemed like two years.

The ceremony was to take place in my bedchamber. An altar had been set up there for the service which would be performed by Bishop Compton, who had taken charge of my education, the Archbishop of Canterbury having been taken ill suddenly.

Early that morning Elizabeth Villiers came to me in some dismay and told me that her mother, Lady Frances, was ill — very ill indeed, and would not be present at the ceremony.

She added: “The Lady Anne is also indisposed.”

As soon as Elizabeth left, I went to Anne’s apartments. I remembered with concern how pale she had been looking of late.

I was horrified, for when I opened her door and was about to enter, Dr. Lake suddenly appeared.

“My lady,” he said, “you cannot enter the Lady Anne’s apartments. Your father has strictly forbidden it.”

“What do you mean, Dr. Lake? Am I not to see my sister?”

“She is ill ... and needs rest.”

I was astounded but Dr. Lake would say no more. So I was to be denied my sister’s company.

I went back to my room, bewildered. I had never been so unhappy in my life.


* * *

IT WAS NINE O’CLOCK IN THE EVENING, and the ceremony was about to begin.

The Prince, the King and Queen, my father and his heavily pregnant Duchess were there with the Bishop of London and those officials whose presence was considered necessary. Not a great number for such an occasion, but enough to fill the room.

They had bathed my eyes and done their best to disguise their redness — the outward signs of my grief; they had dressed me as a bride. I was sure there had never been a more unhappy one.

My father took me to the altar which had been set up, and as he did so I turned an imploring look on him. Was it too late?

Of course it was. I saw the despair in his eyes and I knew that if it had been at all possible to save me from this marriage he would have done so.

The King was jovial and smiling. If he knew of my reluctance and terror, he gave no sign. My stepmother’s eyes were full of compassion. I wondered that she was present, for she was very near to the birth of her child.

The King smiled at me affectionately and whispered that I was a beautiful bride and he was envious of the bridegroom, who was looking far from exhilarated by the proceedings. Perhaps he found it disconcerting to be confronted by an obviously reluctant bride.

“Where is Compton?” cried the King. “Hurry, man, lest the Duchess bring us a boy and then the marriage will be disappointed.”

The Prince winced a little at this and there was a faint titter from some members of the company.

My uncle continued to regard his nephew with a touch of cynical amusement, which I had noticed on more than one occasion.

The service had begun. It was the culmination of a nightmare. I was in truth being married to a man I did not know and who, on a very brief acquaintance, frightened me and filled me with dislike.

The Prince was saying that he would endow me with his worldly goods and, symbolically, laid some gold and silver coins on the book as he pronounced those words.

Then the King, still jocular, cried: “Take them, my dear niece. Take them quickly and put them in your pocket without delay, for it is all clear gain.”

I saw the Prince’s lips twitch with annoyance and the service continued.

Then it was over and I was the Princess of Orange.

How did I live through the rest of that night? I do not know. For a long time I tried to shut it out of my mind.

I was only half aware of what was to come. I had heard only whispered comments and had hazarded deductions. I knew such things existed but I had never given a great deal of thought to the subject until the last few days when I knew the ordeal lay just ahead.

I felt more frightened than I ever had in my life.

There was a great deal of chatter and laughter. People came and talked to me, congratulating me. I drank some wine.

“Not too much, my dear,” said the Queen. She pressed my hand. She had come to England to marry a man she had never seen, but she had been older, much older — twenty-two, I had heard it said. Mary Beatrice had been only my age. But the Queen had come to marry the King and Mary Beatrice my father. They had come to our court. I had to go to this strange place with a cold, dour husband.

They prepared me for bed. I wished they would dispense with the old custom. I wished I could run away.

The Queen and Mary Beatrice were there. It was part of the hateful ritual. They undressed me gently.

Mary Beatrice looked so tired. I was sure the child’s birth was imminent. Oh, why had it not come before? Why had it not been a healthy boy? And why had the Prince of Orange not said, as it was a boy, he no longer wanted this marriage! But the child was not born and I was already married to him.

I was told to get into the bed. I lay there, trembling. Then the Prince was beside me.

The King was laughing. He pulled the bedcurtains, shutting us in, and as he did so, he shouted: “Go to work, nephew, and St. George for England!”

I heard the laughter. I was aware of the darkness, and I tried to steel myself for the ordeal to come.


* * *

ALL THROUGH MY LIFE I have endeavored to forget those events which disturb me. I have not always succeeded. The night following my wedding was one of those.

I awoke in a daze, hating the daylight, putting my head beneath the bedclothes to shut it out. With immense relief, I found that I was alone in the bed.

It was over — the night of pain, horror, humiliation and horrific awakening. If I had been wiser, as so many of the girls were, it would have been easier. But I had been thrust from innocence into brutal knowledge and my initiator had been a cold, calculating man, impatient with my reluctance, my cries of protest and my endless tears.