There was great excitement in the Palace when the Princesses and their suite were preparing to leave for Whitehall. Sarah Jennings said that it was the beginning of change; and even Elizabeth Villiers, a little subdued since the coming of Sarah, accepted this. Lady Frances spoke seriously to her daughters. They might not be appearing in the ballet, she reminded them, but any change in the fortunes of the Princesses was a change for them.

Elizabeth Villiers, who was now quite a young woman, was beginning to realize that she had been rather foolish. Sarah Jennings had taught her a lesson. Sarah had chosen the docile Princess Anne for her friend and although she dominated Anne, at the same time made herself so pleasant that the Princess never wanted Sarah to leave her side. Thus Sarah Jennings was becoming more prominent in the circle than any of the others—largely due to her forceful character. It was too late now to ingratiate herself with Mary, for Mary already disliked her heartily; and in any case Mary had chosen Anne Trelawny for her friend.

Elizabeth Villiers therefore decided that she must be more cautious now; because once Mary was in command of her own household she would certainly dismiss those whom she had no reason to love. But although Elizabeth grew more pleasant, her hatred had not diminished at all, and secretly she greatly enjoyed seeing Mary discomfited.

Riding to Whitehall from Richmond was in itself an adventure. The people came out to cheer the little cavalcade because they already knew that the King had taken the girls’ education under his care and that the Protestant Bishop of London was in charge of them. That the Bishop was no scholar was unimportant; he was a Protestant and in view of their father’s unfortunate leanings those poor children were in need of protection.

Moreover, the fact that Charles was having the girls brought up in the Protestant religion could mean that the evil rumors concerning his own convictions were false. This conjecture gave pleasure to the people.

Arriving at Court, the Princesses were warmly welcomed by all. And what a gay and colorful scene it was! Everyone wanted to do honor to the girls and sought ways of pleasing them—their father and stepmother, the gentle kindly Queen, Jemmy, and their benign and witty Uncle, Charles, the King himself.

Mary in the shimmering dress in which she was to play Calista was both nervous and exalted. She was so anxious to please her father, who wanted her to be a success at Court, but feared that she might disappoint him. When she confided these fears to Jemmy, he laughed at her.

“Why, cousin,” he said, “you look so beautiful that my father and his Court would forgive you however badly you danced. But you won’t dance badly. You’ll enchant them all.”

Jemmy kissed her lightly on the forehead; and she thought earnestly: I must not fail. I must not disappoint Jemmy.

Anne suffered no such qualms. She would do her part and if she was a failure, well then, it would soon be forgotten. Sarah had said so and Sarah was invariably right. All the same Sarah was determined to make a success of Mercury; and Sarah knew she would.

When they were preparing to go on to the stage they were joined by Margaret Blagge and Henrietta Wentworth, the latter radiant in contrast to her companion.

Mary attempted to comfort Margaret.

“Why,” she said, “you look very beautiful. I am sure everyone will say you are a perfect Diana. Your dress is so lovely. What brilliant stones.”

Margaret said: “They terrify me. I had no diamonds to wear and the Duke induced the Countess of Suffolk to lend me these.”

“They become her well do they not?” asked Henrietta.

“So well,” said Mary, “that everyone’s eyes will be upon her.”

Margaret shivered.

“Oh, come,” said Henrietta impatiently, “there is no harm in dancing.”

“I prefer not to,” replied Margaret.

“Is she not foolish, my lady Mary?” asked Henrietta. “Here she has a chance to look beautiful in all those diamonds, to dance before the King and she is ungrateful.”

“I am sorry,” said Mary earnestly.

“You are very good.”

“Nonsense,” cried Henrietta. “This is meant to make everyone happy and surely that is good. You must smile as a compliment to the lady Mary. This is her ballet.”

“You alarm me,” murmured Mary. “I feel everything depends on me.”

“There is no need to fear,” Henrietta soothed her. “Jemmy will be supporting you. He will look after you and see that all is well.”

“I am so grateful to dear Jemmy.”

“As we all are,” added Henrietta.

They turned, for a girl had come into the room.

“I wondered,” she said, “if I could be of help.”

“We can do with help, Frances,” replied Henrietta.

Frances Apsley, maid of honor to Queen Catherine, seeing the Princess, made a deep curtsy. Mary felt a sudden excitement for she had never seen anyone so beautiful and wanted to keep looking at her; the lovely dark eyes were serene; the beautifully shaped head so gracefully bowed, the smooth dark hair so shining; the expression kindly and intelligent.

“My lady,” said Henrietta, “this is Frances Apsley.”

Mary said: “I am pleased to make your acquaintance.”

“It would be an honor to serve you,” answered Frances.

They stood smiling, each completely conscious of the other’s charm.

“Margaret is never satisfied,” Henrietta was saying. “She is complaining that she has one of the best parts in the ballet and is laden with diamonds.”

Margaret was speaking in response to Henrietta’s taunts, but neither Mary nor Frances Apsley were listening.

How frightened Mary was when she stood before them all. They applauded her kindly; she saw her father looking anxious on her behalf, seated near her uncle. He was kind and she wished that she could love him as he loved her. There were times when she did love him dearly as now; but she could never forget the rumors she had heard of him. She did not fully understand his relationship with those women who had caused her mother so much anxiety; but she imagined what took place between them; it was vague and horrible and she tried to shut her mind to it; but there were occasions when pictures crept in unbidden.

Then she noticed Frances Apsley watching her intently. Their eyes met and Frances smiled.

“She wants me to succeed,” thought Mary. “She will be unhappy if I do not.”

Mary was determined then to dance as she never had before.

The music had begun and her legs felt heavy; but there was Jemmy smiling and whispering: “Come on. It’s only a game after all.”

And then because of Jemmy, Frances Apsley, and her father, it became the fun it had been when they had practised at Richmond and she danced as well as she ever had.

She was delighted to see Margaret Blagge’s success. She looked so beautiful in her shimmering dress—the perfect Diana. Surely, thought Mary, she must be enjoying the approval of the spectators.

Sarah Jennings tried to get nearer to the audience that she might be noticed; as for Anne, she performed with a carelessness which everyone seemed to find amusing.

Dryden’s epilogue was read and they all knew that the ballet had been a success. The King was delighted—particularly with his nieces; he saw this for an excellent beginning of Court life for them.

James was almost in tears; nothing could have given him greater pleasure than the success of his daughters. The King declared that such shimmering talents must not be hidden when he congratulated John Crowne, Mr. Dryden, his nieces, Jemmy, and all the dancers.

In the dressing room where the company had prepared themselves, Mary found Margaret Blagge in great distress.

“I was wearing it about my neck when the ballet began. I cannot understand it. How could I have lost it?”

Mary asked to know what and when Margaret replied that it was Lady Suffolk’s diamond, she was horrified.

“But it must be on the stage.”

“I have searched everywhere. Oh, my lady Mary, what shall I do? It is worth eighty pounds. I cannot replace it. I don’t possess eighty pounds. What shall I do? No one will ever trust me again. And to think I tried so hard not to borrow it. This is a judgement. I knew it was sinful.”

To see the lovely maid of honor so distressed, upset Mary. It seemed to her a terrible calamity to have borrowed a valuable diamond against one’s will and then to have lost it.

“No one will ever trust me again,” sobbed Margaret.

“We must look everywhere you have been.”

“They have already done so. My maids have looked. I have looked. There is no sign of it. I daren’t tell Lady Suffolk.”

“Are you sure you’ve looked everywhere?” asked Mary.

“I … I think so.”

“I will look. I am rather good at finding things. It is big enough and it sparkles so, it ought not to be difficult to find.”

“That’s why I greatly fear that someone has found it and kept it.”

“Oh, poor Margaret. I will look and if I can’t find it perhaps I could ask my father what is the best thing to do.”

“Lady Suffolk will never forgive me, I know. I shall have to replace it and I don’t see how I can.”

Mary went off purposefully; she would search in every place where they had been.

She made her way to the stage, passing the anterooms on the way; she wondered whether Margaret had gone into any of these and forgotten. Mary would search every one because she could not bear to see lovely Margaret so unhappy.

She searched the first of these without success, and went to another. There was no light in this room except that which came through the window, but there was a full moon. She hesitated. Would it be possible to find the diamond in this light? It was big and sparkled, so perhaps it would be visible. She would take a good look and then perhaps call for candles. She heard a sound and knew at once that she was not alone. Someone else had come to this room.