Anne objected of course, but mildly. Anne was clever; her only folly seemed to be her over-indulgence at the table. Nor was her desire to gratify a perpetual hunger obvious at the table only. In her apartments there were boxes of sweets in most drawers and on tables so that she found them at her elbow wherever she happened to be.

He had not been so unwise after all when he married Clarendon’s daughter, although Clarendon was fast falling out of favor. Poor old man! He had suffered real terror at the time of the marriage and now declared that his fortunes had begun to sink ever since his headstrong daughter had married the heir presumptive to the throne.

Anne had been upbraiding him for blatantly indulging in his affair with Margaret Denham when news had reached them of the outbreak of plague in Twickenham. That had sobered them both. Of what importance was her obesity, greed, and dominating ways, or his unfaithfulness compared with the safety of their children!

Perhaps more than anything in the world, he mused, he loved his elder daughter.

“Mary,” he said, “come here, my child.”

He noticed with pleasure how eagerly she came to him.

“My darling,” he said, “you are a big girl now, old enough to understand a great many things.”

He lifted her on to his knee. She was delighted by the satin of his coat, the lace ruffles at his neck and sleeve, his long dark curls which seemed all the more wonderful because they could be taken off and put on a stand.

“We are going away, Mary.”

“Now?”

“We are leaving in an hour. You will like to be with me … and your mother?”

“Anne is coming?”

“Certainly. You do not think we would leave Anne behind?”

She laughed with happiness; and he put his lips to the smooth cheeks. He told himself that he would rather anything happened to him than that that delicate cheek should be raged by plague spots, and a sense of urgency seized him. Every moment might be important. He would not rest until they were far away.

“Where are we going, Papa?”

“To York, my dearest, they are preparing for our departure now.” He called to the nurse: “Is the baggage ready? Then begin to prepare the children. It is a long journey to York.”

“But Papa,” said Mary, “you are York.”

He patted her head; even in his haste marveling at her. What Charles would give for a child like this! he thought. Even though she is a girl.

“My love, York is also a city … our city. And from there I shall be near the fleet and we will watch out for the wicked Dutchmen and keep them from our shores.”

“Tell me about the Dutchmen, Papa.”

“Later,” he said. “When there is time. Now we are leaving at once. See, your nurse is waiting to dress you for the journey. Why, my little one, you and I will have many a talk in the days to come. I want you to know about what is happening to our country. You must never forget that you are my daughter and His Majesty’s niece.”

Mary remembered and believed herself to be the luckiest little girl in England. Her father was the best man in the world; her mother was the best mother; and in addition, she had for an uncle the one to whom everyone must bow and, she was certain although she believed it might be a secret between them, to her he was not a great King at all, only Uncle Charles, who could make her laugh and all the time wished she were his daughter instead of her father’s.

It was a happy family that stayed at York during those months which followed the retreat from Twickenham.

There was reconciliation between the Duke and the Duchess, for the Duke was not near enough to his mistresses to pay court to them, which was a matter of great satisfaction to the Duchess, and since the Duke was ready to concede to her in everything but his affairs with women, the household was harmonious.

They both agreed that it was like returning to those first weeks of marriage when it had seemed the whole world was against them and they had determined to stand together whatever the consequences.

Together now they supervised the education of Mary, who, they believed, was very intelligent. The Duke liked to have her with him when he received officials from the Navy and he would often call attention to her.

“I tell you this,” he said one day to Samuel Pepys, who had come to see him with some Navy estimates, “the Lady Mary of York understands much of what you are saying.”

It was an exaggeration, but Mary always listened attentively, for her greatest joy was in pleasing her father.

She worked hard at her lessons so that she could have his approbation and looked forward to those hours when he came to the nursery to be with her. Often when Anne was with her mother, Mary and her father would be together, and the Duke’s servants said that their master loved his daughter Mary beyond everything in the world.

One day he came to her a little sadly, and lifting her on to his knee and putting his cheek against her hair, told her that he would have to leave her. “But only for a little while,” he consoled.

“Oh, Papa,” she answered blankly and he wept as he kissed her.

“Listen, my little one,” he went on, “Uncle Charles is in Oxford and I have to join him there because that is where the Parliament is. There is much work to do when you are a King and the brother of a King. Do you understand?”

She nodded, lacing her fingers in his and gripping them as though to indicate that she would not let him go without a struggle.

“That is good because you will have to understand the duties of kingship. Why, my love, it could so come about that you might one day be a Queen of England … a Queen in your own right, sweetheart. Think of that.”

“And Anne?”

“Oh, Anne is your little sister. You are before her. But Uncle Charles has no son.”

She was puzzled thinking of handsome Jemmy, whom she loved so much and who was known as Monmouth. She had thought he was Uncle Charles’s son.

“No, he has no sons who could inherit the throne,” went on her father, “so therefore if Uncle Charles died I should be King. And if I were to die …” She looked alarmed and he kissed her tenderly. “I shall not for years and years … but one day I shall be a poor old man and you will be a woman with husband and children of your own. Then, my love, if Uncle Charles had no children at all and you did not have a little brother, you could be Queen of England.”

It was all very complicated to her, but he was glad he had told her; it was as well to learn as early as possible what part one might have to play in the country’s affairs.

Then he changed the subject abruptly; he told her wonderful stories of how he had been a soldier in Europe and he and Uncle Charles had been two wandering exiles because the wicked Oliver Cromwell had driven them from England. He had many exciting adventures to relate; but what Mary liked best was the story of how the people decided that they wanted no more of the puritan rule and sent to Europe for the Princes. She liked to hear how he and Uncle Charles came back to England, how the bells rang out and the people strewed their way with flowers while they danced in the streets and laughed and embraced each other because England had ceased to be a somber place.

“They knew Uncle Charles would make them laugh again,” said Mary.

Her father nodded. She was right. Charles had made them laugh at his witticisms, at his careless good nature, at his never ending adventures with women.

When James left soon for Oxford, Mary missed him sadly, discovering that she loved him better than anyone in the world—better than her mother, better than cousin Jemmy, better even than Anne.

Each day Mary hoped to hear that her father would be with them; she worked hard at her lessons, wishing to surprise him, and her mother was proud of her, but Mary knew that secretly she loved Anne best, although the child never made any effort to win affection; she smiled placidly at everybody, and grew fatter every day.

There were occasions when the Duke paid a visit to York and they were the happiest days for Mary. She would be at his side all through the day; and even when important people came to see him she was not dismissed. He would hold her on his knee while he talked; and she listened because she knew that was what he wanted her to do. Thus she learned a little about the wicked Dutchmen who were threatening England on the high seas; she also heard news of the terrible plague.

One day her mother sent for the little girls and taking Anne on her lap and drawing Mary into the crook of her arm, she said: “How would you like to go back home?”

Home? But this was home. Home was where her mother was, where her father came when he could escape from his duties.

“You are going to have a very happy time,” explained the Duchess, popping a sweet into Anne’s mouth. “You are going to live in Richmond Palace, where a nursery is being prepared for you, and you will have a lady governess and other little girls to be your companions.”

Mary was a little puzzled; but her mother was smiling while Anne contentedly crunched, and later when she heard the servants talking about it and understood how happy they were to be going, as they said, “home,” she was happy too.

Lady Frances Villiers, the youngest daughter of the Earl of Suffolk who had married Colonel Edward Villiers and given him a family, was congratulating herself on her appointment.

“For,” she told her husband, “it seems clear that the King will never have an heir; and in that case the most important children in the country will be under my care.”

The Colonel agreed that the position looked promising for the future.