Виктория Холт - The Three Crowns

“My father!”

She stopped in time. Her habit of repeating everything irritated him. Oddly enough she only did it with him.

“He is paying a visit to his daughter. He is so anxious for her welfare that he will come and see for himself. That is what he tells me. In actual fact he is coming to Holland because they will no longer tolerate him in England.”

“No longer tolerate my father!” she was stung to protest. “But England is his home. He is the heir to the throne.”

“He is a papist. That’s the root of the trouble. The English will not have a papist on their throne. That is why your father is being sent into exile.”

“But they will have to have him …”

“The English are not a people to be told they have to have what they do not want, I believe.”

Mary’s eyes were wide with horror. “But it cannot be as bad as that. They can’t be turning him out?”

“You, I suppose, will be fully aware of what is going on in England—even though you have been out of it for so long.”

It was cold sarcasm and her cheeks burned, but because her father was being attacked she lost her fear of her husband in the need to defend him.

“I know this: my father is a man who has served his country well. When he returned from his victories at sea the people treated him like a hero.”

“And now they treat him like an exile.”

“It is not true.”

William raised astonished eyebrows.

“I do not believe it,” she said, and there was no trace of tears now; her voice was firm, her color high; and she looked very beautiful. She said in a voice which matched his for coldness: “When may I expect my father?”

William felt temporarily defeated. “In a few days, I dare swear. As soon as the favorable wind carries him here …”

“Then I must prepare to give a good welcome to the heir of England.”

As she moved away from him, William felt alarmed. She was growing up, and this interview had given him a glimpse of a different woman. This was not the docile wife. Her father had a great influence on her. That was bad. He would have to be very watchful. Not that he feared James would make her change her religion; she was a firm Protestant. But he was her father and a deeply sentimental and emotional woman would doubtless have her head stuffed with notions of filial duty.

He must never forget that when James died—or was turned from the throne—it was Mary who was next in succession. He would never submit to playing the part of consort. Mary must therefore be conditioned to accept her husband as supreme in all things; and if that meant turning her against her father then that must be done.

In spite of his dislike of his father-in-law William received him with respect. He met the royal party on their arrival and conducted them, surrounded by a guard of three thousand, to the Palace at The Hague.

As soon as the formal greeting was over James asked after his daughter, making many inquiries as to her state of health and expressing his concern.

“Your climate here is not good,” he said. “It is damp and cold.”

“I believe it to be very little different from that of England,” retorted William.

“There’s a world of difference. Ours is far more clement. Has not Mary suffered from ill health since she has been here? The ague! Those two miscarriages! She rarely had a day’s illness before she came to Holland.”

As James was the most tactless of men and William never made any concessions to flattery, there was certain to be friction.

William conveyed the fact that he was well aware why James was in Holland; and he strongly hinted that that reason would not endear him to a nation which was firmly Protestant and still remembered the miseries of the Spanish Inquisition.

Before they reached The Hague both knew that the visit was going to be an uneasy one.

When James and his wife were alone with Mary they embraced her tenderly. James held her at arms’ length and studied her; then they wept together. It was a great joy to Mary to be able to weep in comfort.

Mary Beatrice said: “Our only happiness at this time is to be with our dear Lemon.”

“Is it true,” asked Mary anxiously, “that you have been turned out of England?”

“I fear so, Mary,” James confessed. “I have many enemies and do you know who is foremost among them? Monmouth.”

“Oh, no.” Mary shook her head. She would always be especially fond of Jemmy and although she knew he behaved shamefully now and then she had always tried to make excuses for him. She would never forget how he had come to Richmond and been so kind to her, teaching her to dance. She believed that the reason she danced so well—and dancing was one of her greatest pleasures—was due to Jemmy’s tuition.

“He goes about the country calling himself the Protestant Duke. He is always urging Charles to legitimize him and you know what that means.”

“The King loves him dearly.”

“The King can be foolish when he loves—as we have seen with Castlemaine and Portsmouth.”

“Most men can be foolish over their mistresses,” said Mary, glancing at her father.

“Monmouth has made everything so much more difficult. I have always had my enemies and they have prevailed upon my brother to send me out of England. It is a polite kind of exile.”

“The King was deeply moved when we left,” Mary Beatrice reminded him.

“Oh, yes, he did not want us to go. But he had to accept it. My only comfort during these days is in my family … my dear wife—my dear daughters, you, Mary, dear Anne, and little Isabella.”

Mary thought: And your mistresses—unless you have very much changed, which I greatly doubt.

And she wondered why she felt her sympathy for her father touched by criticism. Was she beginning to think a little like her husband?

“Father,” she said, “all your troubles are due to your religious beliefs.”

“Well, I shall not be the first to be victimized for that reason. Mary, while I am here I want to talk to you about religion.”

She stiffened. “I do not think it would be any use,” she said quickly. “I respect your views, father, but I have mine; and they are far removed from Rome.”

“Oh, you are becoming a little like your husband. Do not, I pray you, become a Calvinist.”

“I belong to the Church of England, Father, as I was taught from a child. It is a faith which suits me well and in which I believe.”

“Hooper has been instructing you, I’ll be bound. Here is a sad state of affairs—a father who is not allowed to have charge of his own daughters.” James shook his head and looked melancholy. “You were taken away from me when you were beginning to grow up. They were afraid I would influence you, I … your own father. Anne wanted to come with us, in fact was coming … but the people did not wish it. They feared that I … her father … might influence her, might turn her into a Catholic. That is the state your father is reduced to, Mary. Here you see him … an exile from his country.”

“It is very sad,” said Mary; and she thought: But if you were not a papist none of it would have happened. She was beginning to see through William’s eyes.

William could not hide his distaste for his father-in-law and James, aware of it, found his position becoming more and more uncomfortable. He was turned away from his home because he was not wanted there, and however much Charles expressed his regret he showed clearly that he was ready to accept the demands of his brother’s enemies. And so he had become a guest at his son-in-law’s Court—but not a welcome one.

One night he awoke in his apartments with griping pains, alarming Mary Beatrice as for some minutes he could do nothing but groan and press his hands against his stomach.

“What can it be?” cried Mary Beatrice fearfully. “I must call for help.”

But James shook his head. “We are here in a strange country, an enemy’s country. How do we know what that enemy plans against us?”

“James, you think William is trying to poison you!”

James groaned aloud. “My body tells me someone has.”

She was hastily scrambling out of bed, but he detained her.

“Wait awhile. I fancy the pain grows less. Perhaps they have not succeeded this time.”

“I cannot believe this of the Prince. Our dear Lemon would never allow it.”

“Do you think Mary has any say in matters at this Court? Have you not seen the manner in which he treats her? My daughter will always be a good daughter to me—but how I distrust her husband!”

“You are a little better now, James?”

He nodded. “The pain is subsiding. For a moment I thought this was the end of me.”

“My poor, poor James.”

“Ah, you have been a good wife to me. You have given me our dear Isabella.”

“And I shall give you sons one day, James.”

“If that hope is to be realized,” he said, smiling wryly, “I do not think we should spend another day at The Hague. If I am well enough we shall leave in the morning.”

“We cannot go back to England, James. Where can we go?”

His lips twisted into a bitter smile. “Exiles!” he said. “Behold the heir of England who has no lodging but that which is grudged him. No, my dear wife, we cannot return to England and if we value our lives we cannot stay at The Hague. We will go to Brussels for a while and there await events.”

In the morning the Duke of York was sufficiently recovered for a journey. With his wife and a few friends he set out for Brussels.

To be an exile! To know that in one’s own country one was not wanted. It was enough to make the gayest of men melancholy; James was scarcely the gayest.