Виктория Холт - The Three Crowns

But her pride was deeply wounded by his constant love affairs. She was a fool to expect fidelity perhaps; but he might have used a little discretion. Of all his mistresses there was one who stood most firmly in his affections; and it was this very firmness which infuriated Anne. Arabella Churchill was a woman to be reckoned with. She was ambitious, Anne was sure; and the fact that she was no real beauty, made her all the more to be feared.

Lady Southesk, Anne had forgiven him. The woman had, as Anne had remarked cuttingly to her husband, “passed through the hands of so many gentlemen that she must be slightly soiled by now.” Anne would not demean herself by showing jealousy of such a creature whose powers to amuse must surely be short-lived.

Frances Jennings had succeeded in giving Anne a few anxious moments when the slut deliberately dropped the Duke’s love letters to her at the feet of the Duchess. There was Elizabeth Hamilton and of course Margaret Denham who had come to an end which was unfortunate for her; but none of these worried the Duchess as the Churchill woman did. She was ambitious that one; already she had induced James to look after her family. George Churchill had been found a place in the navy and John in the army.

She might rail against James; he would listen patiently, perhaps promise to mend his ways; but of course he had no intention of keeping that promise for more than a few hours.

If she had the time and inclination for such an adventure she would take a lover. She almost had a few years ago. Henry Sidney was one of the most handsome men in the Court; he had been Groom of the Bedchamber and when he had become her Master of Horse Anne had been thrown constantly into his company. How wounded she had been at that time, knowing that her husband was turning more and more to his mistresses and understanding that she would never be able to divert his attention from them! It had been more difficult in those days to accept humiliation.

And how furious James had been when he suspected Sidney of being her lover! How he had ranted and raged—which was so unlike him. His jealousy had been gratifying but he refused to agree that what was acceptable in a husband should be in a wife; and Sidney’s handsome face had not appeared at Court for a long time. The plague had followed quickly on that affair, but Anne was sure that Henry Sidney remained in the Duke’s mind, as memorable a disaster as the great sickness.

She was thinking of this as she sat alone in her bedchamber, asking herself whether the recent Denham tragedy would make James a little more careful in his choice of mistresses when she noticed a paper which had evidently been thrust under her door.

Going to it and, bending carefully as she must on account of her weight, she picked it up, and taking it to the window read it. As she did so the color came into her white flabby face. It was a verse … a lampoon directed against her, telling of her jealousy, of the Duke’s preference for another woman which had caused her to have a dose of poison put into that woman’s chocolate.

This was too much. To endure his infidelities was one thing. To be accused of poisoning his mistresses was another. If it had been Arabella Churchill there might have been some reason in it. But to dare to accuse her of murdering the insignificant Margaret Denham was beyond endurance.

Grasping the paper in her hand she went along to her husband’s apartment. Mary was with him, but she scarcely saw the child.

“Look at this,” she said, thrusting the paper into his hands.

James read it; and before he spoke he caressed his daughter’s head.

“Go now, my dear,” he said, giving her a little push toward an ante chamber.

When Mary had disappeared Anne said: “This is more than I will endure.”

James lifted his shoulders. “There are always these lampoons.”

“They would not be if your conduct did not give the writers what they are looking for.”

“They would always find something.”

“I suspect Rochester to be the author of this.”

“That man! I would my brother would dismiss him from the Court.”

“Dismiss his boon companion. He would rather see you gone, James … you with your scandals and your follies.”

“I doubt I’ll ever make a scandal as great as my brother’s.”

“He is the King. He can keep twenty mistresses at a time and the people will applaud him. You, my dear Duke, do not enjoy the people’s indulgence to that extent. And when your mistresses are murdered—well, that is a serious matter. Charles has not been involved in that sort of scandal.”

“You are shouting,” said James. “You will be heard.”

“Those who listen will only hear what they already know.”

“I forbid you to talk in this way.”

Anne laughed. “You forbid me. It is no use trying to cover up your indiscretions by playing the great duke and stern master. It will not do. I shall not endure these humiliations.”

“You have not always been so virtuous yourself, if I remember rightly. What of Henry Sidney?”

“Henry Sidney. He was merely my Master of Horse.”

“And of you it seems.”

“A fabrication which existed in your mind. It was so convenient to delude yourself that your wife was unfaithful—since you had deceived her with … how many? Or would it be impossible to count?”

“You are overwrought.”

“I have just been accused of murder. What are you going to do about that?”

“I tell you, there will always be lampoons. They are written daily about Charles and Barbara Castlemaine.”

“I do not think they have been accused of murder.”

“Oh, come, that suggestion is not serious.”

“Adultery. Lechery. They are to be expected in this Court. In fact, if one is not a lecher or an adulterer one is considered old-fashioned, behind the times. But murder has not yet been judged a virtue.”

“Anne, be calm.”

“I do not feel calm.”

“We cannot talk with ease until you do.”

“And you would rather leave me until I am calm? That is a good excuse. You would rather be off with that sly-eyed Churchill woman. Very well, go to her. I’ll warrant she has thought up some new request to ask of you in exchange for her favors.”

“Is that what Sidney did? What did you have to grant him for his?”

“You are insulting.”

“And are you not?”

“I have reason to be. Oh, you make a great show of being an irate husband. Banishing poor Sidney from the Court. It was such a shocking thing he did. Smiled at your wife. Showed her some pity because she must continually suffer the degradation of her husband’s infidelities paraded daily before the Court under her very nose with little regard for her feelings …”

In the anteroom Mary listened. She did not want to listen; but her father had forgotten that the door through which she had gone led only to the anteroom and once there, there was no escape.

She wished they would not talk so loudly. As she listened she kept seeing Elizabeth Villiers’s sly face. Elizabeth was right then. There was a shocking scandal about her father and her mother.

It was so hard to believe. A short while ago he had been laughing with her; she had sat on his knee and he had been telling her stories of his adventures as he loved to. Now he was quite different. She could not believe that the kind and gentle man was the same one who was shouting at her mother. To discover that people could change so quickly was alarming; it made the world seem an insecure place.

She did not want to hear their quarrels; she did not want to know of them; she wanted to live in a world where there were only herself and her sister Anne, where everything was pleasant and comfortable, and there were no grown up people with their sly furtive secrets which she only half understood.

She was afraid that one of them would come into the anteroom and find her there. She would not be blamed because they rarely blamed her, they were always kind to her; it seemed that it was only to each other that they were unkind. But she knew instinctively that they would be upset if they knew she had overheard their conversation, and that was why she remained.

After a long time they seemed to tire of the quarrel. She heard the door open and shut, and she wondered whether her father was now alone.

She opened the door of the anteroom cautiously and looked out. With great relief, seeing that the apartment was empty, she tiptoed away.

A postmortem showed that there was no poison in Margaret Denham’s body but the rumors still persisted and many were certain that the Duchess of York had murdered her for jealousy.

Sir John Denham continued to write his pieces which gave pleasure to certain members of the Court. It was beginning to be said that the affairs of the Duke of York were as notorious, though not nearly so skillfully managed, as those of his brother.

It was the thirtieth of January, a very solemn day for members of the royal family and therefore throughout England.

Mary knelt on the window seat watching the snowflakes falling down. Every now and then the bells could be heard. All over the country they were tolling for Charles the Martyr.

Mary did not know why her grandfather was a martyr; she only knew that she had to be very solemn when she spoke of him. Her father’s eyes grew very bright when he mentioned Charles the Martyr; and she did not like to ask questions because it saddened him to talk of the subject. She had heard whisperings about the Dreadful Day. In Whitehall she averted her eyes at a certain place because that was where it had happened. It was a dreadful shadow which hung over the family, and which must never be mentioned all the year, only on that cold and dismal day which was the thirtieth of January.