Courting Her Highness_ The Story of Queen Anne - Jean Plaidy [111]
She looked at George in his embroidered suit which was trimmed with silver. So splendid he looked and yet the sight of him broke her heart. He had had a trying night and his wheezing had frightened her. She had been obliged to call Hill three times. How comforting Hill was in the middle of the night; and how quickly she came to the call! She almost seemed to sense that she was needed.
“George,” she said, “I’m afraid it is going to be a long day.”
“I vill be viv you, my love,” George told her.
“I shall watch you, and I shall insist on your return to the Palace if you feel ill. I have told Masham to be watchful.”
George nodded and smiled at her. Poor dearest George! He was becoming fatter and more feeble every day.
Sarah looked splendid. She never overdressed on such occasions, relying on personal charms. In any case she was the wife of the hero of the occasion.
“My dear Mrs. Freeman must ride in my coach,” said Anne.
“I am sure the people would expect it,” Sarah replied.
“I am worried about George,” Anne told her.
“I agree with you that he is not well enough to accompany us. It is such a strain on him and we should not wish him to have an attack during the service.”
“I should be so anxious.”
“Then he should remain behind. Let Masham and Hill look after him. You can trust them.”
“I can certainly trust Hill and she seems to be able to manage Masham too.”
“She is very eager to please me,” said Sarah.
And she was delighted to ride in the royal coach with the Queen, with the horse and foot guards to escort them—all splendid in new uniforms for the occasion; the streets were lined with people who had come out to cheer the Queen and the wife of the hero; and the sound of music from the bands filled the air.
The Lord Mayor and Sheriffs met the Queen and Duchess at Temple Bar and led them to St. Paul’s where the Dean of Canterbury preached the thanksgiving service.
There were fireworks that night and a salute of guns was fired from the Tower.
The coffee houses were crowded; but as the day wore on it was to the taverns that the people made their way to drink to the health of England, the Queen and the Duke.
There was singing and dancing and some grew quarrelsome. In his club Harley sat with St. John and some of his literary friends—Defoe, who would always owe him a debt of gratitude, Dean Swift who liked to air his views, Joseph Addison and Richard Steele.
The wit and the wine flowed freely and it was Harley who pointed out what Marlborough’s victory cost the country in taxes and the blood of its menfolk. He pointed out too that a country’s affairs were not guided so much by the sword as the pen—a theory which, since his listeners were wielders of the pen and not the sword, they were ready to endorse.
It was a theory, Harley pointed out, that he would like to put to the test. He did not see why it should not prove very effective.
The talk went on and it was profitable talk, so Harley told St. John afterwards. They would see whether his army of writers could not achieve as resounding a victory as Marlborough’s with his soldiers.
And over the Prince’s sleeping body Abigail Hill promised to become the wife of Samuel Masham.
“My dearest Soul,” wrote Marlborough to Sarah. “My heart is full of joy for this good success that should I write more I should say a great many follies.”
Sarah kept his letters and read and re-read them. She had chided him after the affair of Ramillies, telling him what terrible anxiety he caused her by his recklessness.
“As I would deserve and keep the kindness of this Army [he replied], I must let them see that when I expose them I would not exempt myself. But I love you so well and am so desirous of ending my days quietly with you that I shall not venture myself but when it is absolutely necessary. I am so persuaded that this campaign will bring us a good peace