Courting Her Highness_ The Story of Queen Anne - Jean Plaidy [122]
“And then, of course, Your Grace, there is her cousin. She is very friendly with him and he makes a great fuss of her.”
“Her cousin?”
“Mr. Harley, Your Grace.”
Sarah’s heart began to beat faster. In a word or two Danvers had put a very different colour on the entire affair.
“Very affectionate, they are. He calls her his dear coz, and afternoon on afternoon she’ll let him in to the green closet and they’ll be there together … the Queen, Mr. Harley, Abigail Hill … and the Prince, but he sleeps through most of it.”
“Why did you not tell me of this before?”
“I tried to tell Your Grace … but Your Grace didn’t seem to want to listen.”
“Harley with the Queen in the green closet and you think I don’t want to hear! You’re mad, Danvers. You’re in your dotage. What else?”
“Mr. St. John sometimes comes with Mr. Harley, Your Grace. They are all very friendly with Hill.”
“How long has this been going on?”
“I don’t know, Your Grace … for a very long time I think.”
The Duchess rose and left. Rarely in her life had she been so shaken. What she had believed to be the social gaffe of an illbred chambermaid was turning out to be a major court intrigue.
Sarah was bewildered. For the first time in her life she did not know how to act. John was abroad. Godolphin was useless; Sunderland and she had never been in tune. What she had to discover was how far had Abigail Hill supplanted her in the Queen’s affections.
She knew Anne depended on her friendships with women. It had always been so from her childhood; and Mary, her sister, had been the same, until she had married William. Anne had selected Sarah as the adored one, but Sarah had disliked the cloying affection bestowed upon her; she had turned from it in disgust—and had, she knew, on occasions betrayed her feelings. But for the fact that Anne was Queen she would never have become involved in such a relationship. It was against her nature; and the older she grew the more repulsive was Anne to her. But she needed Anne’s favour; she needed to rule the woman if she were going to bring that fame and fortune to her family which she had decided they must have.
She had been occupied outside the Court; it was true that she had avoided the Queen; and insidiously, while she neglected Anne, that creature, that insect, that little-better-than-a-servant had been creeping in with her lotions and poultices, her Purcell and her mimicry, her flattery and her solicitude.
“It makes me sick!” cried Sarah.
But she knew that she had to do all in her power to end such a situation. How she wished that dear Marl was at home. With his cool reasoning he would know how to act. There were times when she had upbraided him for his caution. But she had need of that caution now.
What should she do next? It was no use seeing that old parrot who was in full cry with her “I have bid Masham tell you and she would not.” That was going to be her answer to everything.
So she must see Abigail again, and if necessary shake the truth out of the creature.
Sarah went down to Woodstock. There at least was the evidence of the respect in which the Marlboroughs were held. Blenheim was going to be one of the biggest palaces in the country, and it was built for the Marlboroughs in honour of the Duke’s great victory.
That was balm; but she could not get on with Vanbrugh and wished his plans had never been accepted. He was arrogant. One would have thought the house was being built for him.
It was soothing to some extent to harangue Vanbrugh—but little use in the present situation.
Sarah could never resist the pen. It soothed her always to pour out her anger in words and writing them was almost as comforting as speaking them.
She wrote to the Queen, reproaching her for her duplicity. Why, why, why had she kept her in the dark about the Masham marriage? What could have been the point? Mrs. Freeman who had always had such concern for Mrs. Morley was astonished that Mrs. Morley