Courting Her Highness_ The Story of Queen Anne - Jean Plaidy [170]
She was devoted to Masham more than to any other living person, but she was also fond of the Duchess of Somerset. There was a similarity between them; they both had the same colour hair. Some might call it carroty, but Anne found it delightful. She had also been fond of Lady Somerset ever since she had lent her Syon House when she had had nowhere to go during one of her quarrels with her brother-in-law William of Orange; she recalled even now how William had tried to prevent Lady Somerset’s lending her the house and how both the Duke and his wife had insisted that she have it. They had been true friends then—and she would never forget it.
But Abigail was more necessary to her than anyone on earth. She juggled the keys, smiling to herself at the pleasure she was going to bestow.
“Mrs. Masham.”
Abigail started from her chair and stared at the man who had come into the room. He rocked a little uncertainly on his heels and his eyes were glazed.
“Mr. Harley.”
She thought: He is getting careless. His coat was spotted; perhaps he had just come from carousing with the literary men who were glad to work for him in exchange for the chance to call themselves his friends.
He was breathing fumes of wine at her.
“Mr. Harley,” she went on coolly, “have you just come from the tavern?”
“Nay, Madam, from Her Majesty.”
He was smiling at her almost insolently, as though he were reminding her that although she might give herself airs with others she must not do so with him.
Resentment flared up in her. She found him attractive—this adventurer in the political jungle. Now she knew that when she had served the Marlboroughs in the house at St. Albans she had envied Sarah, not so much her position but the adoration she had aroused in a man like Marlborough. That was what she had wanted. Samuel was no Marlborough; but Harley might have been. Harley was a brilliant politician … but a drinker. Together they could have been supreme—as the Marlboroughs had planned to be—for she would never have lost her place as Sarah had. She would have known how to lead her man along to greatness. But instead she had Samuel—pleasant, mild, unexciting Samuel; while Harley—the first minister—was merely amused that she—an insignificant nobody—had been of use to him. Now he no longer needed her, for he had reached his goal.
The thought occurred to her then that he would have to fight as hard to keep his place as he had to attain it, and therefore should curb his insolence.
“Mr. Harley,” she said, “you have been drinking.”
“Mrs. Masham,” he replied, “I have also been breathing.”
“The latter is necessary, the former scarcely so.”
“What! Do you understand me so little? The last is as necessary as the first.”
“It is even more necessary to hide the fact.”
“My guardian angel!” He laughed. “And here I have a present for a good girl.” He held up a golden key.
She stared at it.
“The Privy Purse for you. The Stole goes to Carrots Somerset.”
“The Privy Purse!” echoed Abigail.
“By far the most important post. ‘Please tell Mrs. Masham that I wish her to have it.’ So spake Her Majesty.”
She held out her hand to take it, but he still retained it, mocking her with his eyes. Then he slipped it inside her bodice so that it rested between her breasts.
Yes, he was certainly slightly intoxicated.
She watched him turn and walk away. He was not as respectful as he had once been. Surely he was not the brilliant student of human nature she had believed him to be. Did he not realize that if he wished to hold his place he should be very careful to show the utmost respect to Abigail Masham—now Keeper of Her Majesty’s Privy Purse.
Sarah was furious. Dismissed from offices which were now in the hands of her greatest enemies! Ordered to remove herself from her rooms at the Palace which would now belong to someone else!
Very well, she would remove herself.
She went to St. James’s Palace and took with her several of her servants.
“Dismantle those rooms,